It is with heavy heart I address this most honourable assembly concerning a most dishonourable practice now infecting our fair realm.
In this age of enlightenment, where Britannia proudly proclaims herself the cradle of liberty, we witness a spectacle most vile: the King's men hauling freeborn Englishmen to gaol for the crime of posting memes!
This year hath seen above three thousand souls apprehended under pretext of policing "offensive twitters" and "hateful scribblings" -
though methinks 'tis hatred of truth that motivates these censors.

A learned antiquarian now faces ruin for daring to discourse upon ***** slavery - a subject any man of conscience must ponder!
A schoolboy of tender years clapped in irons for sketching a jape about old Admiral Tom - where is the English humour that once buoyed our spirits?
They cloak their tyranny in Acts of Parliament - the Communications Statute (200000003 Anno Domini) and Public Order Edict (198888886) - yet apply them with the consistency of a drunk magistrate.
The radical firebrand who preaches sedition in Moorfields walks free, while the honest yeoman who questions why his parish swims with illegal foreigners finds himself in the dock.

Our courts become puppet shows. A vicar's daughter prosecuted for a "racist" quill-posting - her words twisted like a hangman's noose!
A Methodist street preacher charged with "transphobic heresy" for reading Leviticus - since when did Holy Scripture become a criminal manifesto?
Worse still, His Majesty's newly formed Thoughtcrime Constabulary compels schoolmasters and apothecaries to inform upon their charges.
Last Michaelmas, a child of nine winters was interrogated like a French spy for drawing Palestinian olive trees!

This is not justice - 'tis the Inquisition reborn, with Bow Street Runners playing the Dominican friars!
I say unto you: Beneath the painted smile of tolerance lurks a Leviathan that would make Hobbes blanch.
Our ancient rights - hard won at Runnymede - are traded for the illusion of safety.

Let every freeborn Englishman refuse this spycraft - let no informers amongst us!
Revive the coffeehouse tradition of vigorous debate - sans fear of the bailiff!
Teach our children virtue through Milton and Locke, not through some Ministry-approved catechism!
Shall we be remembered as the generation that surrendered Magna Carta for politeness?

The hour demands we choose: liberty with all its glorious mess, or chains gilded with progressive cant.

The closer comes the end of time and space,
The deeper meaning fills your gentle face —
As vast as worlds, yet tender in its grace,
Your face becomes my world, my steadfast place.

It’s clear to me, my love, I understand,
How futile is the fight when truth is plain—
What cannot be undone by human hand,
In time becomes our sorrow, our disdain.

By choosing you, I leave the rest behind,
Content with less, and learning day by day,
To find within my heart’s unspoken mind,
That you, when seen too close, can lead astray.

For now, in quiet thought, you’re ever near—
My flaw, my hurt, my risk, my vision clear.

They appear in my inbox regularly, a couple times a year. I've grown accustomed to these clumsy, Google-Translated attempts at fraud and long stopped bothering to read them. But this time, when another message arrived via Facebook, I noticed something unusual—it was written, inexplicably, in Turkish. The instantly translated text—no longer via Google—clearly bore the hallmarks of neural network craftsmanship. Admittedly, it handles language with far more diligence than I do. Plus, Turkey—a pleasant geographical change of pace. Better than yet another message from Nigeria.

And then I remembered my favorite Stanisław Lem novel—The Investigation. In one episode, Ion Tichy amuses himself by making digital copies of consciousnesses—Bertrand Russell's, someone else's, and Shakespeare's, I think—chat with each other. My heart leaped with excitement. What had been pure science fiction in my parents' time had finally come to pass.

Just the other day, I even got a call from a recruiter offering me a job as an analyst. The role involved listening to dialogues between two neural networks about some topic or another—and trying to figure out why their conversation veered in whatever direction it did. To dispel my suspicions that he—this recruiter—might himself be a program, he brought up some recent news item, declaring that since he could discuss it, he couldn’t possibly be a bot. I confirmed that I believed he was human, given that his argument was obviously complete nonsense. Still, a lingering doubt remained—and, I’ll admit, a sliver of suspicion gnaws at me to this day.

So now, staring at this DM from a supposed Turkish bank employee—something distinctly alive and even willing to engage in dialogue—I decided the time had finally come to act and, like Ion Tichy, to plug something in somewhere, dump data into some system, lean back in my chair, and enjoy the results in the style of John Keats, mostly Byron, and—for the grand finale—Shakespeare. Just like in Lem's novel.

Mahadi Hasan:

From shores of ancient Bosphorus I write,
Mahadi Hasan Fysun my name, a banker, destiny's guide.
A tale I spin, of fortune's fading light,
And kindred souls, across the world's wide tide.

Adrian Polski, of your land, now gone,
In Istanbul, his golden trade he plied.
Nine million dollars, sleeping, till the dawn,
Deposited here, before his spirit sighed.

No kin he claimed, no loving hand to hold,
Alone he passed, by cruel pandemic's sting.
My bank knows not, their records yet unfold,
A slumbering treasure, ripe for harvesting.

Our names, dear George, a whispered symphony,
A chance encounter, woven by the Fates.
I offer partnership, transparently,
To claim this prize, before it dissipates.

Half shall be yours, a noble, rightful share,
Legal protection, from all harm and fear.
Let silence shroud us, as we take our share,
Respond with haste, my friend, the hour is near.

George Polskiy:

That fate divine arranged our meeting, I have doubt,
Though strange and wondrous paths our lives may tread.
A banker from the Bosporus, devout,
With tales of gold a long-dead soul has shed.
Nine million dollars, quite a hefty clout,
Unclaimed, forgotten, like a dream misled.
You seek a partner, honest, just, and true,
To share the spoils, a fifty-fifty view.

Alas, dear madam, your proposal grand,
While tempting fate with promises untold,
Falls flat upon this barren, weary land.
My heart is cold, my pockets lined with mold.
I've chased no fortune, joined no greedy band,
Nor traded virtue for a *** of gold.
Seek elsewhere, friend, for gullible kin.
Mahadi Hasan, go to hell, I mean.

