“The brightness of the Zsablas came from the night sky, then began to fade at the end of the onslaught of winter first, her skewer has discovered her by comparing her current situation with what she had before when her light began to dim. They all look at her and attack with all her strength seeing the shine of the dazzling sword as great Heroy Ukrayiny. The bizarre were taken with visible return light and with arms attached to each other already fallen with their fingers on the hammer. The images reveal changes that occur in its star when seeing the breaking of its vain flood of flash, both in brilliance and in an apparent way to grumble from the peaceful pair of providences on the legs of the cavalry advancing without pair, nor stopping of escalation that occurred after the Bucha massacre. Four hundred corpses have appeared at the Kramatorsk station, such Soviet missiles killed more than fifty citizens of Volodymyr, such Those 48 words shocked the world”

Ellipsis Kramatorsk, April 13, 2022, day 48 of the invasion. Volodímir speaks: "Children, your mother will take care of you at the time of the great Mikaiyáh to bring you the divine grace of accompanying you with the Abba Pealim, who will embrace you like a calf in her lap, tearing himself apart from the loving mystery for your lives for when they all fall embraced"

Olena says: “My beloved sir! I know that at this time there will be the same oratory that we can be worth for your ineffable courage, for the court, and cultivate passion with the Polish Zsablas. Here you can feel your thundering through the mountains and valleys where we used to notice the unknown world, eating delicious Vergun and Babka in their warm houses. I will never change my verdict having met you at the Besarabsky festival, you approached and made the united noise of my outfit with the white coming of dawn and all week when it brushed against its worn floor. From now on, renowned as my alba skirt clothes, offer your smiling eyes with tunics and cloaks that dazzle those who celebrated electing me as princess of the harvest. Nothing else would make me be just your look if it weren't for the Albacete of my house with the parents. My hairstyle was adorned with rodents eating our bodies and outstanding ruby spikes of celestial falcons with Albi-yellow flags dazzling your company, settling in the front crown..., always your Olena at the highest altar next to Mikaiyáh.”

Volodímir modulates: “My children, life will continue to be good, I have you in my prayers where no compensation will change drug compounds for the ingenious desire to have you close to me as hussars and their Zsablas. I have been reborn, I continue to feel my flesh and body on fire for you. I know that in Mariupol I will pacify attire, ****** attachments will not stop moving my legs to offer your help. But I will not get tired of moving against the sun and against the wind, of everything that I violated one day by seeing them between their open eyes hoping to help them. I will be with you, until the end, even if plundered forces profane illustrious missions beyond all life and bad outcome. In the silence of your calm words, the next day I will continue to exist with meager and magical words to the beat of your seasoning.”

Parable Bogdan Khmelnitskyi: “perceptibly saw how the sky of Kyiv was crossed by heavy metalloids of bronze, tin, and acrobalistics; for the cavalry and six warriors who used to ride on the roof of the Záratos appeared, belling with sounds in their acroteries. In these episodes, twelve swords were multiplied in advance by thousands before the palace began to be built after its ruins. They were dimensions of relevant victorious cavalry and virtual foundation lines to rescue the Heroy of Mariupol. Acrostics will pass through the steeds of Thessaly, riding on the palfrey of the Polish Winged Hussars, charging twelve wings of cuirassiers with twelve horsemen in adjoining halos of heavy cavalry at Katyn, lying abducted by a parapsychological and circum-regressive ellipsis of the 1939 event in Poland. Each rider was strung in blood with golden wing feathers from a Raptor game bird. Each of the wings carried the curved Szabla saber, to tacitly cover up oppressors and intruding musketeers from the hearth of the armory of the hypothetical or unknown enemy, but an outsider assaulting the flanks of the rooftops in the Mariyinsky Palace…, virtual of Kyiv. , using Kopias or pikes that concocted impetus as deadly resistance of the lineage betrayed in Hellenic, London, and Berlin museums. The roof pointed to the southwest where the light of Orion was reflected by the aerial forms of the Orfeón de Azov, riding over the high seas with votive offerings or offerings of Cyclamen and Red Poppies sifted to Silbones and Spoonbills birds that flew majestically in the nomadic rhythm of a Rhapsodas, coffering with epic elegies of Mariyinsky, and of those revived venerable triumphs that stretched out from the banner of glory and bed of the epiphany of Ukraine with the brave victors.

Rhapsode proclaims thus: “In Katyn, Polish Wings and Golden Woods with Red Poppies, adorned Bellis Perennis in twelve thousand rags of our steppes harassing their moan in blood offensives, framed in great chapters and threshold lintels in their mounted war. There were twelve thousand red poppies burning from the executory pilaster near Smolensk.” How much must he get fed up with the Polish cavalry of the 17th century, when he glimpses barbarous sounds in the temple that approached them to the altar of the Virtual Palace, showing off an acquiescent ceremonial and lifeless aristocracies, with living needy and vanquished mortals who posed in the rear of twelve thousand officers slain in the Katyn Forest assisting nine thousand of the slain in Mariupol, like gallant gentiles and medieval men of the contemporary untimely invasive. Here in this place, the winged horsemen with puffs went by their destiny to be sacrificed in steel quilts that galloped on their heads protected by brotherhoods and Hussars who protected them with Tiger and Lion breastplates with their retracted claws. Bogdan Khmelnitskyi watched in the virtuous image of him as winged medieval specimens protected the frontispiece of the palace in bullets of super-existence, fear, and historical trance. Here on this ground each one of the officers was aided by each 17th-century Polish cuirassier with ferocious wings, they were making their dying honor and glory with those similar, twice right there inequality and interwoven misty discrepant blood executing with apocryphal witnesses that covered them with sinister appearance, overflowing evasion and truce of bodies stained in mourning with disconsolate blankets carrying scattered red poppies adjoining a naive defenseless forest. About exalted memorandums, secrets, and epithets they felt in the tears of Adrastea next to Mikaiyáh.

Eagles of Kyiv will go to act of the spell of Didraskein, where no Slavic invaders and lethal punishments will be spared. The nymphs procreated their kind, the Slavs would drown in the cries of cuirassiers like Didraskein, before sobbing in platitudes of foliage and rotten hopes of those who hit them from behind, for a little water wasted such as heroes of Katyn. Here neither Cronus nor Mother Rhea heard them, only Adrastea avoided the cries of men-children and of those who atoned for her back, unburdening them from the foliage of the Didraskein with tears of lumpy mercury. Volodymyr's steeds rise carrying the curved Zsabla, before each one is shot in their heads as twelve thousand Winged Riders caught in each Zsabla plus nine thousand immolated from Mariupol, sacrificing them before they were killed from the waist of their head lost in loved ones, not being expired by ammunition, rather by sabers of honor and glory of their own winged protectors that would lead them by sharp weapons towards the holocaust surrounded by red poppies. “The red fog of the forest carried the souls of the Hussars by passing them through the sabers of their compatriots before they were immolated by Soviets, in this way apostolates and souls would be catechized by Zsablas in dyed airs of Red Poppies converted into the breathed air of the heroes of the Katyn Forest and Mariupol, seeing themselves redeemed by the 17th Century Golden-Winged Riders of Poland and Adrastea”

Bogdan with the immensity of voices and epithets heard Adrastea, she differed from volatile metal sabers, and explosives present when they went out in the crooked armor of Polish and Ukrainian beings, in a rear that Volodymir finally settled with the weave of the immaculate suspended habit of twelve thousand Red Poppies crossed by their forehead before being shot in the cortex, and occipital lobe forging with transvestite golden sabers, and cenobites that received them in the arms of the sublime stench of the effluvium of blood and hosts of nine thousand from Mariupol, never left and desisted from the bubbling figure of the acroteria near Mariyinski, idem to the Katyn Forest itself, surrounded in a string of the Rosary that was dazzled with Saint Sophia adopting them.

