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This is the easy time, there is nothing doing.
I have whirled the midwife's extractor,
I have my honey,
Six jars of it,
Six cat's eyes in the wine cellar,

Wintering in a dark without window
At the heart of the house
Next to the last tenant's rancid jam
and the bottles of empty glitters ----
Sir So-and-so's gin.

This is the room I have never been in
This is the room I could never breathe in.
The black bunched in there like a bat,
No light
But the torch and its faint

Chinese yellow on appalling objects ----
Black asininity. Decay.
Possession.
It is they who own me.
Neither cruel nor indifferent,

Only ignorant.
This is the time of hanging on for the bees--the bees
So slow I hardly know them,
Filing like soldiers
To the syrup tin

To make up for the honey I've taken.
Tate and Lyle keeps them going,
The refined snow.
It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers.
They take it. The cold sets in.

Now they ball in a mass,
Black
Mind against all that white.
The smile of the snow is white.
It spreads itself out, a mile-long body of Meissen,

Into which, on warm days,
They can only carry their dead.
The bees are all women,
Maids and the long royal lady.
They have got rid of the men,

The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors.
Winter is for women ----
The woman, still at her knitting,
At the cradle of Spanis walnut,
Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.

Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas
Succeed in banking their fires
To enter another year?
What will they taste of, the Christmas roses?
The bees are flying. They taste the spring.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
we can say without inhibitions: the english novel, the russian novel, the french novel... akin to the german thought, the polish thought; we really can't say: the english thought, the russian, the french thought... we can only say the german thought, the polish thought... i'm already frolicking in censorship... but that's how it is: the english / russian / french novel v. the german thought the anti-novel; perhaps even music.

they allowed trans-gender,
but **** me bubbly bumblebee
they will not allow
trans-profession anti-gender
stereotype, they'll keep on
feeding me humanism
by those educated in english literature
and not those educated in
physics or etc. boors and crass
willing to suddenly experience
a need for change... educating people
to write books... i'd stick
to educating people to write
journalistic columns, the times of
Tolstoy are dead, no one has the time
for blah blah poetic technique blah blah;
why?
we're missing the bored girls at leisure
in salons,
instead over-sexed girls in lim
ousines
(anti-dyslexia: spelling a grapheme e.g. æ
is like watching multiples of
donkey and carrot arrangements
distributed via images of photo-sensitivity /
phonetic-sensitivity, like
admiring the excesses of *******
and censoring the words f
*k).
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
Hello Poetry


Yearned.
Ached.
For so long, for a community,
That values the ineffable wonder
Of a wordsmith's creations, intended to
Repair himself and the world with bullets of
Verses.

And here you are.

Like/Dislike, matters not,
So long as we value each others work,
And the the heart echoes within
What the eyes read and the mouth whispers.

The array and disparity of your names,
A delight,
Each name a poem
In its own right.

So I resubmit a question for your consideration,
The answer is now known,
The answer is all of us.
May 2013
---------------------------------------------------------


­Who's Who In Poetry  



T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers, tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.

Each a troop,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.

All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to rabbled boors,
imagination suppressors!

World:

cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.

Poets!

Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.

With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!

For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.

When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and becomes one who was,
yet is,
because of you,
in poetry.
---------------
Postscript (1/25/17)

Even more true today, than four years ago.
Thank You.
a revised, minor modestly different, version was published in Feb 2016 as
Orphans and Poets, Peddlers & Members https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1564122/orphans-and-poets-peddlers-members/


and then finally another different variant, more personal was published in
Aug 2016 as
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1734088/the-harpooner-of-the-unexamined-life


the harpooner of the unexamined life

"Be the harpooner of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody, comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders into crinkly eye-lined smilers."

writ many years past, just another dusted off phrasing,
composed from life's lecture notes, collected by eyes tired
from the hazing,
eyes wearied by the addict-strong,
incessant observational needing,
of celebrating the loopy,
they who make this planet
capable of laughing at itself,
a helping habit for mutual survival...

should you spot a man ungainly wrought,
weighted down by a harpoon cross
cursed  'pon his Cain-marked back,
you need not move to the other side,
'tis only a make-believe poet,
with his recording device,
seizing your rhapsodies to rhyme,
his collected artifacts, your crinkly smiles,
his meat, his metier, his chosen career,
a comfort caresser of your illusions into
a shapely sculpture of words for you to keep,
a token of your now examined worth,
a celebration for the keeping...
___________-

special thanks to those who rediscovered these poems recently and brought them back to me for refreshing cherishing these old word friends.
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2016
T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers,
these tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.