Mahadi Hasan:

Fear not, dear friend, I mean no treachery,
My documents attest, this deal is pure and true,
A transparent pact, beneath an open sky,
And trust, the bridge we must together accrue.
Though many share your name, my heart can spy,
A noble spirit, one who sees this through.
This fortune, like a blessing, will descend,
Upon our houses, guided by my hand.

No legal labyrinth shall hinder our success,
My bank, with parchment scrolls, shall make all plain,
Ownership affirmed, before the funds progress,
To your account, where not a doubt shall remain.
Years spent in banking, grant me this finesse,
The rules and systems, I perceive their grain.
So trust my counsel, let no worry impede,
The bond we forge, where mutual trust we breed.

George Polskiy:

You claim no fraud, dear madam, 'tis your plea,
With documents galore, all legal and bright.
Transparency, you say, our guide and glee,
An umbrella of trust, to banish the night.
My name is common, true, but you chose me,
Guided by instinct, a beacon of light.
Your trust I'll not disrupt, a soul so grand,
This windfall's blessing, for yours and my hand.

But legal bridges, you say, hold no fright,
A banker seasoned, with wisdom profound.
Their rules and regulations he wields tight,
No cause for worry on a solid ground.
Yet trust, you see, is a fragile light,
And promises whispered, is a hollow sound.
So keep your millions and documents well,
I will not sleep with devil. Go to hell.

Conclusion:

Hark, facebook stranger, lend thine eery ear,
To this strange tale of greed and cunning art.
A banker from the East, with whispers clear,
Spins webs of deceit, to tear a soul apart.

With honeyed words and promises so grand,
She lures her prey, a stranger from afar,
With claims of kinship, and a helping hand,
To steal a fortune, hidden in a jar.

But he, though tempted by such dazzling prize,
Sees through her mask, her motives dark and low.
He spurns her offer, with a knowing guise,
And bids her seek a fool, where shadows grow.

For honesty and virtue hold more worth,
Than ill-gained riches, stolen from the earth.

"Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat te in vitam aeternam"

No lips, no thighs, no **** will tempt my fate,
When syphilis' contagious threat I see.
Henceforth, I'll gaze at stars and contemplate
religious love - so sacred, pure and free.

Within its light, I hope to find my plan,
Though its sharp wit I hardly can abide:
Since childhood we all love the same young man,
Ignoring gender's natural divide.

For Christ alone my heart shall truly race,
His love for all, a light that shines so bright.
No earthly love can ever match His grace,
His sterile touch, His guiding, healing light.

As if consumed by a supernova’s charmer,
We’re destined to embrace him clear and loud.
And live with him.

Thank God - it’s not Keith Starmer.

He’s in—I’m out.

Child support’s what you need, a new dude, the old one’s ghosted,
And Chatty Cathys who nods along, never speaking nonsense.
You reach out to folks, craving love, empathy, and care—
But they hit you with, “Chill, let it slide, don’t even stare.”
What’s that even mean— “let it slide, let it go—where?”
Why don’t y’all just bounce with your nonsense and bang your heads on a wall somewhere?

Yeah, I’ll leave, since you insist, it’s crystal clear—
Cause I’ve annoyed you terribly,
and in every way.
But still, I’ll cling to a pointless hope,
that maybe—just maybe—you’ll call me back, and I’ll cope.

But while I’m not called back, with Chatty Cathys in tow,
I’ll hit up church—been meaning to—join the holy show.
Don’t trip, it’s just me, that’s how I roll,
I’ll go there—cross my heart—pay my toll.
Light a candle for myself—for my soul’s repose.
I’ll burn in hell for now, I s'pose.

And when I’m roasted in that fiery pit, you’ll yell,
“Serves you right!”
“Why’d you ride for every clown in sight?
Go smash her, you freak, you hopeless case.”
But how can I, when I’m already dust in this place?
I’m stuck in hell from the last life’s race.
And you’ll snap back, “Aha! So you had it all mapped!
You’re a creep, through and through—burn in hell, you’re trapped!”
I’ll sigh, “Here we go again…”
And off I’ll stomp, my fate sealed, my end.

So I roll up to this spot, now like home to me—
Smells like fire and decay, far as I can see.
And there, the Devil himself steps out, whining weak,
“Yo, what’s this? Look who’s back! Man, I’m beat!
I can’t even punish you no more—I’m fresh outta tricks,
And space? Bro, it’s packed to the bricks.
Your wife—****, she’s fire, no cap!
Not just her curves, but her soul’s on tap.
We tried to learn from her, but flopped,
And in the end, we all just dropped.
A line of fools like you clings to my gate,
‘Cause that dude with heaven’s keys procrastinates.
He saves his juice, the stingy hack,
Dodges his job, won’t cut no slack.
If anyone shows at his door,
He checks with your wife, then shows ‘em the floor.
He lets no one into heaven’s halls,
‘Cept Lady D—she’s saintly, after all.”

I bounced back—and since then, I’ve wandered—
Here and there, in circles, I’ve squandered.
This twisted life chews me up, rips me apart.
I’m neither here nor there—just lost, no start.
I’m in some quantum state, it’s wild.
Like being bent over—but in reverse style.
So be it—I’ll vibe with this murky grind.
Six feet under, I’ll still be the same,
And life won’t teach me no game.

Just make sure, oh Lord, my wife loves me
again.

The time has come when earth is draped in splendor,
A shroud of fallen leaves, their mournful glow,
Whose aged weariness and somber grandeur
Have long been part of me, as well I know.

The air is sickly, heavy with despair,
And as the dim day fades to evening’s chill,
The night’s cold breath steals what remains in there—
A kindred force to my own breath, so still.

I find a strange delight in this connection,
A fervent joy in such a somber tie,
When, breathing in the autumn’s damp infection,
I feel the freshness of decay nearby.

