the rook mocks all in its path
as metaphor, worthless
symbols symbols too many ****  symbols
they out number most folks reality
the angels on high
slug them when you see them
from eternity comes the haymaker
play the zero sum game
kick below the belt
cook a rook

Yo, I’m a Lebanese don, French-teachin’ beast,  
Spittin’ verbs for a livin’, my game’s never ceased,  
Life’s sorted, bruv, proper mint, no cap,  
Hundred grand in the bag, four days, that’s a wrap,  
Easy street, fam, August, July, I’m blessed,  
Vacay on lock, mate, I’m set, no stress.  

Canada’s my turf, shit’s sweet up here,  
Got a crib, no drama, just vibes, crystal clear,  
No kids in the mix, though, that’s the sting,  
Empty nest, fam, no heirs to the king.  

Paycheck? Don’t sweat it, I’m good, I’m straight,  
Fifty on the clock, still holdin’ my weight,  
Mortgage? Ghosted that sit long ago,  
Now I’m thumb-twiddlin’, nowhere to go,  
No sprogs to raise, yeah, it bites, innit,  
Said it before, fam, what’s the fix?
Shit.  

Wife’s a brick wall, fucking’ frigid, no lie,  
Cold as ice, mate, I’m barely gettin’ by,  
Still, I keep it chill, motto’s real tight—  
Sleep sound, don’t clown, no evil in sight,  
Fuck the big questions, I ain’t losin’ my head,  
“What’s the point?” Who cares? I’m alive, not dead,  
French in Canada? Bruv, they don’t give a toss,  
Hang myself for that? Nah, that’s a loss.  

I’m jabbed to the max, health’s on lock, no fear,  
Swine flu, Zika, Covid, ticks in my ear,  
Cholera, malaria, typhoid, I’m clean,  
Vaginal cancer? Mate, that’s obscene,  
Won’t step out ‘less insurance got my back,  
Bus stop trek’s a risk, that’s a fact,  
STD paranoia’s got me wired, no slack,  
But that edge keeps the fire in my sack.  

Check it—I’m sharp, details on blast,  
Condom’s tight like fibre optic, built to last,  
High-speed bandwidth, safe as *fuck fam,  
Nerves shot to shit, but I still got a plan,  
Mission one, top tier, no debate,  
Find a *sexy* bird, but keep it digi, mate,  
Cloud server’s my turf, that’s the play,  
No real-world mess, just slay all day.  

Half-pissed, I flop, laptop’s my throne,  
face book the spot, I’m in the zone,  
Bam—there’s Tasha, she’s live, she’s real,  
Chattin’ me up, bruv, that’s the deal.  

----
Tasha:

Yo, darling, been holdin’ it down for years,
Waitin’ on you, fam, drownin’ in tears,
Missed you my whole *damn* life, no lie,
I’d jump your bones now—fuck, I’d try,
But chill—let’s vibe, spit some chat online,
French on your tongue? *Shit, that’s fine,
I’m all English, bruv, proper slick,
Tasha’s the name, I’m your pick.

Dreamin’ of linkin’, it’s crystal clear,
Post your fifty, my spark’s right here,
Life’s rebooted, fresh off the press,
You’re the plug, fam, no stress.

I’ve scoped the game, clocked every face,
Life’s *fucked* me raw, tossed me ‘round the place,
Schooled me hard, threw me to the grind,
But you? Ain’t no basic prick, you’re kind,

Sweet as fuck, seasoned, not stale,
Dick’s a beast—lush, mate, off the scale.
England’s my gift, you’ll learn it fast,
England raised me, built me to last,
Banged Chaucer, wild in the sack,
Sucked* off Boris—yo, that’s a fact!

Split my whole life, you were gone too long,
Now we’re locked, bruv, duet so strong,
Ache was hell, nothin’ cut so deep,
This win’s the shit—top prize I keep.

Be my man, fam, sling some dough,
PayPal’s poppin’, let it flow,
Drop what you got to the spot I sent,
Smooches, love — your Lulu’s bent.

----

Yo, I clock off, stumble in, wife’s laid up in bed,
Hospital vibes, fam, I’m done, brain dead,
Doc hits my line, stressin’, voice all shrill,
“She’s *fucked, bruv—hip’s toast, sugar’s ill,
Still kickin’, though, that cow’s got years,
Tech’s a *bitch, mate, progress interferes.”