Fourteen vibrations of enthronement polarized from Volodímir instantly to his brother Bógdan, making filial gradation in the possible conception of cult and death who is suspended from one to the other under a damning accent of past lives. It is typical of the facsimile of his own genetic shadow, perhaps of Sem-Asur, who finally come together as blood relatives of the same Orbis Alius trunk. Rejecting not accessing Asur (as a healthy creative mind of Genesis) as an energy that could be restructured in any homologous of the world of Asur, as the son of Shem of Genesis..., as compared and inter-generational real mythology, pronouncing and enlivening in metaphors of the enchantment of what occurs in gender similarity or Mental field. The compensation and intemperance of living matter refer to the simultaneous undivided of each civilization as a phenomenon devoid of hearing and inclement winter periods. Here the outbreak lies cloistered in Menatira, daughter of Cránae, Queen of Eleusis Pro-Ukrania; such as a fluff of respite convulsing in both steppes of silence and hundreds of years B.C. prophesying to send aid to the victors of Volodymyr, Olena, Bógdan and the heroes of Mariupol with the Zsablas of Mikaiyah.

his own & this world's realities are like the fuzz in the States
they're ones to escape, which is a plan of attack
that, like a unit of ammo dispatched
to the bean of a **** autocrat dying physically damaged & sad
hits his deli̲ght-bankrupt brain; like Donald the dung piece, today
he feels bold, so maybe there'll be, like abundance of cake
["bald"]
fortune coming his way
["fortis fortuna adiuvat"/"fortune favors the bold"]
————————————————————————————————
this one's a schmuck thing to say
but this club reminds of Ukraine (what?)
he, like motorized cavalcades from the next-door empire, invades
its territory causing, like unaccommodating writer, a sla[ɛ]m
[Eminem & his "Unaccommodating" song]
as he shuts the door frame; obvi, sO̲me people may
find them bars offensive, like an armed aggression
so my apologies, I'm somewhat ashamed
mainstream house stuff is on play
a thought in his skull: "this is lame"
Michael S. straight after he turned around & stumbled on blamed
Toby F.; through the crowd he cuts like a blade
[the ending of the "Frame Toby" episode cold open from "The Office" series]
having hopped U̲p on the stage
as if it were a narcotic substance you've ta'en
he, so loud as if with his cullions in grave
nU̲t-wrenching pain, bawls: "THIS ****** *****!", like a brace
of someO̲ne's OTKs colored with stains
["*****"; "so[ɑ]cks"]
of blood; a schoolgirl on sO̲me yandere[eɪ]
sh#t; disgruntled, he makes for the f#cking DJ
delivers a verbal punch in his face by the fo[ɑ]llowing phrase:
"boy, go house-sit with your confounded
boring house sh#t, just like a housewyf"
whereafter thrusts him away
ending the uproar with "ciao, drip!"
music-wise, it's gon' go hard as nuts in this place
as if a flock of ones who're deranged
["who're" is supposed to be read/pronounced as "whoor"]
swung by a club in the wake of a ****** **[ɑ]spital break (nuts in this place)
he puts on midtempo dark cyberpunky synthwave
Gesaffelsteinish mid-paced
type of music; that's what drives his crumpet insane
speaking of crumpets, he spots a buxomish babe
while nodding his ******* nut to this cray
music, he feels like a **** being aimed
at, for she stands with her sight, like one of a gun, fixed his way
————————————————————————————————
for a few secs, at each other they gaze
she's quite a fox with her vibrant locks
reminding of flame; somebody call a fire brigade
hourglass-shaped & rigged out in tight pa[ɛ]nts & a blouse
with a U̲-neck, like a fella without
*****, & leaving her waist a bit out
["******"]
on display; he makes his way to this frau
salutates her with "ciao"
she greets him with just the same, then he mouths
the following: "babe, you're way like a house
for lodging that's nowhere to be found
that is, in the deep of a labyrinth"
she's like: "what in the void's name's this about?"
he replies: "I'ma translate that one now"
"the way you look's amazing, ten out
of ten", like that "KleanColor" skin bro[ɑ]nzer
["a maze inn"; "Tan Out Of Tan"]
she makes a soft smile, then replies: "ain't you nice, pal
when you lay your thoughts out?"
"not being nice would be a crime
when you face a fine gal
like you", - he replies
"if so, rejecting the company of a guy so gracious would count"
as a crime too", - she replies
being a music ****** with such a need fO̲r it it's
stuff he cA̲[ɛ]n't live without
the guy asks the gI̲rl if she
is ta'en with this sound
her reply is affirmative
she says she mostly faves underground
kinds of music; they vibe
to these tunes being pU̲t on, just like
that loony sh#twipe the whole antifa community'd like
to see end up ruined, just like
Aleppo or Mariupol; stop, I'd
like, before the main telling resumes, to rewind
a little: the newly-met vibe
to these hard-hitting beats put on; he finds
out, when asking her what drinkable fluid she'd like
to have, that she deems it uncool to imbibe (*****)
he replies: "to tell you the truth, so do I"
so if there's somebody to end up lit during this night
it is the moon in the sky
["some body"]
————————————————————————————————
soon after having their soft drinks taken, they bounce
like the name of the style
of music brought into this wO̲rld heaps
before chicks twerking
blew into the mainstream like "blaow!"
["hips"]
like a sick pervert that digs scourging
while engaged in a bout
of carnal fun, he's got a whip ordered
they wait for several mins for it
finally, the motorized conveyance comes out
like a deb girlie
[debutante]
he trails this fox like she's prey to hunt down
watching her proceed to[–]ward it
in a way like she's on a catwalk waving around
a rig splurgy
having hopped in it, to a lodging place they set out
the saucy look in her eyes
once his palm is put on her thigh
a kind of luminous sign–
–board reading: "absolutely alright
with going on a lewd spree tonight"

A Comic Come to Life

The cartoons came alive — grotesque!
For humans are long since dead.
Forget your "culture" pretext —
It rots from the top instead.

Not life, just a filthy comic,
No truth — just a stream of lies.
And soon comes a new demonic
Remix that will paralyze...





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



Grotesque parade — the truth is gone.
The comic reigns. Humanity’s done.



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



Delirium of Greed

Stupidity, greed — the same old curse,
The root of all rot, for better or worse.
Greed and stupidity, both in control —
Look anywhere, it’s swallowing whole.

Brainless beasts, diseased with desire,
Drag us all down in their muck and mire.
Because of those creatures, we’re doomed to fade —
The world is lost in greed’s charade.