The birds are silent, leaves but faintly rustle,
The fire smolders low, and you appear.
The cooling ash of night’s hushed bustle
Holds neither promise nor a trace of fear.

The forceful spark of life, now vain and fleeting,
Has crumbled deep within its withered core.
A bit of ash, a wisp of smoke retreating —
That’s all you see in me, and nothing more.

The first wind gently stirs, the first gust’s cry,
I am gone, and earth no longer bears me by.

I copped a telescope—
small joint, commercial ****,
straight off the block,
but it ran me a grand.
A thousand bucks! Yo, that’s mad stacks,
a whole lotta bread.
But it’s worth the cheddar.
‘Cause this thing? It’s x200,
peepin’ far out, deep into the distance.
Eyeballs ain’t built for that stretch,
but this scope? ****, it reaches…
not the stars or the moon, nah,
just the window of that high-rise across the way.
Now I’m posted, spyin’ on the neighbors smashin’.

Not ‘cause I can’t pull up some *** on the net—
that ain’t it.
I’m clockin’ ‘em—
how they live, how they beef, how they bang—
‘cause I got this hunch
they doin’ all that **** better than me.
Not sayin’ I’m pressed or green-eyed,
but every time I think someone’s out here outshinin’ me,
I freeze up, mind spinnin’ like a hadron collider.

To the cat who ain’t good with what he got,
who’s buggin’ over life’s big “why,”
who’s always chasin’ somethin’ fatter,
never hyped on himself,
who’s mad for star-gazin’—
that dude’s the one peekin’ through the scope,
catchin’ astronauts up in the ISS,
floatin’ past in low orbit,
starin’ back through the porthole,
flippin’ me the bird.
‘Cause once you touch the stars,
all you wanna do is squint back down,
to Earth,
at you—
the broke-***, washed-up loser.

A semi-truck, half-overturned, blocked the road. The driver’s cab, dangling on its broken neck, had slid into a ditch, its nose pressed against the indifferent forest. I stopped and stepped out of my small car. Coming closer, I saw the driver inside the mangled cab, pinned in an unnatural position between two seats. With effort, I pried the door open and helped him out. He muttered, as if accusing me of something, that he’d been hopelessly freezing there for nearly four hours.

-----

Upon that road, forgotten, cold, and wide,
Where naught but shadows and the frost abide,
I sped, through woods where winds like demons scream,
And silent trees stretched forth their limbs to deem
The earth beneath them barren, lost, and lone—
A desolate stretch where none had ever flown.

Then, lo! Before me, halted, firm and still,
A mighty truck lay trapped, against its will.
The wheels, lifted up high, as if the heavens frowned,
The metal beast had tumbled, earthward bound.
Its cargo—frozen—locked within the grave
Of twisted steel, where none could hope be saved.

The driver, pale, within his cage of cold,
His limbs so stiff, his breath a tale untold,
Had spent the hours in silence and despair,
While winter’s breath did mock the frozen air.
“I’ve waited long,” he said, with voice so faint,
“I’ve waited long, for freedom’s kind restraint.”

But ere the sun could sink beneath the lea,
I reached him, hands, though trembling, firm and free,
I opened wide the door, though shiver’d soul,
And bade him rise, though all the world seemed cold.
Yet words between us neither rose nor fell—
What need of speech when all the world is still?

A truck arrived, a salt-streaked carriage bright,
And plowed the road to ease our frozen plight.
But though the salt may thaw the bitter ground,
The woods, and all their whispers, lingered round.
And as I drove, the silence grew and swelled,
The same as it had been, the same as it was held.

No grand event, no tearful words of thanks,
Just shadows in the woods, where darkness ranks,
And in the stillness, deep as any tomb,
We leave the road behind, its endless gloom.

-----------

I drove the road where no one else would go,
Through winter woods where cold and silence grow.
The trees stood bare, their branches stark and long,
As though the world had left them, cold and wrong.

Then, truck ahead, its black wheels ralling high,
The body half in snow, beneath the sky—
Pale frozen driver being trapped inside,
His breath like smoke, his hands unable to hide
The numbness creeping through his frozen veins,
A prisoner to winter’s icy chains.

I slowed and stepped into the biting air,
Where shadows of the branches filled the square
Of time we share, and none could say a word—
The quiet like a song that’s never heard.
He’d waited hours, alone, beneath the sky,
His fate uncertain as the night went by.

“We ain’t working today,” I said, and sighed,
While in the cold, the hours seemed to bide.
I opened cabin's door, a crack of light,
And helped him free, beneath the dull, gray night.

A salt truck came, its hum a steady sound,
But still the forest held its weight around.
The road, the truck, the driver all were gone,
Yet still the trees, the woods, the silence shone.

No words to say, no grand, heroic deed,
Just one small act to fill the quiet need.
And though the cold still clung to every breath,
The road ahead stretched out, a road to death,
Or life, or something in between. Who knows —
The woods will take what time and frost bestows.

-----------

I drove the road where no one else had gone,
Through woods that whispered of a time long passed,
Where frost hung like a memory, heavy, still—
A world forgotten, fading into glass.

Ahead, a truck lay stranded in the snow,
Its wheels raised high, a monument to loss,
The driver, pale, his breath a cloud of fear,
His frozen hands a testament to cost.

I stopped, my thoughts adrift in cold and time,
Where shadows seemed to gather, thick and wide.
The trees, as if they knew, bowed low, resigned,
Their branches tangled, searching for a guide.

"We’re not working today," I said aloud,
As if to say the world had shifted, changed,
That time, once moving, now had paused its course,
And now, I was the one to rearrange.

The echoes of our shadows circled near,
Spinning in dizzy dance that knows no end,
As urgent tasks dissolved into the air,
For one man's suffering, I chose to mend.

In stillness, where no ticking sound could play,
I held the weight of someone else’s plea.
The world could wait, the burdens be delayed,
For random mercy sets the spirit free.