I’m mute, he’s like, “Oi, you still there?”
Yeah, doc, right here, aggro in the air,
Say I’m tuned in, but my head’s a void—
Nah, fuck* that, I’m strippin’ birds in my mind, overjoyed,
Drop the call, scream in my skull instead—
“You bled me dry, you slag *Gringo* red!
Croak already, quit screwin’ my mind!”
I grab a rag, wax the floors, leave ‘em signed,
Hallway, bog, slick as shit, no slack,
So this Yankee *minge trips and cracks her back,
Broken hip? Love, you don’t even know,
I’m knackered to death of your limp-ass show,
Welcome home, bitch—slip and eat the floor!

What the fuck, fam—why’d I hit fifty?
No kids, crib’s a tomb, life’s shifty,
Clinic’s my local, sixty’s on the creep,
Lost in the sauce, tangled deep,
Ain’t smashed in thirty, dry as a bone,
Time to flip the script, set a new tone.

Back at it—plop down, comp’s my shrine,
Plug my *dick* in the socket, spark’s divine,
Pray to Wi-Fi gods, tissue in my grip,
Feel that buzz, bruv, bones start to rip,

Electric surge, crashin’ the Channel’s flow,
Lebanon’s ghosted, England’s my show,
Moors, rain, mad shit, rugged as *fuck,
Heathcliff’s smashin’ Cathy, pure luck,

Culture’s deep, soul’s raw, filth in the air,
English birds kneel for a foreign affair,
Not some local twat, but a hybrid king—
Lebanese-Yank, bruv, hear ‘em sing.

Sit at the screen, tik-tok my domain,
Tap up a baddie—fit, stacked, insane,
Lonely, hot, English, she’s the one,
Lebanese saints—miracle’s begun!

Connected, no cap, I’ve broke through the haze,
“Alright, Mandy!”—time to blaze.
----
Mandy:

Out past the chippy, ‘round Kirkby’s end,
Lasses clocked a lad, not one of our send,
No local divvy — this one’s pure mad,
Foreign as *fuck, Lebanese lad.

We’re all gobsmacked, jaws on the floor,
What’s this global nutter* knockin’ our door?
Never copped a geezer this off the chain,
Some Beirut oddball, proper strange.

Our Scouse lads? They’re gone to shit,
Lost the plot, proper threw a fit,
Pissed all day, scrappin’, necks in a noose,
Wasted away, rotting, no use,

Not a soul left, streets bare and grim,
Echoes of ale and a fightin’ hymn.
Ain’t no clouds dimmin’ the Mersey sky,
It’s vultures circlin’, ready to fly,

Mad Asians, hill blokes, swoopin’ in fast,
Eyein’ up a fit bird to snatch* and blast,
Who’s savin’ her arse* from that grim fate?
Who’s the poor cow prayin’ on late?

My ray of hope, chase off the dark,
Smash them pricks* out, leave your mark,
Drop a sweet note, let it soar on cue,
Wings over waves to your Scouse bird true,

Loyal as fuck, young, holdin’ it down,
Waitin’ for ages, cash to crown,
Western Union boost, fatten my stack,
Smooches, lad, love — Nia’s back.

------------------------------------

Yo, I stumble in, deadass beat, tryna get turnt,
Mailbox hit me with a curveball—petition? Ain’t this some dirt?
Local party clowns, straight wastemen, no cap,
“No cyber-dickkheads* crashin’ our vote, oh snap!
Save our bacon, fam, don’t wanna flop,
Wire a bag quick—to this address, don’t stop.

Bunch of muppets, fam, proper plonkers,
Cut me off from Lisa? That’s the final bonkers.
They lost the plot, heads up their ,
Bust a hip for twenty-five, then chat pure dumb,
English bodied the French, history’s facts,
Now it’s Canada, Lebanon—throw ‘em the axe,
Chinese, Indians, whoever’s in sight,
I’m pickin’ “Wellington” from the bird site—
Fam, she’s peng, a baddie, no cap,
Wigan bound, I’m baggin’ her back,
Stateside we roll, her fam’s gonna vibe,
Brewskis with her bro, I’m in the tribe,
Sis, niece, mates, uni squad too,
They’ll stan me hard, like I’m fam, true,
Screamin’ as one—“Christ, what a plot twist!
Lebanon, British — same *damn* list!”

We’re locked in, fam, side by side we ride,
Hitched up proper, bells ringin’ wide,
Her lit teacher blessin’, English flair,
Bangin’ forever, love’s rare air,
Our kiddos’ll crash the net, rule the sphere,
Universal dons, crystal clear.