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



Greed-struck fools — they **** and feed.
This world’s a madhouse ruled by greed.




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



Ruins

A tender flower —
So frail, so slight.
The **** gains power —
It clings, it fights.

And so with reason —
Crushed by the fool.
Each age, each season —
Dumbness rules.

The stages ended,
The lies increased.
No homeland’s splendid —
Just ruins of deceit.




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



No truth, no ground — just twisted lies.
A world of ruins, where reason dies.



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



Red Cross and Crimson Rage

A vivid mask of evil’s face —
That’s what communism is.
It scorches all with lies and grace —
The modern fascist biz.

It’s global now. The dim and blind
March gladly in the same old trap.
They babble, “Peace for humankind!” —
But serve a soulless, heartless crap.

They build the Camp — a grand parade
Of lies that twist and multiply.
The Red Cross on a banner laid
Feels like blood flung in the sky...



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



Red flags wave — the lie persists.
Behind the cross — a fascist fist.




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



Don’t Obey!!!

Stop! Down!
You clown...
Cop’s joke —
You choke.

**** the BEASTS —
Lies scream,
Burning truth
To extreme.



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



Obey the lie — you die inside.
Rise now — or be crucified.



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



The Verdict

A crazed slave weakens fast,
Hoarding lies that never last.
Not a life — a botched disguise,
The master feeds on twisted lies.

He lies and seals their doom,
But soon he'll fall — a wicked tomb.
For stench and shame, the final prism —
Cataclysm! Down with fascism!




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



Slave decays, the master lies.
Cataclysm kills — fascism dies.




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



Inheritance

There’s nothing in this world, I bet,
Worth clutching tight beyond regret.
The whole world’s just a wild, insane
Delusion pioneers maintain.

This aging scout drags that disease,
Taught since youth with false beliefs.
He knows not that he spreads the curse—
This madness passed from worse to worse.

Dad and mom — pathetic slaves,
Teacher serves fascism’s waves.
Few can dodge the fate that thrives:
Half-wit lost in idiot drives.



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



Madness passed from hand to hand,
Slaves and fools rule all the land.



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



Dead Stereotypes and Controlled Emotions

Dead stereotypes
Are stabbed in you from youth.
Satan’s archetypes —
To smother the Fire’s truth.

Reason locked tight, emotions roar,
Monsters steer you like a chart.
Destination’s "******’s Shore" —
Where madness tears you apart.

So burn it all! No more fools
In this madhouse of despair.
Stop serving twisted tools —
Torturing your soul bare.

This Fire from your very core
Will burn the lies away.
Stop guarding your fragile shell —
Throw it to Vision’s flame today.

This Vision is direct —
No alien interest stains.
Stereotypes distort, infect —
Pressing lies and selfish gains.



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



Stereotypes **** —
Emotions controlled.
Burn the lies —
Free your soul!



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



Chains of lies, emotions bound,
Break the cage — burn it down!



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



Dead minds locked in stale clichés,
Puppets dance in scripted plays.
Emotions tamed — a circus farce,
Burn the stage, break every farce!



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



Brains on leash, trapped in the old,
Dead clichés bought and sold.
Feelings clipped, minds confined —
Burn their lies, break the grind!



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



Fools repeat the same dull song,
Living lies they’ve bought so long.
Tamed emotions, puppets’ show —
Set it all ablaze and go!



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



USSR 2.0

Dedicated to Tatyana, artist from Mariupol.

Free us, former motherland,
From crumbling homes and broken lives.
There dwells a fascist’s twisted hand,
Spreading stench and wails that rise.

They shoot at civilians with skill —
The Germans once, now worse, it seems.
Grandfather won, but now there’s ill,
Madness reigns with war’s false dreams.

Mariupol lies crushed and torn,
Rashists killed the peaceful souls.
On roads, machine guns fiercely sworn —
Where children live, the bullets roll.

That car’s the foremost, hated prize:
Mariupol’s own stand and say,
Is that a homeland, cold with eyes,
That spits on old and young each day?!




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



Mariupol burns, the fascists ****,
Old ghosts rise — the nightmare’s real.



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



Apart

Ukrainians aren’t old Soviet clay,
And mostly so it’s been, they say.
In USSR, a Rovno aunt
Showed me, despite the harshest taunt—

Through genocide and dumbed-down mind,
The Spirit of Freedom they could find.
Crimes of Soviets or Rashka’s stain
Can’t wash away that lasting pain.

With Rashka — apart! It’s no true land!
The path goes on, blood pays the hand.
Coward patience — cow dung’s throne —
Amid “leaders,” filth is sown.




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



Not Soviets, not the same,
Ukraine burns, breaks the chain.
Rashka’s lies can’t claim their soul —
Freedom’s fire makes them whole.



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



Overload of Filth and Trash

Through the world of fascist slime,
Hold your nose and walk on by.
Media wounds the soul each time,
Sending reason up to cry.

Don’t get caught — in this foul place
Nothing’s worth the fight or fuss.
Not a world — a cesspool space,
Rotting midst the lies’ assault.

Everywhere the lies run wild,
Fascist filth — the core, the goal:
Two-in-one, a toxic pile —
Overflow, down to the hole!



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



Fascist slime, lies that burn,
Nose held tight — no return.
Filth and trash, the stinking show —
Flush it fast, let hatred grow!



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


All “By Accident”...

Black on gray — they smear the world, no doubt,
A madhouse scene in shades of drought.
Lies march loud, a stench in air,
Breeding fear and deep despair.

This mad “art” — where monsters feed,
Fools and crazies grow like weeds.
Selection’s task — foul undead,
All glossed over — “just by chance,” they said.




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



Black on gray, lies spread and play,
Madness grows in cold decay.
Fools and fiends in breeding fields —
All “just by chance,” the darkness yields.



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



Black smeared lies choke out the light,
Madmen rule this endless night.
Fools and fiends bred to betray —
“Just by chance”? Hell no, it’s their way.



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



Black lies slash across the sky,
Madness laughs while millions die.
Fools and fiends, a cursed breed —
“Just by chance”? Hell no — they feed!



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



Black lies spit and choke the light,
Madmen laugh in endless night.
Fools and fiends breed pain and greed —
“No accident!” — they plant the seed!



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



Black on gray, a poisoned stain,
Lies that bind and break the brain.
Madness rules this cursed play,
Fools and fiends lead minds astray.

No “accident” in this dark game,
It’s planned destruction, filth, and shame.
Rise and roar — don’t bow or fall,
This is the nightmare — break the wall!



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



Black on gray — a venomed flood,
Lies that drown the soul in blood.
Madmen puppeteer the blind,
Fools enslaved, the will resigned.

No accident — the poison’s sown,
A cancer deep within the bone.
Rise, ignite — destroy the night,
Shatter chains — reclaim the light!



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



Variant +

Black on gray — a venomed flood,
Lies that drown the soul in blood.
Madmen puppeteer the blind,
Fools enslaved, the will resigned.

No accident — the poison’s sown,
A cancer deep within the bone.
Rise, ignite — destroy the night,
Shatter chains — reclaim the light!

Break the silence, break the cage,
Tear the darkness from the page.
From the ashes, fire will roar —
Freedom’s cry forevermore!