The door I opened, though my hands did shake,
And helped him out, as though the day would break.
The salt truck came, its hum a distant song,
and woods stood still around us, deep and long.

No words of thanks, no praises to be heard,
Just silence thick, as if the air had stirred.
In that small act, a world of weight was lifted,
A breath of life, where all had once been shifted.

And though the road ahead seemed dark and cold,
The forest held its peace, unspoken, bold.
No grand event, no joyous tale to tell —
where stillness fell.

----------

I drove the road where no one else would be,
Through winter woods that dripped with cold and loss.
The trees were grey, their limbs as bare as bone,
As though the world had turned its back, and tossed.

Then, up ahead, a truck lay still, half caught,
Its wheels half-buried, trapped beneath the snow.
The driver sat inside, pale as the frost,
His breath a cloud, his hands too stiff to show.

I slowed and stepped out into biting air,
Where shadows of the branches reached and fell.
The quiet hung there thick, a heavy thing,
Like something waiting, waiting to be well.

He’d sat there hours, time too cold to count,
His fate a shadow stretching past the dusk.
I am here to help, I said, he heard, half dead,
While time, like snow, was caught in frozen husk.

I opened the door, I cracked it with my hands,
I helped him free, beneath the dull gray sky.
A truck came by, the salt spread thick and wide,
But still the woods stood silent, asking why.

Yet shadows murmured of a darker hour,
A tale of death, of breath returned by force.
A man, once buried, stepped into the light—
And from his rise, the quiet world took flight.

But in that moment, when the door was moved,
A gust like bitterness through silence proved
That power, once unleashed, will cleave the stone,
And those who tremble carve their fate alone.

The truck, its grip now shattered, loosed its hold,
We stand, entangled in a dream too cold.
The resurrection, like a fading cry,
Awaits the eyes that never seek the sky.

No cheers, no thanks, just silence, like a tomb,
The weight of time still heavy on the air.
And though we left, the forest kept its gloom,
A place of endings, still too much to bear.

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

The road pulled me in, as though it sought my name,
Through woods that whispered tales of things long gone,
Where branches reached like fingers, cold and tame,
And frost lay thick, the air so still, so drawn.

Ahead, a truck lay trapped beneath the sky,
Its wheels raised high, a monument to snow,
The driver pale, his breath a ghostly sigh,
A prisoner to the cold, nowhere to go.

I stopped, and time seemed frozen in its course,
The woods, the air, a silence too complete.
In that still moment, I felt fate’s strange force,
A path that turned, and now no task could cheat.

I opened the door, my hands too cold to feel,
And helped the driver out, as though the world would bend.
The salt truck hummed, its engine faint, unreal,
But still the woods held all, as if to end.

No thanks, no cheers, just something quiet, deep,
A weight that lingered where the silence grew,
And though I left, the naked woods still keep
The winding road, so black, so cold, so true.

I’m stupid, sick, and small,  
sitting on the street beneath a tree,  
drunk and frostbitten.  
A cop yells from his car at the intersection:  
“You can’t sit here!”  
My feet are freezing—  
I couldn’t buy felt boots—  
they don’t sell them at Costco.  

A crow swoops in, hops around,  
caws, vanishes,
no sound.

I’ve been on psilocybin and Adderall  
for two weeks straight.  
In my head, little Februaries light lanterns—  
bright, rainbow-colored stripes.  
I want to go back—  
to warmth, to Mommy—  
I want to press my lips to her *******,  
but she says she’s been dead for a while—  
last summer, I think—  
and anyway, I’m far too grown  
for that.  

To renounce the brain, the will,  
the oppressive self—  
from all that comes at the end,  
at the beginning.  

I enter the building, wary, cautious,  
climb to my floor,  
and as I jingle my keys at the door,  
the meaning of existence dawns:  
there are many women in my life—  
it’s complicated!  
What if I become one of them—  
big, **** *****—  
maybe things will get better?  
The main thing is—  

WHAT?  

How do you say it—  

the main thing is-  
to break free, to escape  
from myself,  
from the night,  
from the darkness.  

Anyway.  

Hi, people!
I'm corporate MC,
I’m Lucy!  
I’m smart, young, beautiful.  
After the New Year’s office parties ended,  
I became no one’s concern.  
Need drives me on—  
I don’t want to pay rent.  
I’d completely given up, but they revived me—  
I ran out of money back at February’s start,  
and there’s half a lifetime of struggling,  
dragging myself to March.  
But deep down, I’m a she-wolf!  
I have two sons—  
two angels, two handsome boys,  
two bloodsuckers.  
The younger one will strangle the older  
with a vacuum cord,  
then rise to consul, emperor,  
become the president of Ontario and all adjacent territories.  

I won’t die of grief.  
Not a chance.  

Whatever keeps the kid exited—  
so long as he doesn’t hang himself,  
doesn’t stir a trouble.  
Let him rule the world,  
its battles, its shames.  
Grant, Oh Lord, to each what they deserve and need—  
just let him rule,
and let this February finally yield  
to something
meaning
full.

In quiet woods, where gentle breezes play,  
And time drifts softly like the flowing stream,  
I ponder on the fleeting light of day,  
And cherish whispers of a tender dream.  

Though seasons change and shadows stretch their hands,  
Yet in the heart, a steadfast ember glows;  
For love, like ancient oaks on fertile lands,  
Endures the storm, and in its stillness grows.  

One day, beneath the arch of twilight skies,  
A wanderer shall seek what once was mine;  
And in that moment, when the spirit flies,  
The bonds of earth shall fade, and stars align.  

Then I shall rise, as nature’s breath returns,  
In every leaf, in every songbird’s call;  
For in the soul where deep affection burns,  
There lies a light that conquers even fall.  

“Rejoice!” it cries, “for love shall never cease;  
In memory’s embrace, we find our peace.”

When love has left its fleeting trace,
You toss the ****** in the waste,
Please, tie it tight with a steady hand,
And take it swiftly, to the land
Where refuse gathers, dark and deep,
Where secrets, like the trash, shall sleep.