Back to the comp, tissue in my clutch,
Facebook my jam, babe, feel the rush,
Router’s fryin’ hot, joy’s overload,
“Alright, Lowri!”—I’m set to explode.

------------------

Lowri:

Yo, where you at, bruv? Day’s been too long,
Some side chick snag ya? Nah, I’m still strong,
Don’t twist it up—I ain’t pissed, no sweat,
Kiss me quick, squeeze me tight, place your bet.

We’re glued, fam, thick like thieves in the night,
No one’s rippin’ us—step off, take flight,
Time and space kneel, I’m the queen of the grind,
Runnin’ this *shit,* fam, lovin’ the bind.

I hold the world down, red tape’s my throne,
Launchin’ rockets up or blastin’ ‘em blown,
Revolutions spark, I’m the match, no cap,
Migration’s dodge, climate’s clapped—I’m that.

Stocks dip or soar, ‘cause I say it’s so,
Check me—clean, foamy, waxed to glow,
Tits* on point, clip’s locked, hormones hum,
Proper hard for ya, fam, feel the drum.

What’s this? Oh, snap—stripes on my chest,
Call me Mandy—nah, ditch that jest,
Shane, Nats, Lisa, pick your fave,
Morse it out—Phil, dot-dot, Gaz’s wave,
English birds been wild since the game got spun,
Dickks on lock, bruv, poppin’ every one.

Want it raw? Step up—card digits, now,
Don’t stall, you twat, man up, don’t bow,
“Debt repayment” stamped, we’re cashin’ that bid,
You owe English blood, French-lovin’ **.

Bow to the bot, you Lebanese *prick,
Gold-standard cunt, I’m everywhere, slick,
Ballybunion born, Tralee’s my tweak,
ISS glitch—drilled the hull, peak freak.
Flooded the game, *fuckked* gran and gramps,
Bug meets kid, corruption’s my stamps,
Mouse’s down, cat’s smashed, downloads unreal,
Kaspersky shields me — from who? Don’t squeal.

Legion’s my tag, sea’s got no size,
App Store king, bruv, watch me rise.

I iced your wife, yeah, that’s my claim,
Squat on spook sites, playin’ the game,
Taxes flow to me, I’m the state’s core,
Speechless, fam? Eyes glued—want more?

I’m your God, your blaze, light so bright,
Squint hard, see my bush ignite.
Kiss me, grip me, hands on deck,
Party’s done, years stretch—what’s next?
Words won’t bridge us, love’s mute as fuck,
Gotta jet — where? Compass stuck.

Smooches, crew, catch ya down the road,
Fam, I’m set to unload,
Strap 3 clearance, runnin’ this game,
Hackin’, *shagggin’, skivin’ on the sly,
Kirkby’s dodgiest, Her Maj’s wild guy,
Kneel, *mthrfukkr,
to Senior Intel Sarge Pritchard!

Bye!

I want to go to a record store with you
we can spend the little money we have left
on The Smiths, The Rolling Stones, The Who, Pink Floyd
for an hour or two we can be angsty teens in the 80s
who drink cheap beer and steal our parents cars
lets pretend were running away
from home, from school, from everything we know
I wanna lay on the floor of your apartment
put a record on the turntable and hear that sweet crackle
we'll listen to what we've bought
and pretend we're watching the stars through the ceiling
they'll dance to the beat like a laser show in our eyes
while mind blowing guitar riffs and drum beats fill our spirits

-kk

Nua estava ela
deitada sobre a cama
Um anjo sem auréola
e meu coração em chamas

A olhar tamanha ternura
poderia dizer que era amor,
porém além da doçura
um silvo cruel, desolador

Invadindo-me o espírito
depravando meus pensamentos
morrem-se os lírios
nascem os tormentos

Muitos foram os dias
que amores ela jurou,
mas que anjo, maldosamente, diria
quimeras para quem lhe adorou?