Each a troop,
in the army of orphans,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.

All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to the rabbled boors,
the imagination suppressors!

World:

cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.

Poets!

Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.

With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!

For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.

When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
taste his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
becoming one who was, yet still is,
because of you,

because of poetry.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2022
now that i'm relistening to this track, i remember the sole reason why i worked that dead-end night club job: to earn enough money to buy myself a mandolin... which i did: i entrusted myself to earn the money than to pocket the money out of my student loan... never mind picking up ****-filled bottles from the bathroom: being sexually assaulted by some ****** who thought that long hair was something akin to women and not to old-school metal-heads: which i was back then... you know: getting groped by the *** by some man who later thrusts himself at you while you're picking up ****-filled bottles of beer... oh sure: with retrospect he would have said fellow to my forehead... how times change... well yeah, i worked that job to buy myself a mandolin... which i did... for the sole purpose of learning the mandolin part of Rod Stewart's Maggie May... which i learned and played it for Fiona beneath her kitchen window in the student flats... she giggles blah blah... but... Maggie May soon turned into that other favorite song of mine: And One... Military Fashion Show... perhaps the music is sort of Disco Polo... but the lyrics?

cutest girl behind my door
everybody's hiding in love from war
the beauty broke down their chains somehow
who's gonna living on my body now?

a growing pain within my pop divine
will I ever regret the line?
switching on the light
i will not reassign
girlfriend's girlfriends never could be mine

drop her white pants wide open warm
now she's slipping on her uniform
and every second would become so mis-defined
girlfriend's girlfriends never could be mine

nope, i never had any luck with women, maybe i should have picked up gambling: but then again i don't like testing luck when it comes to being lucky with bus times... i like waiting for a bus for a minute... but with women, i sometimes observe my parents and then realise: ah... that's why i'm not married... makes perfect sense... the idea is lovely: i can never get over the idea of loving a woman, but then i realise a woman also has an idea what it implies to love, hardly a man, hardly a semi-automated thing, something that's offensively useful, from time to time activated but altogether sterile... hell: if it didn't take me playing the mandolin to a girl outside her window: Romeo is ****** as hell... Romeo is gone gone gone... the only luck i've ever had with women were with prostitutes, that realm of evidence where the transactional is up-front... there's no looping of paying for meals for cinema for celebratory self-congratulatory pieces of doodle / jewelry... there's just the up-front "rent" of a body... job done... let's get other aspects of "plumbing" worked on... i'm not even bitter... i'm just sort of: on a snooze button mentality, sort of sleepy... sort of disappointed... that? the men who wrote about love from the 19th century are antiques in the 21st century: not even 19th century folk: antique: pre-historic mentalities of the current zeitgeist of insomnia and over-burdening libido being frozen in a frenzy of self-doubts and self-appeasement of pleasures not met... by the other... i just feel disappointed by having invested so much time in Stendhal in Kundera... seems rather pointless...


i finally picked up my Trek mountain bicycle today
from the repair shop...
i came in talked all giggly and bubbly with
the owners... ah... Hemmingway got it spot on
in that novella of his of short stories:
men without women...
play cards, drink, tell terrible jokes...
make loads of oaths sparingly beginning
with the letter F...
i was told £75... but the guy comes to me and says:
the cassette has been worn down?
your advice? what's to be improved, how will
this affect my cycling?
blah blah this blah blah that... o.k. i know you're
trying to milk me... milk me but don't waste my time...
if it needs changing just tell me...
'oh, but we don't have the parts'...
o.k. ask your supervisor blah blah blah...
he comes back to me and says: oh he have the parts:
SUDDENLY... no no... not suddenly:
the customer, i.e. i... am willing to pay...
how much and how long?
£35... 15 minutes... great! do it! i'll go for a coffee:
which was a lie... i went for a pint
of Guinness and sat by myself like
some ******* portrait of an absinthe drinker
by Degas... they should do one of a Guinness drinker...
a person who sits alone and drinks a pint
of Guinness watching a table of about 5 men
and 1 ****-ugly woman drinking merrily enjoying
each other's company...
with the solo drinker lighting up a cigarette
and lighting up a smile on his face thinking:
oh thank **** i'm alone...
i used to drink with "friends": with people...
i soon realised... they're as much things as much as
i am a thing: sure... dehumanizing...
but so much of philosophy and of medicine
is infuriatingly dehumanizing in achieving
the pinnacle of objective-reason, no?
tell me, am i wrong?
            