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



The collective P*ss—
A vile fascist clique.
If you trust their lies—
They’ll shove a plug so thick,

Right into your brain,
Till nothing’s left to find.
But the ***** doesn’t care—
Feasts, bribes— all aligned.




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



One’s Cap Fits One’s Head

To break free from poems’ chains,
And die with honor down in Hell—
A cesspool where the fool remains,
Betrayers stuck in vile shell.

In Hell, the traitors crowd in swarms,
More broken **** than one can name.
Here Mind’s extinction’s lost its norms—
A sport that burns a thinning flame.

The clever layer melts away,
Like snowflakes high on mountain crest.
But does the fool here rule the day?
No—he’s a slave, and capped the rest.




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



The Table and the Ox

All walk beneath the table’s weight,
But it’s a vast infernal slab.
From that ****** board escape so late—
Just few, while crowds remain the drab.

Huge undergrowth of mind and soul—
An ox, mere food for demon fiends.
They lie, relentless, play their role—
Too few ideas on their screens.

Ideas breed silent submission,
As “virtue” taught to oxen blind,
To ease the soul’s slow demolition—
For this, all lies they’ve designed.




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



The Painting’s Idea

A canvas split in two, its claim:
Half flowers bloom, half fade away.
An allegory—war’s dark flame,
The shadow lurking, foe’s display.




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



The Bottom

Pathetic spaces —
Worlds of hellish lies,
Darkness filled with crudeness,
Where fools herd and rise.

Thousands of warped mirrors —
Where “top” means the very base.
This is the Bottom, pure and clear —
Fear, filth, fascist disgrace.




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



The Bottom

Pathetic voids — hell’s own lies,
Darkness thick with spite and scorn.
Fools parade in blind disguise,
Lost, deranged, and truly torn.

Thousands of cracked mirrors glare,
Where the “top” sinks to the pit.
This is Bottom — foul despair,
Fear and fascists tightly knit.



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



The Bottom

Pathetic voids, hell’s foul lies,
Darkness thick with spite and hate.
Fools run wild, their blind disguise —
Lost in madness, cursed by fate.

Cracked mirrors crush all hope and light,
Where “the top” is just the pit.
This is bottom — foul, black night,
Fear and fascism tightly knit.



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



The Bottom

Hell’s lies breed fools and ****,
Darkness rules, no hope to come.
Mirrors cracked — all truth denied,
Fascist filth, the darkest tide!



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



Crimes of Rashism

Seventy thousand crimes revealed,
By Ukraine’s courts, the truth is sealed.
Rashka’s steeped in idiocy—
Still fights NATO relentlessly.

Kids shot down right in the streets,
Bombs fall ******* crowded sheets.
Yet in that land, the “untouchables” stay—
Guess ***** clouds their minds away...



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



Rashism’s Crimes—No Mercy!

Seventy thousand sins revealed,
Rashka’s curse, its fate is sealed.
Fighting NATO? Pure disgrace—
Children die in ****** chase.

Bombs rain down on homes and hope,
Yet they numb the mind to cope.
Untouchables in drunk parade—
Souls are crushed, but lies stay made!




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



On the Decline

The work is done —
Hello, Death, come on!
In the madhouse of fools,
A dull, dark, rotten song.

That role’s not mine to play.
So then, let’s march ahead!
A new hell for the freaks?
No matter where I’m led.

This world is on its fall—
And soon, all will descend:
While here you only feast,
The end’s a curse to send.




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



Barren Flood

A flood of feelings, wild emotions flow,
While scraps of reason yield a barren show.
These barren souls, like addicts, crave the high —
More waves of feelings, screens that multiply.

Lies surge and crash on every distant shore,
Drowning truth, invading every door.
When lies ride high on waves of raw emotion,
They shove deceit through minds of poor devotion.




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



Every Little Drop Dreams to Be a Big Enema

Every little drop since early age
Dreams to become a mighty enema stage.
Become one — feast will never cease,
The stash won’t shrink, just grow with ease.

Those enemas — the propaganda crew,
And all the ranks of officials too.
They drive the Spirit from the herd away,
Fill every fiber with fear’s dark sway.

The politician’s just a toilet seat,
No enema small enough to meet.
A conduit for all nonsense and dread,
Now ushering in fascism’s spread.

Their nonsense and woes, the fiends dispense,
With cruel precision, evil’s pretense.
The Mind is crushed beneath their reign,
And they will pay for every pain.

But soon will burst the Super-Seat —
That world calls home, a cursed seat.
A breeding ground for Evil’s creed —
The fiends will face their final deed.




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



Every Tiny Drop Wants to Be a Big Enema

Every little drop, from childhood’s start,
Dreams to become a piercing dart.
Become that enema — eat like a king,
Never losing, always taking.

Enemas all — the lying breed,
Officials too, the **** we need.
They shove the Spirit out of the herd,
Injecting fear into every nerve.

Politician’s just a filthy throne,
No enema too small to own.
The pipe for all their ******* and pain,
Spreading fascism’s rotten stain.

Their crap and chaos — served on demand,
By inhuman fiends with iron hand.
The Mind they crush, abuse, degrade —
For this, the monsters will be paid.

And soon will blow the Super-Throne,
This hell we call our world, our home.
A hotbed where all evils breed —
These fiends will burn — no mercy freed.




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



Tiny drops crave enema might,
Feeding fear, crushing light.
Politicians — filth and lies,
Super-throne where evil dies.



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



Woodworms

We all are woodworms —
Feasting on the rot,
Leaving after battle’s storm
No wisdom, only blot.

Everywhere’s destruction,
Spirit’s deep despair.
Only decay’s eruption,
Fear and whining there.

But soon the bark of earth
Will sweep us from the scene.
No “paradise” for fools —
To Hell, if you’re obscene.



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


The Burden of False Life

"...to dwell alone,
casting off life’s heavy chain,
holding freedom timeless,
beyond thought’s domain—
to be one with the universe..."
— Jiddu Krishnamurti.


Cast off the burden called "life," —
Learn this art well.
Farewell to mind’s strife —
To another realm, farewell:

Go inward — only there
Will answers arise.
In this world’s cold glare,
You’ll vanish with lies.

Thoughts dissolve, but not the dark —
A “meta-thought” will bloom in light.
Fear not this spark,
The path is right.

Though few have walked this way,
The trail is clear.
To hell with the beasts’ sway,
And sheep in fear.

Fallen low,
“Beyond time” will shift your sight—
Shed false life’s heavy woe,
Escape its prison’s blight.



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



The Burden of False Life

“… to dwell alone,
shed life's **** chain,
own a freedom none can tame —
beyond the mind’s insane domain —
be one with all, release the pain.”
— Jiddu Krishnamurti.


Drop that useless burden, "life," —
Stop whining, learn the drill.
Escape the mind’s relentless strife —
To death’s cold void, take the ****:

Dive inside — no lies survive,
Only truth will pierce the veil.
In this shitshow, none stay alive —
All drown in fake tales.

Thought dissolves, but not the dark —
A “meta-thought” cuts through the blight.
Don’t fear the spark,
It’s the rebel’s fight.

Few walk this brutal path,
Most crawl like dumb herds.
To hell with their stupid wrath —
The beasts, the sheep, the turds.