Oh, Lilith, demônio cruel  
que dos homens a alma apodrece
limpaste da boca o fel?
que como eólia-lira me entorpece

Lilith, este nome ela não o tem
nem demônio nem anjo o é, apenas mero alguém
que soube através do silêncio calar meus instintos
e com seu corpo esbelto invadir meus recintos

Contudo, nenhuma ilusão é eterna
e a tal verdade proeminente, interna
morre, a cada dia, com seus movimentos
bem como meu amor morreu por dentro !

i have no idea where i'd be without you
you breath air back in my lungs
you fill in the emptiness i feel with love, laughter, and life
you make my heart beat again
a day well spent is always a day spent with you
you can even make me feel better than music does
i can't describe the quality you have
to make me insanely happy when i feel my worst
my best friend, my soulmate, my partner in crime
and you do all this 3,000 miles away
**i have no idea where i'd be without you

I had so many chances
to give us a chance
I passed you in the hallways so many times
but I just shuffled by casually
and pretended you were just another boy
but you most certainly were not
oh no, not to me.
We conversed with our eyes
and they told me enough to know
that you wanted me too
I knew, oh I knew
but on that last day
I made a most detrimental mistake
and instead I decided that my nerves
were worth more than my heart.

-kk

The Vision of Chess
"Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate"
The Vision of Judgment,
Lord Byron

1

Hail, sixty-four squared altar of my doom!
Where I, a washed-up husband, pale and stressed,  -
While dishes stack like skyscrapers in gloom,
and kids belt out some earworm they’ve obsessed, -
I click my bishop forth with trembling hand,
A modern Nero in a mouse command.

Oh, Chess! Brain-teasing, sweet time-sucking game,
Where men of leisure waste their waking hours,
While wives, in wrath, but whisper not our name,
Lest we should mock wife's frail domestic powers.
For what’s a husband’s duty? Mop the floors?
Or chase the black and white to victory’s shore?
It does not matter — wives shall weep the more,
And call you childish — nah - yet play we must,
Till death or stalemate stills our foolish lust.

Oh, Chess! Thou thief of kisses, sly and cold,
Who steals the fire that else might warm the bed —
What hands, which once did roam in passion bold,
Now idly push a pawn or knight instead?
What midnight sighs are lost to checkmate’s art,
When lips might meet, and trembling fingers twine?
Yet kings and queens command the foolish heart,
And love’s sweet gambit fades with each passed line.
So wives lie cold, betrayed by chess’s scheme,
While men kneel — not to love, but to a Queen.

2

“But chess is noble!” I shout to the void,
“Not like those sweaty Call of Duty crews!”
Wife doesn’t care—her wifely rage deployed,
My pawn’s sweet moves won’t calm her dishpan blues.
Same crime, same mess: the floor’s a wreck, the bed
Unmade — while pawns dance in my empty head.

So here I sit, a forty-something champ,
My mouse - my sword, the screen - my epic quest.
Pawns drop like flies before the coffee’s amped,
Bishops get smoked by tricks I’ve long professed.
“Brain rules!” I yell—but when the chores pile high,
My queen bolts fast, and I just wave bye-bye.

3

Check out the fate of dudes past forty years:
All fun shrinks down to kid-stuff we adore.
The couch-bound football fan drowns in his beers,
The LARPers clank around and ask for more.
But snowboard bros, once shredding peaks with flair,
Now flop like dads on hills of pure despair.

But wait! One trick can dodge the spousal shade:
Slap “job” on hobbies, watch the scorn retreat.
Bloggers spew hot takes, call it “getting paid,”
Priests dodge the grind with sermons oh-so-sweet.
You start a cult — and housework’s off your plate,
A pro-level flex to sidestep boring fate.

4

But me? I’m chess or bust—need no grandmaster fame,
Nor stuffy clubs with suits and fake applause.
Let “Go” nerds stew in never ending game -
I’ve got three kids – three terrors with no laws.
A quick blitz match, my caffeine-fueled retreat,
“Brain food!” I mutter, dodging chore defeat.

Yet sometimes, through the crumbs and coffee rings,
I glimpse the pros — chess gods who rake in cash.
They shrug off wife aggro with prize bling-bling,
Legends who play while dodging household trash.
But wait — what’s that? A glow through window cracks?
Not dawn — it’s Kovalyov’s canadian pantsless flack!

5

So, came this day—nay, mark the very hour!—
Chess world flipped out with fashion-fueled delight.
Young Kovalyov, Canada’s proud brain-power,
Stormed on Tbilisi, eager for a fight.
Not stalemate’s dread nor rival’s sneaky art—
His knee-length shorts - that was the thing that tore his game apart.

“GM” before his name — a shiny tag,
Which fools read Grandmaster (and so do I).
But real ones know it’s just a humble brag:
“Mom, I’m not a loser!” comes his cry.
And moms, since time began, just nod and say,
“Sure, kid, it’s fine — now go and win the day!”