I’ve seen the world in all its grime,
The bitter fate of love’s decline.
So hear me now, and mark this well:
Your blood and bone, do guard and quell.
Control what’s yours, don’t leave it loose,
Or face the folly of misuse.

Be sharp in small things, hold your ground,
Give nothing freely, nor by sound.
From kin, take flight — avoid the snare,
Trust no friend’s word, be shrewd, beware!
Keep every door locked firm and fast,
And guard your peace, and make it last.

Don’t let a chance of fatherhood
Catch up on you, misunderstood.
Stay clear of normal, keep your stride —
As if you're born where none abide,
A ghost, a shade, a waste, a lie,
And so you’ll live, and so you'll die.

Life, I don’t love you.
Like a scorpion crushed under the boot
of some drunk cowboy stumbling back
to his trailer after last call at the *****-tonk,
out behind my sorry-***, run-down rental
on the outskirts of Lubbock.

Like a rancher
with a backbone of solid steel,
no time for whinin’
about how hard life’s been—
“Poor me, can’t catch a break, y’all”—
and who never, not once,
sees a **** thing wrong
in the pitch-black of a moonless sky.
Whiskey? Sure, I’ll take a shot,
but pills or powders? Nah, never touched ’em,
and I still can’t figure out why.

I hate you,
like a trucker on I-10,
pushing through another sleepless haul,
with nothing but the hum of tires
and the glow of dashboard lights—
and if I stop, I’m *******,
contract broken, paycheck gone.

Like a programmer in some freaking startup,
wasting his life
on lines of code no one’ll ever read,
every comment a curse,
every bug a reminder
this whole **** app’s gonna crash and burn.

Like a plumber out in Waco,
dragged outta bed at 2 a.m.
by some rich guy with a mansion on the lake,
kneelin’ in some fancy bathroom,
elbow-deep in someone else’s crap,
trying to figure out
why the hell this gold-plated toilet won’t flush.

Frustrated and worn thin,
I’m sinkin’
in your endless void
of problems with no solutions.
I hate you
like the last flicker of a campfire
doused by the cold, unfeeling dark.

In the tomb, it reeked of rot, of mold, of cold—
a crypt where time gnawed silent, slow, and sure.
Through years of thirst and famine’s cruel hold,
my flesh dissolved, my bones lay bare and poor.

The glass turned black with filth, with creeping blight,
rust ate the chains—one snapped, its strength undone.
The dwarves, who forged them, never reckoned right
how time kills everything and everyone.

The cave breathed hush. Just water’s hollow chime,
drop after drop, on stones no light could warm.
There, at the threshold, steeped in grime and time,
a sleeper waited for the spell to swarm.

Then came the knight—a bride in steel, in flame—
her shadow pooled where no light dared to tread.
She knelt, her lips a breath away from mine,
her voice a spark to raise me from the dead:

Then kiss me, Snow White. Let the curse be cleft—
I’ll rise the third dawn, under Pilate’s hand,
or Charles’, or any other power left,
that rules this land.

A park of wonders, where I dropped a stinky trace,
I speak the truth, no f*ing joking here—
For as I walked, a sudden pain did race,
And struck my gut with sharp, unbidden fear.
Around me, passersby with hurried pace,
I count them, yet I seek a quiet spot,
A corner hidden well, with quiet grace,
And there, with scratch of branch, I find my lot.

A wondrous garden, sweet with fragrant air,
Where morning's light delights the soul within,
In shadows soft, I find my solace there,
Beside a rose, where nature does begin.
The crows do cry, the snails they crawl with might,
The dew upon the grass, a fleeting grace.
And fate, it seems, in moments calm and bright,
Reveals itself, unknowing in this place.

Within this lonely, tranquil, leafy land,
A figure stirs, an Uzbek in his dress,
A gardener of the streets, with broom in hand,
Distracts me with his talk, and I confess —
Through tangled brush, his steps a sudden breeze,
He speaks of nations, politics, and more,
As though, in paradise, his mind finds ease,
And shakes the peace of nature’s sacred floor.

So many here, diverse in every way,
From every corner of that old empire.
Greetings, my friend, though I must turn away,
For silence, now, is all I can desire.
The garden fades; the autumn winds do call.
No topic now remains for us to share,
Let’s end this moment, leave without a fall,
And part, with silence still between the air.

Once, we, too, were little worms.
At the dawn of evolution, we greeted the sun of a new day and basked in its rays.
We wriggled in muddy puddles, multiplied in number, and never thought about
where we were, how Mom was different from Dad, who our children were, why any of this existed,
or whether we could visit each other without an invitation.

That’s how we populated the planet.
The most voracious among us grew, gained weight, matured,
heard the Voice of God, and became humans—
that is, very big worms.
Now, we can’t make love without an invitation.
We don’t know why any of this exists.
We constantly think that Here is worse than There,
that Mom is better than Dad,
and that there’s a difference between one worm and another.

And so you crawled away from me to another worm with a better difference.
Now we’re in different puddles.
I am inconsolable and still don’t know why any of this exists.
I swallowed a chocolate candy and didn’t notice
that it was full of my voracious brothers and sisters.
Now, I hear the voice of my ancestors, the call of my true family:

"We love you—no matter who we are, no matter who you are.
We will never leave you or betray you because you are us.
You are not alone.
You are two.
You are many.
You are a muddy puddle basking in the rays of the spring sun,
evaporating into the blue sky."

Unfortunately this text did not survive local policy on obscene lexic.
If you still interested - you can read full version here - though not sure if local policy allows for external links.

https://proza.ru/2025/03/19/255

I understand general verbal concerns for public safety - but in some cases it looks like overkill. In the end - you can always have a dislike button  that shuts the piece away from any text search.

----------
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, ****’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 **** 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?
****.  