Fallen souls and "beyond time,"
Shift your focus, break the chain.
Rip off false life’s grime,
Escape its filthy reign.




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



They Won’t Have Time...

Armies of clerks, bosses, and drones,
And legions of plankton fools —
They swallow the crap economics owns,
Where rotten lies break all the rules.

Fed with trash that devours earth’s core,
Killing soil just for their greed,
But they miscalculated sore —
The land fights back against their breed.

Idiots feast in endless supply,
Yet worse is planned ahead:
Soulless suckers bred to multiply —
Not humans, lice instead.

The **** rush forward, quick to spawn,
Their poison spreading wide and fast.
But time will cut them down at dawn —
Their reign won’t ever last.




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



The Righteous Cause

Our cause is just and true:
If you stand with us — you’re right.
We march bold through the stew
Of lies that poison sight.

Truth grows only through lies,
In this corrupt, dark place.
The **** speak shameless ties —
The ****** idiot’s face.

That fool will be the end,
The idiot’s final claim.
The world by God’s hand penned,
Left to vile mobs and shame,

Where soullessness is norm,
A flood of cold decay.
To not become that storm —
Fight filth, don’t drift away.




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



Cells

We build our cells,
Just like before —
As fools or beasts,
Caged evermore.
Few others stand,
But truth is grim:
The whole world’s lost,
The light is dim...




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



Rotten Piece

“For me, Buddha who won’t rebel
Is just a rotten piece as well.”
— Osho


Revolt’s last breath—
The end of “life” confined,
False living, weak and sly,
A slave both meek and blind.
No pound you’ll gain,
Health fades away,
This pitiful heap’s a joke at play.

Revolt’s true end
Comes only with Death’s call—
A death that births,
Renewing all.
Outside the Spirit’s front,
Awareness fades to dust,
For Awareness is holy—
All else is just rust...




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



Waste Paper

In the USSR Writers’ Union,
Ten thousand strong, the members spun.


Their “union’s” paper—waste, no more,
All scraps went straight to ads’ great store.
Though writers dreamed of lofty fame,
Their worth was just pulp’s humble name.




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



The Road

The road leads to a pen,
Its gates are fresh and new.
Around, poor cattle strain—
No spirit, no clear view.

No head to think or fight,
Just feeding on the lie,
But drive the blight from sight—
These shells must end and die.

The fate is set and near—
A global cataclysm.
The devils disappear,
Who rule through fascism.




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



The Road

The road leads to the pen,
New gates to trap the herd.
Around—weak cattle, then,
No spirit, just dumb words.

No brains, just mouths to feed,
Swallowing the lies.
Kick out that rotten breed—
Their doom’s no big surprise.

The end is coming fast—
A global cataclysm.
The devils won’t outlast,
Their fascist ego’s schism.




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




Sieve to the New Hell

Hell of wretched fools below,
Born on Earth in vile decay,
Where betrayal’s work will show,
Soon to fade and melt away.

Spirit, shame, and mind, and honor —
Few remain, and always few —
In this world, rotten and somber,
Hard to find a path anew.

Dust returns to dust, entropy
Will level all to void.
Those who are but null and empty —
Through the sieve they will be void.




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



Zen

The nail of anti-faith — true Zen’s pure core,
Now superstition chains fake science’s lore.
Religion’s signs in fake science all dwell,
CowID’s a verdict — a cautionary hell.

Now turned to same old flawed “argument” they claim,
Don’t want to be crushed? Then seize this moment’s flame.
Not just a moment — ETERNITY’s the Zen,
Not fascist chains, but rise again, my friend.




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



Childhood as a Means

Children are the means —
To stretch yourself in time;
To bind a lover’s heart,
Loving only thine;
To flee from Hell —
That Hell’s a Void so vast.
Children seem like joy,
But none escapes the past —

Ambitions live through them:
Joy just for the self.
All these “traditions” lie —
Turning love to stealth,
To herd a flock of fools —
Satan’s shepherd’s breath!

Teach them only chewing
In lies and filth to wade.
And on a global scale —
A cog in the charade:
If you’re just a tool —
Then serving’s all you’ll be,
Childhood’s root of misery,
A cradle of deceit.




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




Childhood as a Weapon

Children are the weapon —
To drag yourself through time,
To chain a lover’s soul,
Self-love’s only crime.
Escape from Hell? —
That Hell is just a Void.
Children, fake as joy,
All meaning’s destroyed.

Ambitions wrapped in lies,
Joy stolen for one’s gain.
“Traditions” all deceit —
Love twisted to pain,
Herding dumbed-down fools —
Satan’s twisted game!

Train ’em just to chew
On lies, on rotten ****.
Globally — a cog,
In a soul-crushing pit:
If you’re just a tool,
Your fate is to serve.
Childhood’s cursed root,
Where lies and madness swerve.




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



The Race

The jockey flies,
The horse it aches.
But all’s fine —
They pile on flakes.

Shot down quick
If sick or lame.
I’m out —
No place in this game.

A race to Hell —
Sadism, dull pain.
The ******* grins —
Rudeness reigns.

All glitter, lies —
"Achievements" sold.
Shackled tight —
The goal’s Hellbound cold.




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



Hellbound Race

The jockey flies — the horse just bleeds,
They cram the feed — fulfill their needs.
Sick or broken? One quick shot —
No mercy here, you’re out, forgot.

A sprint straight down to Hell’s own pit,
Where cruelty and dullness sit.
The ******* cheers, his heart is cold,
Rude brute in power, harsh and bold.

False glimmers, lies — their twisted trophies,
Chains tighten all, no hope, no peace.
They march us all to Hell’s grim gates —
This race to doom, no one escapes.




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



Hell of Idiocy

Slave-born *******,
Of NO land at all —
Lies and old curses,
Meat for the brawl.

Corpses for fascists,
Junk shoved within.
Hell of Idiocy —
Rot and their sin.




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



Poultry Farm

Gone are "the moments wondrous"—
Left are lies, disgrace, and shame:
Mind and Spirit's slow corrosion—
Man here’s almost dead in name.

Dehumanize — then toss them in fire:
A global camp, no less.
If you bow down dumb as a cork,
Your head pays for the mess.

That head’s worth just a penny,
But a ruble costs a hundred.
Billions now like watering cans—
Quick! Chickens for the blender!

And into soup they go—tell fools,
"This meal is meant for you!"
No need for fascist strength to rule—
The mind submits — they’re cooked through!




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



"The Fourth *****"

The "Third World," the "Fourth *****" —
Suddenly, it chose to rise:
A hollow double-talker
Turns neighbors into spies.

This blabber pushes "bonds,"
Orcs driven off to slaughter.
But those will burn down Puppet Pu—
Catch hell in a hot quarter.

That blabber’s Kremlin-crafted,
Original long since dead.
Bold lies by clones — that’s the Fourth *****,
A scoundrel’s crooked thread.

On the final twisting bend—
Russia’s set to spin out wild.
You won’t escape the rotten lies,
Not even "Messiah" styled.

Raving nonsense, ****** calls—
(Most people lost their mind!)
Thinking with their *****, not heads—
Shame’s peak for humankind.