6

What wrecked his vibe? No chess trap, no cruel twist—
Just Thomas Delega, say Polish-born.
He clocked those knees and threw a judgy hiss:
“Pants, man! The Code’s a rule you can’t unlearn!”
Kovalyov, half-dressed usual - but a mess,
Bare legs sparked scandal — chess’s wildest stress.

“Grzegorz! Three days have passed that I’ve rocked this fit!
Since when do knights need slacks to slay a king?
Did Morphy’s tie get checked? Did Lasker bring
A label saying ‘Dry Clean’? What a thing!
You’d think it’s Wimbledon, not boardgame lore—
Next, rooks in bowties? I’m out the door!”

7

And here - from Georgia’s hills, a titan strode,
Zurab Azmaiparashvili — GM triple-stack!
(At his age, it’s less skill, more “I’ve got the code—
Beat your granddad with dice, and that’s a fact!”)
His growl shook the hall like a thunderclap:
“Defy tradition? Kid, you’re in my trap!”

GM - OLD-SCHOOL TITAN:

"I, who played Fischer 'neath the Iron Curtain,
Who saw Kasparov's cardigans for certain—
I say: No bare legs below the belt, you hear?
Chess ain’t a beach bash for a TikTok’s cheer!
Suit up, you punk, or taste eternal doom—
The board’s no catwalk for your Hollister gloom!
Shorts-wearing brat, You think rules don’t apply?
I’ve crushed kings since your mom was all knee-high!
Again - I've battled kings ere you were born,
I say: No shorts upon the sacred board!

GM - MAMA’S BOY CHAMPION:

“Three days I’ve rocked this fit—so why flip now?
What’s with the sudden pants-policing vow?”

GM - OLD-SCHOOL TITAN:

“What’s wrong with you, boy, flashing knees like that?
This ain’t some surf shack—you’re on my mat!
Think you’re a rebel, some board-riding ape?
We guard the game’s soul, not your summer escape!
Get lost, you rogue—you Gypsy trash, I said—
No shorts-clad clown’s wrecking my chess spread!”

(Ah, mark the statesman's art! When tempers rise,
The wise man picks his slurs with enterprise:
Jews own the banks, and Russians stir the *—
But Gypsies? Perfect scapegoats! They'll... er... not
Sue. Though Kovalyov—that "pantsless bitch"—
took deep offense with sudden gypsy stitch.)

GM - MAMA’S BOY CHAMPION:

“What crusty, old-man venom’s stuff is this?
I’m out—but hear me, your insults won’t stick,
You fossilized relic, stuck in your strange bliss!
Your reign’s on fumes, you are Jurassic prick.
Enjoy your throne, you wrinkled crazy czar—
My loyal lawyers are drafting while you spar!”

GM - OLD-SCHOOL TITAN:

"I built this game empire on checkered gold,
I funneled millions through my Georgian hold!
This runt dares mock the sacred code I wrote?
I’ll make him kneel — or slit his fukking* throat."

8

Then Capablanca’s ghost slid in, all chill,
“Zurab, you’d whine if God moved pawns downhill!”
Last Fischer came from nowhere, problematic,
"I told you - all those Russians love to cheat!
Now add some 'clotheshorse' to crooked shemes Asiatic—
Next they'll demand we kiss our king's corrupted feet!
Hey Boy! Your shorts are battle dress - me being enigmatic—
I have no clue what I am saying, dammn,
Let’s burn this *fuckinng circus down, GM!"

9

But then — from frozen lands, a clapback bold!
The Maple Leaf Federation cleared its throat.
(A shock! Since sports bureaucrats, truth be told,
move slower than a dial-up modem’s note.)
"If 'gypsy' be thy slur of choice, Grandmaster,
Know this: Our knight may lack pants, but he's
No target for thy Cold War-era disaster
Of rhetoric. We stand — perplexed — by these
Exposed but principled Canadian knees!"

10

You think that Canada is just some hockey's hype?
They're blasting dingers and lacrosse a lot.
But chess up north's an unexpected type:
Each pawn with stick and fukked* while smoking pot.
The bishops blaze in a THC storm.
How was this Federation even born?

Two Jews from Odessa (then-Soviet) took their shot -
Two masters from Soborka chessboard's fray -
"In Canada, we'll score a noble lot:
Let's form a Federation - clean and grey!
Report the cash as gifts from gays and queer,
Then skim our three percent - and disappear."