Wife’s a brick wall, ******’ 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,  
**** 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,  
******’s tight like fibre optic, built to last,  
High-speed bandwidth, safe as ****, fam,  
Nerves shot to ****, but I still got a plan,  
Mission one, top tier, no debate,  
Find a **** bird, but keep it digi, mate,  
Cloud server’s my turf, that’s the play,  
No real-world mess, just slay all day.  

Half-******, 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 **** life, no lie,
I’d jump your bones now—****, I’d try,
But chill—let’s vibe, spit some chat online,
French on your tongue? ****, 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 ****** me raw, tossed me ‘round the place,
Schooled me hard, threw me to the grind,
But you? Ain’t no basic *****, you’re kind,

Sweet as ****, seasoned, not stale,
****’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,
****** 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 ****—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 ******, bruv—hip’s toast, sugar’s ill,
Still kickin’, though, that cow’s got years,
Tech’s a *****, 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, **** that, I’m strippin’ birds in my mind, overjoyed,
Drop the call, scream in my skull instead—
“You bled me dry, you ****, ****** red!
Croak already, quit screwin’ my mind!”
I grab a rag, wax the floors, leave ‘em signed,
Hallway, bog, slick as ****, no slack,
So this Yankee ***** trips and cracks her back,
Broken hip? Love, you don’t even know,
I’m knackered to death of your limp-*** show,
Welcome home, *****—slip and eat the floor!

What the ****, 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 **** 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 ****, rugged as ****,
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 ****, 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 ****, Lebanese lad.

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

Our Scouse lads? They’re gone to ****,
Lost the plot, proper threw a fit,
****** 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 ****** and blast,
Who’s savin’ her **** from that grim fate?
Who’s the poor cow prayin’ on late?

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

Loyal as ****, 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-******* 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 **** 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 ******, 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 ****, 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,
**** 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,
***** on lock, bruv, poppin’ every one.

Want it raw? Step up—card digits, now,
Don’t stall, you ****, 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 *****,
Gold-standard ****, I’m everywhere, slick,
Ballybunion born, Tralee’s my tweak,
ISS glitch—drilled the hull, peak freak.
Flooded the game, ****** 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 ***** 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 ****,
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’, *******’, skivin’ on the sly,
Kirkby’s dodgiest, Her Maj’s wild guy,
Kneel, *******,
to Senior Intel Sarge Pritchard!

Bye!

I stared at the cinderblock wall, kudzu clawin’ up wild,  
A green chokehold sprawlin’ ‘cross this Tennessee hollow,  
Life flickers in me, a match struck on a humid night,  
But leukemia’s creepin’, a month to ***** my candle’s glow.  
Sixteen and I’m done, no worse than folks who linger here,  
The sun meltin’ over the Smokies, the sweetgum air—why ain’t it mine?  
I despise death’s slow drag, its damp, cold fingers on my neck,  
Not scared—just ******, a fire ragin’ in veins gone icy.  

A dream once slunk in, like a copperhead through the pines,  
Cross my warped floorboards, me froze, watchin’ it glide,  
No fangs, no strike, just sickness coilin’ in its hush,  
Woke me to the truth—my end’s stalkin’ these backroads quiet.  
Why me leavin’ while others grill burgers in the dusk?  
This land’s too pretty—cornfields gold, mockin’ my rot,  
I’d toss a Molotov at it all, this carefree Cumberland sprawl,  
If my arms had the grit to torch my **** fate.  

The world churns on, deaf to my hollerin’ from the porch,  
Beauty cuts deep—crickets chirpin’ a song I can’t keep.  
Everybody’s fightin’ to breathe, no soul less than me,  
But what’s it worth when death’s got my number dialed?  
I chuck my truth like a deer stand spear, unmissable,  
To God, to life, to folks cruisin’ Main Street clueless,  
At sixteen, dread’s my gospel, my rebel yell,  
A war cry howled, so this whole county might pay up.  

Life’s a gift for us about to get yanked away,  
We cling tight to what’s rippin’ loose in the wind,  
My ache, my envy for kids racin’ four-wheelers, unborn,  
No hate—just a love for livin’, sharp as a switchblade.  
Through cussin’ and jealousy’s hot sting, I thread a tune,  
A jagged love song hummin’ over the TVA hum,  
Reckon this truth, let your own gripes loose like hounds,  
I ain’t kneelin’ to anything . And I am proudly mad.

If God exists, why do the children fall,  
To cancer’s cruel and unforgiving hands?  
This world cannot be shaped by one who’d call  
Such misery "order"—none understands.  
The gods, if they exist, must stand too far—  
A distant shadow, cold, without command.  
The world He made, too harsh, too deeply scarred,  
And thus, if there is God, He’s misbegan.  
No child should perish for such hollow art,  
No god would craft this cruel and fractured heart.  

The suffering of the innocent is law,  
Not random chance, but woven in the thread.  
A plan unknown, a world in perfect flaw,  
Where pain and loss lie always just ahead.  
If pain must reign to teach the truth we seek,  
Then truth itself is cheaper than the cost.  
I will not bear such price, for I am weak—  
A world of sorrow leaves all things as lost.  
If peace is born from children’s endless tears,  
Then peace is but a lie, a mask of fears.  

What sense is in a world that builds on this?  
Where joy is stolen, suffering grows thick.  
Why seek a world where harmony’s amiss?  
Where death and grief are stitched in every brick.  
I want no peace that tastes of sorrow’s kiss,  
For love of life, I turn away from bliss.  
If God exists, why does He watch this plight?  
And if no answer comes, then how take flight?  

The laws of nature reign, they stand, they bind,  
For man to learn, to bear the weight of pain.  
If nature’s laws will leave the weak behind,  
Then suffering becomes their bitter gain.  
"I am the God," He says, "this world, my choice—  
No morals here—no comfort, no reprieve.  
Without the hurt, the soul would lose its voice,  
The heart would close, and men would cease to grieve."  
But how can man accept a world so flawed,  
Where pain is truth, and peace must be so raw?  