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



"The Fourth *****"

Third World’s gone — the Fourth *****’s here,
Double-talkers stir the fear.
Orcs sent off to die and bleed,
Burn that puppet — hell’s decreed.

Kremlin’s spawn, a lying clown,
Original’s long dead and down.
Clones lie brazen, spit the plague —
Fourth *****’s devil, rotten plague.

Final bend — Russia’s wild,
No escape for broken child.
“Messiah” spews his mad disgrace —
*** over head, humanity’s face.




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



Fourth ***** — No Mercy

Lies breed lies, the puppet’s burned,
Clone hell rising, fools will learn.
"Messiah"’s madness — shameful fall,
*** over head, we lose it all.



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



Fourth ***** — Brutal Truth

Puppet’s ash, the lies explode,
Clone-born beasts in toxic mode.
Madmen lead the blind to hell,
Brains gone dead — a living hell.

"Messiah"’s rant, a cursed scream,
Nation drowning in a scream.
Fools who “think” with ***, not mind —
Bottomless shame, lost mankind.



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



A Cry

Have I a song to sing before the Lord?
I don't care much — I choose a brutal cry
In Wretched Hell, with rotten skulls ignored.
Will that cry ****? Fine — if you just die.

And if you take that Hell — worse than death’s breath,
A cross not just on you, but songs unsung.
The future’s voice will fade to hollow death —
A moan enslaved in digital tongues.




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



The Pit

I'll die beneath some nowhere town,
Dull, orphaned, crushed by extra spite,
As always, patient, beaten down,
Trusting evil, free of fight.

They’ll bury us inside a pit —
All those who’ve reached their deadline’s end.
On zombie screens, the lies will spit —
A flood of falsehoods to defend.




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



The Sump

You’ll be “on top” like stuck in **** —
This world’s a filthy cesspool, true:
The biggest chunks all rise and sit,
While down below the pure stew.

The honest, wise sink to the deep,
But in Hell’s pit, they crown the best.
If you remember soul to keep —
You’ll never rise with all the rest.

Never Again?
Old Mariupol lady
Hid underground from Nazis
Russians killed her now

In Kyiv’s subway shelter, a girl folds
bullet casings into cranes—wings etched
with Psalms hummed as shells tarnish sunsets to brass.

On Donetsk’s front, soldiers pluck petals
to pad boots where redemption sprouts
from blistered roots.

Beneath Gaza’s shattered solar grids,
ants weave fuse-wire nests between Quran
and rifle text—six-legged imams reconciling steel.

An Israeli ****** texts his Palestinian pen pal:
Your olive grove grew through my scope last night.
They meme Moses and Mohamed vaping
under the Red Sea’s algorithmic tide.

This is why laundry dances on Mariupol’s balconies—
why tank crews plant sunflowers in tread marks,
why Bedouin teens stream TikTok psalms
where Hagar’s tears salted dunes.

But lick Crimean wounds, let Gaza’s dust
baptize your lens, love the enemy’s laugh—

to hear sparrows in AK barrels chant Salaam
in C minor, eggs cracking into maps
where mines burst figs even Judas craves.

The Integral Mind

"The integrated natural mind, undivided into intellect, emotions, sensations, and intuition, is our greatest treasure and the key to our progress."
— Tarthang Tulku, "Time, Space, and Knowledge".


The whole of Mind —
A force, a blade.
Where dark thoughts grind,
It cuts their shade.

If in Hell’s grip
You feel no dread,
Your mind’s adrift,
A beast misled.

This global ward —
A madhouse reign —
Where fools adored
March on, insane.

And beasts above
Are hard at play:
If you lack love
Or voice — you’re prey.

Consumed like swill,
They’ll gnaw your head.
If you feel ill,
Condemn this bed

Of stench and spite —
Then break it down.
And seek the Light,
While fiends still frown.

Their grip will fade
Where shines the fire.
The light you made —
It burns the liars.

Intuition —
The Soul’s true wing.
To save your mission,
Don’t heed their sting.

They lie and plot
In every noise.
Break every knot,
Refuse their toys.

Throw off the chains,
Melt down their steel.
Begin again
With living will.

This world’s a noose
Of barking freaks —
Where truth’s abuse
Is all it speaks.

Build with the few.
Burn what is fake.
To be a man
Make spirits wake.

Emotions matter
When ruled by Soul.
But twisted chatter
Will eat you whole.

They train you blind
With fear and ******.
They target mind
And aim to seize.

Through feelings’ flood
They herd the crowd.
Tradition’s mud
Is worn like shroud.

Soul needs wings —
But Reason too.
Don't cut such things
Before they're through.

Reflect, not flail.
Let mind respond.
Let fear grow pale —
And break that bond.

Through art you'll rise,
Unite your core.
Where mind just dies,
The cowards pour.

Avoid the drones,
Find those who see.
The Light alone
Will set mind free.

The soul ignites,
The filth retreats.
And through true Sight
The Spirit peaks.

The whole of Mind —
Our only hope,
In Hell where rot
and noise still choke.



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



1.
Whole is the Mind —
a blade through the lie.
Use it, or rot.
Awake — or die.

2.
When soul and thought align,
the Beast begins to fall.

3.
Split minds obey.
Whole minds rebel.

4.
In the madhouse of Earth,
your clarity is war.

5.
One Mind. One Flame.
Hell fears the name.



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



1.
The Whole Mind burns
where form dissolves.
In Light it stands,
as time resolves.

2.
Not thought. Not dream.
The silent core
knows what you are
— and something more.

3.
The undivided flame within
unfolds the path you’ve never been.

4.
Where four were torn —
sense, thought, soul, breath —
the One returns
through light and death.

5.
Whole Mind — the gate
where Time dissolves.
Not born, not late —
it only solves.



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



The Song of the Whole Mind

Not mind alone, nor heart that aches,
Nor breath that breaks in dreamlike skies —
But something vast the silence makes,
A fire behind all names and ties.

No parts remain — they melt, they flow,
And in their place: a single flame.
It neither strives, nor needs to know,
Yet through it speaks the true, the same.

Where Time and Space unweave their scheme,
Where thought itself begins to cease —
There Whole Mind wakes within the stream,
And what remains… becomes your peace.



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


Mind Games

"From moment to moment, observe — is this our true nature, or just another game we’re playing?"
Tarthang Tulku


Look deep inside — expose the schemes,
The tricks by which the thinking mind
Preserves its wounds through crafted dreams
And leaves the soul half-dead, half-blind.

You meet the world — a ghostly show,
You meet yourself — a dull design.
You feed that image — and below,
It mocks you as a self-made shrine.

Forget the games — just look, and see.
Turn intuition's light on high.
Walk straight — alone, relentlessly —
To Spirit's core. That is the sky.

Now smash the molds — thought lives in these!
Real thinking dares to walk alone.
To **** the lie — that's where it frees
The soul. Let rot what's overgrown.

Illusions hang, a choking weight,
They blur the glimpse of realms untold.
The path is inward. Fools still wait
For truth in dirt, in blood, in gold.

But only Spirit’s plane holds fire.
No sludge, no swarm of flies, no throne.
This world — a toilet’s last desire.
Without the Light, we rot alone.