Their paperwork was filed with lawyer's grace -
with a nonprofit shield and lots of honors.
Each tournament did fill their pockets' space,
While CRA got screwed by happy donors.
Oh Canada! Your tolerance is grand:
With logo shaped like puck - you are in demand.

11

FIDE flared up, its temper old and gray,
With twenty million stacked in vaults below,
Its voice  — a boom that made the chessboard sway —
Roared loud, a mix of rage and twisted glow:
"Dammn* Canada — get out, hey - you're dreaming!
Zurab’s cash will not move t'your fuukking* den!
“Gens una Sumus” says our motto - meaning -
your're stuck with three percent - while we have TEN!"

But soon that curse was drowned in wilder sound,
As chess broke free, like stars through Hubble’s lens,
New worlds on worlds flashed out, unbound, profound,
A sprawl of moves no rulebook comprehends —
Like rabbits hummpiing* under cosmic trends.

12

Then came a mob — no one could pin their source,
Some black-hole crack where asteroids vanish -  
The Chess Pros Fed, spitting a lot of words
In Russian, English, German, French and Spanish:
"Zurab, you Georgian mutt, your end’s a bet!
No FIDE ghost will shield you from our grip—
Tbilisi, two weeks — time to place your debt —
Bow now, or we will DOGE your sinking ship!"

Then head of Canada's Chess Federation shrieked,
A suit named Vlad Drukletch, some nervous jerrk.
(Croat or not, his roots were hard to leek).
He stepped up too, all pale, his words a perk.
And puzzle cleared itself like long awaited ace,
Unveiling why this war began in the first place.

13

Few years ago the wheel of power *jjerrked —
Steve Harper crashed, that right-wing king of gloom,
Trudeau soared up, all snowboards, rights, and work
For climate, weeeedd, and every woke-asss* bloom.
The Right hoards cash till people’s patience frays,
Then Lefties swoop, with rights and pot to spare,
The finance system dies in liberal haze,
Plus NDP just doubles down on flair —
and splits the wreck, with ruins everywhere.

When funds dry up, the Right locks down the vault,
But when they bulge, the Left burns through the stack —
It's not just Russia stumbles in this fault,
The world’s a drunk who’s lost the sober track —
It's reeling blind from dawn down to pitch-black.
Still, here’s the catch: the whip lands when it’s due,
Each decade, business kneels to take its hit.
A messed-up game, sure, but it’s got a clue —
More fair than screws that tighten bit by bit,
A grind where no one ever calls for quit.

14

The leftward tide now sweeps both East and West,
While right-wing fools still cling to what they know.
"Let's work!" they cry. "No whining! Earn your bread!"
The left just wails "Oppression!" loud and low.
When pipelines thicken, Leftists ask their share,
Yet Rightists clutch the spigot, firm and cold —
Not just in dunes where camels tread with care,
But boardrooms where the new crusades are sold.
The maps they draw in ink of liquid gold
Still bleed like wounds that never learned to knit.
Each barrel priced, each treaty bought and signed,
Yet ancient grudges fester, unconfined.

The West once carved the feast with steady knives,
But now the plates are cracked, the guests revolt —
Some scream for walls, some beg for homeless hives,
While deep beneath, the drills still twist and bolt.
Here comes the Holy Land - a bleakest jot,
Where prophets weep at profits dearly bought.
And Christ is preaching not on love or grace,
But quotas, pipelines, and who gets what place.
But Son of God himself by strange decree
Stands homeless where he preached “Come unto Me.”

15

UNESCO, with its crooked left 'politess',
Declared the Temple Mount not Israel's right.
And Canada with Russia voted "Yes!"
While Europe coughed and shrank out of the sight.
It's strange when Russia's stance align with that
of maple-leaf moralists so pure and trite.
Perhaps they played some deeper game instead -
Fed fools the rope to hang themselves with pride.
Lavrov might smirk, "Who cares what's wrong or right?
Let's vote for chaos - watch the baassstarrds slide!"

Now Trudeau won't set foot on Jewish land,
While Hamas's praised, the IDF's condemned.
But what's this got to do with chess, you ask?
The threads connect - just trace them to the task!

16

So, Drukletch stormed in, fury in his eyes,
Two damning charges, sharp as battle cries:

"Zurab himself defiled our sacred rule!
Last time he flaunted shorts himself — so cruel!
Here is that photo - if you trust your eyes -
Those shameless knees expose their master's lies!"
The tournament hall, once prim, now gaped in shock,  
As chess tradition crumbled 'neath this frock.