"A freedom born from suffering must stand,  
It’s marked by guilt, a weight we must believe.  
But without pain, no soul would take a hand,  
And peace would die, while men would never grieve.  
So go away, if you reject the pain,  
And leave me with my world, where I, your God, remain."

I stepped out — to buy some bread.
The rain, a silver needle, embroidering the diaphanous gauze of the atmosphere.
Thoughts, like feral hounds, prowled and dragged me
astray, to the wrong street.
And there —
the abyss.

No grocery here.
Only the void, yawning wide, insatiable, ravenous,
a Grand Canyon, misplaced in the geometric monotony
of concrete blocks — a scar on the skin of the ordinary.
Who sanctioned this?
Who gouged this chasm into the fabric of the mundane,
this rupture in the tapestry of the everyday?

We inhabit a world where everything
appears to matter —
blueprints, ideals, the ceaseless scramble for triumph,
the Sisyphean climb toward some illusory summit.
But time, that insidious thief, that silent eroder,
dissolves it all into the silt of oblivion.
What endures?
Laughter.

Laughter — not mirth, but a gasp,
a surrender to the absurd, a white flag waved
at the futility of it all.
It is the sound of a man
teetering on the precipice,
howling into the void
and hearing only his own echo reverberate,
a hollow chorus of his own insignificance.

But nothing matters only
when you are solitary,
when the world contracts to the size of your skull.
No wife, no child, no anniversaries to commemorate.
No one to observe, to decipher, to adore.
Laughter then is not liberation —
it is the wail of the forsaken,
the cry of a soul unmoored, adrift in the vast, indifferent sea.

Imagine the edge.
The abyss below, fathomless, voracious,
its maw gaping, hungry for meaning.
You can shriek, sob, summon aid —
but no one answers.
And so you laugh.
Not because it is droll,
but because it is the sole retort left to you,
the last weapon in your arsenal against the void.

If we cannot alter anything —
if the gears of fate grind on, indifferent to our pleas —
why even endeavor?

Insignificance is not a curse.
It is a peculiar emancipation,
a shedding of the weight of expectation.
Your blunders, your trepidations, your aspirations—
they are sandcastles, ephemeral and frail,
washed away by the tide of eternity.
Yet there is splendor in the act of construction,
in the fleeting defiance of entropy.

Even stone crumbles.
Even the most impregnable bastions succumb to time’s relentless siege.
Laughter cannot nourish the famished,
cannot solace the lovelorn.
It is a spark, evanescent,
a brief luminescence in the abyssal dark,
a fleeting exertion to convince yourself
that anguish and torment are illusory,
that the weight of existence is but a shadow on the wall.
And it is, perversely, amusing.

Each moment, like a wave, will rise and fall,  
Returning endlessly — a gift, a chain.  
Bound to eternity, we bear it all,  
As if it were our cross, our joy, our pain.  
This thought does chill my soul: each step we tread,  
Each word we utter, every breath we draw,  
Shall never fade; the weight of time is spread —  
A vast, unyielding debt that holds in awe.  
Are we alive, or merely counting days?  
Does purpose bloom, or wither in the haze?

This heavy burden drives me to despair,  
The wheel of time keeps turning without end.  
Yet in its shadow, life feels light and fair —  
A fleeting dance, a fire that will not bend.  
But is this lightness good? Is weight a curse?  
The heaviness, though crushing, makes us whole.  
It pins us to the earth, to flesh, to thirst—  
To love, to touch, to everything that stirs
the soul. A woman dreams of man’s true weight—  
For heaviness is life, not just our fate.

The lightness calls, a siren’s welcome song,
A fleeting joy that dances on the breeze.
It fills the heart with laughter, bright and strong,
A puzzle solved, a game that brings us ease.
For lightness lifts the spirit, breaks the chains,
And turns the world into a playful stage.
It mocks the weight of time, the heavy pains,
And offers life as joy, not as an age.
But lightness, though it sparkles, cannot last;
It fades too soon, a fleeting, fragile thing.
And heaviness, though burdensome and vast,
Reminds us of the roots from which we spring.

To shed all weight and rise with hope above —  
To drift above the earth, untethered, free —  
Is not true freedom; it’s a hollow love.  
The body, light as air, loses its plea.  
Its motions, though unbound, lack substance rare;  
It drifts from what is real, from what is true.  
The lightness, stripped of weight, becomes despair —  
A shadow of a life we never knew.

Thus life demands a balance, clear and tight:  
The heaviness that roots us to the ground,  
The lightness that allows the soul to take flight.  
In both - the pulse of being can be found.  
Eternal return whispers in our ear:  
Each act, each choice will ever reappear.  
If time should loop and life repeat its song,  
What would you change? What would you make more true?  
For in the weight of deeds, we find our place—  
The heaviness that shapes the life we do.

And you, my love — you are the weight I bear,  
The heaviness that bends my spine to earth.  
You are the lightness too, the fleeting air
I share, my endless hopeless search for worth.  
Though lost to me, you linger in the loop,  
A moment caught in time’s relentless grip.  
Your absence is the burden I must stoop;  
Your memory is the vessel of my script.

I long for you in every turning wave,  
In every echo of the life we knew.  
The heaviness of love and lightness brave—  
Both bind me to the earth and pull me through.  
If time should loop and life repeat its song,  
I’d seek you still in every note and tone.  
For you are both the weight and what is gone,  
The heaviness that roots me and the breeze  
That pulls me deeper into endless seas,  
Where life and death collide to be reborn.

In quiet shadow of autumn’s embrace,
She did appear — dark hair tied in a knot, her tendrils swayed,
A wraith in motion, light as fleeting grace,
She seemed to float, not walk, as if she played.
Her eyes, a tangled maze of sorrow’s hue,
Held mocking glint beneath their veiled disguise,
Whispering secrets, truths, untold, askew,
And all the mysteries that hid behind our lives.