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



1.
Smash the game.
See the lie.
Mind is shame.
Spirit: sky.

2.
You are not thought.
You are the flame.
**** every image.
Refuse the game.

3.
This world is filth —
if you stay blind.
Burn through the mask.
Unchain your mind.

4.
No light in thought.
No soul in fear.
Cut through the rot.
Get out of here.



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



1.
Not this thought.
Not this name.
You are light,
Before all frame.

2.
Inward fire,
Subtle stream —
Breaks the mask,
Ends the dream.

3.
Before the lie,
Before the voice —
The silent core,
The only choice.

4.
The world dissolves.
The eye remains.
One pulse inside,
Beyond all chains.



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



1. Lie
A mask of thought,
A voice that feigns —
The self you sought
Was bound in chains.

2. Sight
Look not through mind,
But through the still.
Let forms unwind —
They have no will.

3. Breakdown
The dream resists
Until it breaks.
No "I" exists
In thought that fakes.

4. Turning point
No image true,
No path ahead.
Just silence — new,
Where lies are dead.

5. The Gates
Beyond the fear,
Beyond the frame —
The Light draws near
Without a name.

6. Flame of the Spirit
This is no game.
This is the Fire.
It has no shame.
It asks — aspire.

7. Liberation
The soul unchained
No longer hides.
The false is drained —
The One abides.



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


The Very First and Crucial Step

“Our perceptions of all things and space
Reflect the levels where we place
Our focused lens — that narrow sight
Which shapes what seems to us as ‘right.’
That rigid, dense, impenetrable frame
We cling to — fearing change, or blame.”
— Tartang Tulku, "Time, Space, and Knowing" (poetic exposition).


We must defocus — here’s the key,
The very step that sets us free.
Without it, light and joy elude—
Stuck blind and bare, with no prelude.

Like filters stained in shades of gray,
Theories cloud and block our way.
Throw off "belief" and "knowing" too—
See how profound the hole breaks through.

The power of worlds beyond the eye,
Exists outside that spectral lie.
In hell, decay and rot abide,
Where soulless beasts again collide.

They shout commands to broken minds—
Lost puppets chained in dark confines.
Their thoughts a gel, vile and obscene,
It suffocates, unseen, unseen.

Through all that slime, those cursed fools—
The shame and curse of cosmic rules—
To reach the Light, we must endure
A dreadful path, unknown, obscure.

The very first step, harsh and grim,
Is stepping through the senseless dim—
No soul can save itself from fate,
Unless it breaks that mental gate.



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



Time

“Clocks don’t show time—they only stand
As symbols held in human hand.”
— Avessalom Podvodny


They drilled “time’s line” into our brains,
With nonsense meant to bind as chains.
If you don’t fight for self-true sight,
Your soul’s doomed, lost within the night.

Timelessness—when you can see
Through crowds and noise, society.
The Soul’s own realm lies far away,
Beyond the grasp of linear sway.

Cast off the lies, the rigid line,
But don’t fall prey to GR’s design—
Where sludge and filth are pushed around,
And falsehoods in “science” abound.

The world’s a void of madness deep,
Few escape its waking sleep.
Dive deep inside—rise from your knees—
Awake your mind! Break free with ease.

And Time, the secret truth profound,
Tartang Tulku’s words resound.
Turn inward, say “goodbye” firm and fast
To fascist filth that haunts the past.

Fascism’s everywhere—it’s true,
A cycle dead, repeating through.
Change serves a face that sinks and dies,
The mind decays, the spirit cries.

Lies shift and warp to dumb us down,
To keep the masses in their drown.
Pol ***’s ghost may haunt once more,
But lies will **** as war’s before.

They’ll inject new “illness” fake,
Poison the flesh for profit’s sake,
“Protecting” skin, but acting worse—
Reducing man to brutish curse.

Strive to Know, resist the Dark,
Relentless Search ignites the spark.
To truly Be—that is the fight,
Else slaves and madmen lose the light.

Trapped in this global madhouse grim,
Their bleak, dull path grows faint and dim—
In linear time, like coma’s death,
Absorbing shame and terror’s breath.



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



Onward…

"The more we turn blind eyes away
From social webs and outer sway,
The tighter shrinks our conscious space
Of time and realms beyond this place."
— Tartang Tulku, "Time, Space, and Knowing" (poetic exposition).


We can move onward, only when
We grasp this Hell where lies extend—
A heap of falsehood, ruled by beasts,
Where human **** hold vile feasts.

Here mind decays, a rotting sight,
A genocide of truth and light.
Honor crushed, the spirit slain,
Conscience numb or lost in pain.

Yet they dance by hearth’s weak glow,
But we must shine and clearly show
The crooked paths, the pits, the blight—
Candles to pierce through endless night.

Only then can we say goodbye
To this foul Hell, to stink and lie—
Without choking on this age-old stench,
That hangs and clings, a poisoned wrench.




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



Insane and Twisted Freaks

Insane and twisted freaks abound —
The norm, not rare, and long installed.
If filth and lies are all around,
Reject the sludge — don't stay enthralled.

It's time to grow, to rise, to see —
Go deep within — the truth is there.
The hole you hide in? Meant to be
A cage for cattle, dumb and scared.

That pit is built from pseudo-science,
From pantheons of ***** gods.
They lull with fear, demand compliance,
And dump their lies in endless loads.

They pump out fear to cull the herd —
Like CowID showed — a clean pretext.
The madness spreads. Absurd, absurd —
Disgust, despair, what’s coming next?

Insane and twisted freaks — and you
Are one of them if you just wait,
Enduring Evil, hoping to
Be slaughtered second. Pray it's late.




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




Beyond the Limit

Step by step won't break the chain —
Only strain reveals the crack.
When all seems hopeless, lost in pain —
The only way is UPWARD — back!

Super-effort is the key
On the path the Spirit takes.
Fear’s your foe — ferocious, free —
It dies when EVERY FIBER breaks.




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




Excess and Evil’s Machinery

Excesses of the “loyal” hands —
That’s how the plan is played:
Traitorous "heroes," zombie bands,
Each dumb, obedient blade.

They follow every twisted call,
With “virtue” smeared on top —
While horror festers under all,
The lies, the blood won’t stop.

These sick little corral pens
They proudly call "the state,"
Dissolve all higher Common Sense
And torch the Soul through hate.

And that’s enough — no need for more,
The minds are switched to dead.
They turn the world to crawling war —
And drown it all in DREAD.




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



Fascists and Fools

The fascist screams, “You fascist ****!”
The fool shouts, “Fool!” — how very clever.
These freaks have all grown slick with tongue,
But write like hens — with sticks, whatever.

They quote some spells from their TV,
Or hallway gossip, loud and crude.
Yet real collapse is plain to see —
Their little world is coming un-glued.

Fools, fascists — swarming everywhere,
Depravity in overdrive.
Didn’t ****** make that clear?
Guess history took a nosedive.




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



The Purge

Old folk ain’t fools — if thought ran deep
And didn’t rot through all their years.
But most just wallow in their sleep —
Like slime the Earth itself must clear.

The slime lives just to feed and bow,
Stay silent, meek, and serve the chain.
They’re not real people — more like how
A mutt is wolf in name... in vain.