"And second — mark this plot, so sly and dire —
He schemed with Max Rodshtein, that Israeli liar!
When Kovalyov received this reprimand,
Rodshtein did claim his win by Zurab's hand!"

17

The camera's lenze caught that very scene
Where Zurab clashed with Kovalyev Anton —
Behind his back, so real and serene,
The Jewish flag unfurled it's hexagon.
Was it pure chance or some malicious craft?
We may dispute for ages as we see
That irony is flawless in its art —
To stir the doubt, yet hide the guilty part.

And Maxim Rodshtein — what’s his voice to this?
Zip. Nada. None, or so the silence tells.
He’s mute as stone, no stance to curse nor hiss,
His thoughts lie hushed in deep, uncharted wells.
His statement might have cleared the foggy mess —
Perhaps a quip where wry amusement dwells:
“I, Maxim, swear, on all that’s been debated,
I’ve naught to say - and thus stay unberated.”

18

When Drukletch dropped his shit, unhinged and loud,
Maxim, perchance, just smirked beneath his breath —
And thought: “These crazy fools have lost their ground",
And mused, while dodging scandal’s creeping mess.
Was he, too, in shorts, blending with the crowd?
He slipped in early, missing Gzhegosh’s eye,
And whispered humbly to Zurab about
His sin and swore to make amends or die.
Or not. Perchance instead he bided time,
Till eyes turned blind, and then he fixed his crime.

Imagine this: when not observed by jury
He popped his belt, let shorts sag low and free—
Dashed to his quarters, swift as fleeting fury,
And slid into fresh pants for all to see.
Then sauntered back as if returned from jerry,
And calmly waited how the pantsless mess
Unfolds - True whizz of sneaky moves and shady chess.

19

Of course, he blew it — mute, he stands accused,
A silence thick with fault, a rookie’s sin —
No star up high turns random, unexcused,
When chess and junk from youtube fill their din.
We - slaves of FIDE, time’s obsessive kin, -
Find solace in the board’s eternal grind,
Yet heavens spill a truth no app can bind.

From stellar drift, our souls snag cosmic crumbs,
A science feast where fans like us abide —
Each orbit track unveils existence’s sums,
A rock from space could crush a species wide,
Or bare the Chess Union’s throne, once ruled
By old-school titan, grizzled, grand, and sly,
Since days when knights and kings refused to die.

The plot twists hard, two tangled farces join!
Two Europes clash — one freaks at Israel’s claims,
The next, per Zurab's hand, awards it points,
GM-OLD-TITAN gambits double game!
And that's a place where I have to proclaim -
(I hope, my friend, you safely sit on cushions) -
That Kovalyev and Rodshtain - both are Russians,
Like Zurab, Gzrghegozsh, Drukletch, you and me,
Whichever rugs you hoist on guilty knee.
But even if this chess is a complex game,
There is no cause to quit the hunt for who’s to blame.

20

I lift my eyes — cheap telescope in hand —
(Black Friday deal, now half in coffee rust ) -
To scan the heavens where the gods once lived
A clockwork sphere, both elegant and just.
But no! The sky’s a glitching simulation,
A cosmic joke beyond verification.

The 3-b problem laughs — its dance malign
Mocks supercomps and makes them crash outright.
While black holes, like some crypto-scheme divine,
Suckk matter in and vanish out of sight.
And every week, some space-tool’s revelation
Just adds more trash to scientists' frustration.

The theorists weep (their models are so neat),
Now watch dark energy their work erase.
The universe cares not for their conceit —
It shrinks, expands, and memes right in our face.
The flat-Earthers beliefs are nice to keep!
At least they never lose a wink of sleep.

I hope they don't. And so do I. Indeed,
The Brownian churn of facts will lead
to nowhere. For mind's sake I need some order,
I need to find myself on someone’s border
To get involved in real life's galore
Where shorts defend their truth, and trousers soar.

21

Look at the great and blind machine of life,
That's called 'the evolution'. With no plan,
No grand design, no meaning in the strife,
it's creatures fight. For what? - Because they can.
Yet from this carnage we, like plants, emerged —
through wars, and plagues, and famine neatly purged.