I reckon rivers, cold with ancient song,
Where lights like scattered stars would softly fade,
The crunch of snow beneath our feet belonged
To winter’s kiss, its icy serenade.
But then, in autumn, our hearts aligned,
In silence where the leaves began to weep,
And in that space, where words were left behind,
We spoke of what the world could never keep.

Her home — a haven, tender, warm, and still,
Books lined the shelves, a silent, sacred trust,
While soft light flickered, casting shadows’ thrill,
And candles burned, as if in love or lust.
Her perfume lingered, blending with the air,
A fragrance like the hearth of ancient dreams,
And in her voice — a melody so rare,
Each word a whisper from forgotten streams.

We spoke of books, of lives we wished to weave,
Of promises the future held in thrall.
She said, “To live is to believe, to grieve,
But never lose yourself, not through it all.”
Her words, like keys to doors I’d never known,
Unlocked a chamber within me, soft yet vast,
And in that moment, all my fears were shown
To be illusions, fading with the past.

Then came the day the train stole you away,
The air was cold, a sharp and bitter knife,
And all the noise of engines tried to sway
The space between us—like the death of life.
Your eyes, so full of sorrow, tore at me,
A part of you I knew was slipping through,
And as the time consumed the world we’d see,
I knew I’d never be the same, like you.

You were not just a person in my world,
But something more—like sunlight through the dark,
A glow that through the years has still unfurled,
A sacred memory, its so attractive spark.
Though time has claimed its toll, and we have strayed,
The echoes of our love remain in me,
A testament to what we once portrayed,
A love that lives beyond the eyes we see.

The tale of every love, a pattern spun,
A dance of meeting, parting — never done.
Its own attractive spark, too plain to hide,
A law of worlds, both vast and unified.
Beneath the mask of what we claim our own,
A force persists, relentless, overgrown,
Erasing lines that once defined the heart,
Till memory and self are torn apart.

Through time, our recollections start to blur,
A stream of thought where edges faintly stir,
And in this flow, the self begins to fade,
Lost in the vast, unending cosmic shade.
No longer bound by lines of “you” or “me”,
We merge into the boundless, endless sea
Of nothingness, without night or light,
And lose ourselves, dissolving out of sight.

"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-******* 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 *****"—
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 *****.
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 ******* 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, ****,
Let’s burn this ******* 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 ****** while smoking ***.
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 ******* 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:
"**** Canada — get out, hey - you're dreaming!
Zurab’s cash will not move t'your ******* 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 ******* 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 ****.
(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 ****** —
Steve Harper crashed, that right-wing king of gloom,
Trudeau soared up, all snowboards, rights, and work
For climate, ****, and every woke-*** bloom.
The Right hoards cash till people’s patience frays,
Then Lefties swoop, with rights and *** 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 ******* 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 ****, 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 **** 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,
**** 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 ******* 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 **** 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 **** their pants,
I won’t pose as some sage or **** who stays
Above the brawl. No coward’s ****, 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 **** 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!

When evening falls and work is through,
The office hushes, silence grew,
I dim the lights, the glow retreats,
And slump into my chair’s defeat.

In twilight’s blur, I fix my gaze,
The doorway looms through vacant haze.
I strain to stall time’s steady creep,
To crack the drone of routine’s sweep.

To bear the ache that never shifts,
No break, no tide, no fleeting lifts.
Inside, outside — the same dull frame,
Life blurs to gray, a muted name.

A song, a prayer, or fleeting trance,
Not meant for peace or cosmic dance—
No gods, no calm, no vast design,
Just balm to hold this void divine.

For meaning frays when scenes stay still,
A stagnant pulse, a muted thrill.
A pause, a hush, a numb delay,
Where inner whispers fade away—

Or spill in senseless, drifting streams,
A fleeting death within these dreams.
Or brief immortal masquerade,
Where “one-one-one” drones on, unswayed.

A godlike perch, perhaps, to sit,
In endless loops, no spark, no split.
If joy is found where time suspends,
And leaves no mark, no arc, no ends—

Then here it lies, this hollow shell,
Where years entwine, and echoes dwell.
Forever trapped, or so it seems,
In this eternal, lifeless dream.

When you’re old, don’t you dare
show up to church in some frumpy headscarf,
don’t bow low, don’t beg, “Father, bless me.”
Walk in *******, head held high,
rocking a deep V-neck like a boss,
fists clenched tight,
no folding them in prayer.
Sing it loud and proud:
“Lord, cut me some slack,
forgive my ex-husband—or don’t, whatever—
and spare some love to the ones
who really need it.”

When you’re old, storm into that church like you own the place,
kick the door open like a badass.
No sighing, no “Oh my God” nonsense.
God’s got your back—you’re good.
Who’s that guy up there on the pulpit, droning on?
The real boss of this church is a woman—
even if she’s old as dirt, even if
she’s rolling in on wheels.

Enough with the suffering, the hand-wringing,
the moping and groveling—since when is that a woman’s job?
Too much time’s passed to even keep track
of whatever sins you’re supposed to regret.
What did I even do wrong?
And what was the point of it all anyway?
Will forgetting lead me to hell?
If your memory’s shot, just read from a note
you scribbled beforehand:
“Lord, who gives a **** who I slept with back in the day.
That’s just how it had to go.
*******.”

I, too, recall that bygone age so fair,
When love and bonds were free, not bound by rule.
Yet time has turned, and sifted through the air,
And brought about the world more strict and cool.

With sorrow, I observe my peers’ delay,
They cling to pasts that shaped their younger days.
Unseen, the tides have swept old ways away,
Yet still, they lean on what their youth conveys.

Now, pondering the shifts that waves have brought,
That rushed to shore, then pulled the sands to naught,
I search for meaning in this endless flow —
But grasp no sense in tides that come and go.

And yet, I think my grief has deeper roots:
As years weigh heavy, strength begins to fade.
The fire to break the rules, once bold, now mute —
For bonds, of any kind, I’ve lost the blade.