Dull minds can heal, if fire within
Of true creation lights the way.
But here, the idiot’s no sin —
He festers, like a sore, each day.

It swells, it bursts — a septic flood
Of rot inside a crawling brain.
So comes the purge — a wave, a thud —
No place for fools will here remain.

The elder once again shall be
The citadel of wisdom, bold.
While every filthy lie we see
Will count as sin — and stink like mold.




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



So-Called “Glory”

This “glory” is blended
With treason and lies.
If you serve the branded
Beasts for a prize,

If cash makes you kneel
And the spotlight feels grand —
Then Judas in steel
Takes Stenka’s stand.

The herds trail the traitors,
Like lambs to the flood.
Their idols? Dictators
All drenched in blood.

Their voices are paid for
With fame and with gold —
A “star” for the clay floor,
A slave bought and sold.




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




Dough

Attachment’s the weakness they seek
In a world built on slaughter and lies.
For centuries — war on the weak,
While people get kneaded like pies.

They’re soft — easy prey for the leech.
The beasts mold them, numb and afraid.
They strike where compassion can reach —
And fools are the devil’s parade.

Be strong. Be sharp. Never cling.
The Spirit of Warriors stands
In honor alone — not in bling,
Not bound by the coward’s commands.

The world is diseased with decay,
With soul-rot that spreads like a plague.
To guard the Bright Spirit today —
Our mission. No time to play vague.

That Spirit — it shines, pure and clear.
Cling to the Light, if you must.
But cling to the rot? — disappear.
The Warrior answers: “Distrust!”



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



You're dough in their hands if you cling.
The Warrior cuts every string.




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



Vegetable Culture

There once was culture, real and bright —
Before the Veggie Age.
Now madness rules, and kills the light —
You must choose sides. Engage:

Be human — or be cabbage.
No middle ground remains.
The weak are grown for salvage —
Their silence feeds the chains.

But humans? — that’s forbidden.
The beast wants meat and fear.
No room for souls unhidden
Where Moloch’s priests draw near.

Gavvakh’s their prize — and veggie minds
Are simply far too slow.
In Satan’s shrines, the god that dines
Needs fire. Not mush. Not "low".




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




Black Mark to a Mad, Mad World

The bottom is breached — there’s no turning back,
The gates of a New Hell swing open wide.
No cheese for the herd — just a rationed attack:
The Creatures serve Terror, pre-cut and supplied.



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



Black-marked and broken — it’s time to descend.
The ration is horror. The madness won’t end.



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



Cholera

Cholera cuts — but not through hearts or heads,
It mows down herds of ego-soaked buffoons.
This plague is lies, and all the power it spreads
Is pumped with zeal beneath these shadowed moons.

Deceit now clouds the world in toxic mist,
A shroud of gas that chokes both mind and soul.
And cholera strikes — the fools can’t resist,
Drawn like dumb rats to bait inside the hole.




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



The Hell

Mariupol, Melitopol,
Bucha, Kharkiv, Kherson’s fall —
Is this the world, or just the Hell?
Reason’s fled the scene, that’s all.

And what remains of Spirit’s light
Is rotten, broken, on the edge.
If fascism rules the fight,
Only traitors stand its pledge.




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



Ode to Crap

Crap! Crap!! Crap!!!
In many shapes it shows.
Laziness, laziness, laziness —
Kills the mind, and it goes.

Lies, lies, lies —
The core of all this mess.
Add fear to lies, realize —
The sum’s a total wreck.

Wreck, wreck, wreck —
This sorry world we face.
Crash! Crash!! Crash!!! —
Everything ends in crap’s disgrace.




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



Bad Weather

Rain keeps pouring —
Darkness scoring
Deeper wounds inside,
Dragging long the tide:
From flood to flood — no hope to cope,
The next one’s coming — hell’s tight rope.




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



The Money Ring

Again—the cash!
All in the ring!
Swinging wild, no mercy shown.
Look at us
With eyes unbiased—
Life’s wasted, fully blown.
All is beaten—
That CowID
Revealed the beasts who play the game.
We’ve fallen low—
Beneath the frame.




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



A Contribution to Reason?

A tiny sum?
That’s the question, chum!
Life’s out of course,
Just a small force —
A little given... none.




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



Old Tale of Lies and Greed

They stole and lied —
Broke down with pride
Honor and conscience deep.
That tale’s grown old —
A story cold,
In dust and shadows steep.



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



Different Chances

“The chance to steal makes thieves arise,”
Francis Bacon, seventeenth’s wise.

The chance to shirk your mind —
Makes slaves, unkind:
To heed the beasts, consume their bait.
That slave’s a fool, sealed by his fate.



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



The Chance Not to Think

The chance not to think
Breeds slaves who sink —
To heed the beasts, to crunch their lies.
Deceived, disposed,
Though death’s delayed,
Change comes swift beneath dark skies —
And in the night, the stench will scream,
A haunting, bitter, waking dream.




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



Hoard!
Blare the horn —
Lies flood the land!
Feed soulless hordes — Bedlam’s brand!!!



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



Total Greed

“Progress” flushed the greed anew,
Paper money’s grand parade.
In the game of false gain’s view,
Greed becomes our nature made.




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



The Futility of Creation

Hard work done —
In vain, undone.
Will it be wiped away?
So much lies sway —
The rogue’s at play.
Gone, at last,
In Cloaca’s grasp.




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



Voices — Almost Psychiatric...

Inner voice, the chorus of fools:
Light burns INSIDE, away with all tools! —
Hear yourself, beware the deeds
That serve the herd, not deeper needs.



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



Voices — Near Madness

Voices roar — fools’ chorus wild,
Light’s inside — dump every child! —
Heed yourself, reject the games
Of “helpful” acts that feed the flames

Of shallow minds and hollow schemes,
Servants blind to others’ dreams.
***** their ‘good,’ their fake applause—
Only spirit’s truth has cause!




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



Voices — Madness’ Edge

Light’s inside — fools to hell!
***** their “help,” their shallow shell.
Fake goodwill? Just empty noise—
Listen close, reject the toys.



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



Sick World and Armageddon

A pitiful world, sick and weak,
Unaware it’s ill inside.
The simpleton, so mild and meek,
Keeps laws that bind and blind.

So health’s a question for the few —
The rare, dull herd that waits.
CowID showed what’s sadly true:
Patience seals their fates.

But some, the few who see it clear,
Know Death will bring release.
The end’s no fear, but burning near —
The Sun will scorch the peace.




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



Sick Mind and Global Chaos

Few admit they’re sick inside,
Before the Soul’s true sight.
So madness grows in fading tide —
A wretched life, more blight.



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



The Mind’s Health Worries

The mind’s health stirs few tender souls,
Most poor fools justify the lies.
They choke the truth — a bitter bone,
That grates and ****** the thinking wise.



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



The Struggle to Heal

"One condition to recover—
The will to get well."
— Seneca, first century


How sick the world, and rare to find
A soul who truly seeks the sane,
Chasing "success," "praise," or "joy,"
Denying doubt, suppressing pain.

And little by little (no debate!)
The world seems "normal," "I’m a star"—
This sickness shapes the mind’s dictate,
And fools will rally near and far...