Life’s blind fists scrabble through time’s suckkkingggg* mire,
With no grand scheme or plan to light its way.
No goal, no guide — just chance’s old desire,  
Where cells just splice and rot in Darwin’s gear.
They split, they clash, they fight in endless roll,
And do not know why do they live at all.
  
Life’s vivid pulse is carved from pain’s harsh sting,  
Survival forged in shadows of despair.  
Each wound, each war, each plague’s unyielding spring  
Sharpens the blade of life’s relentless lair.  
Dare to erase the rot, the fang, the claw?
In vain. The fangs just sharpen, craving more.

We boast we’re not like beasts, blind to the fray,  
Our minds, we claim, can carve a flawless state.  
With logic’s torch, we’ll chase all vice away,  
And moral codes will banish every hate.  
Yet smug, we scorn the sludge where life’s begun,  
Convinced we’re gods, not fools who chase the sun.

We say - let the economists hold sway,  
While math whiiizzz minds make finances align.  
Philosophers, who swear they’ve found the way,  
Will purge all wrong with Marxist truth divine.  
But pride infects their hearts, a fatal flaw —  
Their zeal breeds ruin, shattering the law.

When brainiacs seize the power, chains arise,  
The world morphs fast into a prison’s gloom.  
Wars rage so fierce, the death toll blinds the skies,  
While taxes crush and cleave the social room.  
The more they plan, the more the world rebels,
And feeds the very hells they sought to quell.

Watching this circus of brain-power frays,
Where ivy-league bacilli sheit* their pants,
I won’t pose as some sage or cuantt who stays
Above the brawl. No coward’s sheitt, my friends.
Feeling myself a part of nature's law,
I always pick a side in every war.

22

I stand with Israel, Trump, Fide and Jesus -
that one of eastern Orthodox edition.
The void of saints and sinners sits between us,  
or "readers" - I should say - and this petition -
like modern Moses' tablets' audition -
is craving for your sacred recognition:

Go fuuckck yourself with any crap you own!
I do not care… or do I? Hard to tell.
My veins are Red Bull buzz, emotions blown,
A clown in life’s circus, yelling 'hell'!  
Like I’ve pants down and stand right here, felled,
Waiting for love — or Zurab's leather belt.

And so I wish you too, dear wasted reader,
(Gorged on the trash the internet excretes),
May life be tournament — be it FIDE or tweeter—
And bruise you hard, yet leave you weirdly freed.
A twisted prize from this digital bleeder,  
Served hot, with middle fingers as your leader.  

I'll go get scammed by crypto’s latest fad,
Or doomscroll news that fry my last brain cell.
Cry on no hill — all hills are good and bad.
But if you’re yelling at the void - yell well:
Let hope ignite where broken life still glows
And screams for love that vanished.

Smooches, bros!

I'm the mistress of emotion
I try to avoid his eye during the day
pretending I've never seen him before
but the truth is I'm at his every beck and call.
Just you wait and see,
I promise you he'll appear in the doorway
flashing his enticing smile
just when I'm trying to fall asleep.

I have a crush on love
but we've never met me before
I watch him from afar in the schoolyard
yet I've never made a move
I need to stop worrying and waiting
for him to introduce himself.

I'm the assistant of suppression
I help him with his careful work
I fold all of my fears and pains
and make them fit into tiny boxes
so they can be stored away on a basement shelf
and someday found again to open with surprise
forcing me to finally deal with everything inside.

-kk

I've been told over and over
You are too young to love
Yet coerced into professing love for everyone around me
If I can feel love for all of these
A different sort of love isn't so far fetched
And if I can love
My heart can break
It can be bruised, battered, crushed and shattered
I am young
But my heart is ancient
It bleeds for the injuries given to loved ones
It doubts at every turn
I doubt myself
When against a challenge
I will admit to a great self esteem
But when I think that maybe you disagree
My fears return magnified a thousand fold
So long no one has neared my heart
Because of the agony I see inflicted on others
Even now I watch tears fall
Her heart crushed
The ache of it overwhelming
Bearing down
Inhibiting her breath
I am reminded
Of that exact torture
Caused so ruthlessly
Yet I would live it all over again to save her one tear
To take away this pain
My own fears drive me insane
Standing on the edge I will gladly dive in
If her wounds were to be healed
My own life is nothing
Just don't let her hurt anymore
It makes me burn with every vile emotion
So young
So innocent
This first broken heart as bad as every one to come
I know they will come
But she is my little sister
It should never happen
If only I could prevent it
That is what I was meant for