i can tell you my favorite quote of mine:
i don't hate people... i just hate things...
it's not my problem that some people behave like
things rather than as people...
reality simply states: some people, simply have not
depth to them, or around them,
they are worse than thespians and thespians
are the worst: since thespians are the most eloquent
of thieves... they steal people's shadows...
they steal other people's soul... essence...
i hate actors with the same passion i abhor
the sceptics... add that to my list:
given these two strands of being and thinking
are the most popular in the current zeitgeist...

so i drank my pint of Guinness and walked back
to the cycling repair shop... picked up my Trek...
listen: i've been cycling for the past year solely on my Viking
road bicycle... neat handlebars...
i used about 4 maybe 5 gears to climb
elevations... or cycle harder: faster...
but neat handlebars... trim... a sense of a tuxedo smart...
neat: for moving between traffic... like all road bicycles...
he gives me my old Trek mountain bicycle back...
**** me!
i was riding a Lamborghini for a year...
now? i'm given a ******* SUV... Royals Royce!
my god... it's a Behemoth!
the handlebars are wide... the brakes? so easily accessible!
**** me for ****'s  sake...
too many gears... i must have been trigger-happy
when it came to gears... must have changed them
about 30 times... three gears by the peddles
and 7 at the rear... wheels... don't get me started on those...
with a road bicycle you have a width of about 23cm...
these ******* where thrice if not more at that...
so wide that they made a sound akin to
me thinking: where's the train? they made this weird
sound i couldn't possibly express with letters
to combat an imaginary words...
the closest approximate is a SHOOM / WHIZZ....
what does a thick rubber tyre make on
a pavement, rotating, that's not insulated
by a frame of a car? what?! exactly...
then add the elevation of the wind...
i simply can't write an onomatopoeia for that sound...
it's not as easy as meow or woof... or bark...
or howl... or coo... or the crackling grr of crow...
gurgling of a crow...
impossible...

tyres one aspect handlebars another...
hands out-stretched... which means? too much
availability of a manoeuvre...
that's what happens when the handlebars
are less restrictive... wide...
you have too much manoeuvrability potential...
you're like that guy inside a London black cab...
you can practically do a 180-turn...
become a dog chasing its own tail...
i used to love mountain bicycles... now?
i ******* hate them... i don't know why i spent
£500 on this piece of junk...
unless... i try it out on some dirt road...
fair enough then... but compared to a road bicycle...
a... kolarzówka... (road bicycle in ******)
no... not going to happen...
i though i was going to be happy to own two bicycles
and change from one to the other...
it's such a beast to ride... sure... it's aesthetically
pleasing to look at... even when school was out
and the boys were coming out of school:
one spontaneously announced thinking-aloud:
that's a nice bike...
yeah... nice to look at... yeah... sure thing mate...
great to look at... but a ***** to ride it...
compared to...                              exhibit (a)
a cheap £125 road bicycle with the right sort of
handlebars... mountain bicycle handlebars are
all wrong too wide...
you just can't handle such a beast on a long stretch
of road... you require something more
gravity driven / prone...
at least with a road bicycle you get to steer
with slight details of force going towards
the intended direction...
i think you must learn on a mountain bicycle...
to then explore the road bicycle...
but let me tell you... one you have mastered
the road bicycle... going back to a mountain bicycle
make-up it like going from Einstein to ******...
i was becoming queasy with too much maneuverability
in my hands and not centered in / with
my entire body and bicycle attached...
i know i'll think differently when i take
this beast into its proper environment...
i know that's what will happen...
but mountain bicycles don't belong in traffic...

aha... right... i almost forgot... just before i picked up
the beast from the repair shop...
i has in the supermarket picking up a bottle of cider
to keep up my stamina of: not bored...
no no... i'm not bored...  

onomatopoeias... i'm sure as a supervisor i told
some of the stewards that i'm only doing this job
for good reference: for references that might me
apply for a job as a chemistry teacher:
since familial ties of references will not allow you
to apply for the position...
last shift at Wembley some pink haired freak
of a beached whale of a male started to mouth-me-off
about jumping the queue...
i retorted like for like: you ******* see a queue
in front of me? i'm standing in the same *******
place! you ******* fearful of being called
a racist: you silly little thing of an anti-racist?!
you ******* HOG of what could have been
a woman... you afraid of insulating the Somalis?!
we know that they're like... that's how African
queues work... people jump the queue...
they huddle... Africans are not a Mongolian horde:
they're huddling people...
they stress themselves by the numbers
they're allowed / are given...
all the Europeans follows some details of
the aesthetic of queuing... the Africans?
**** me... they just inverted the bottle-neck...
if bottles were to be invented in Africa...
they wouldn't have a neck: they'd have an entire
******* torso... and be slim at the base...
that's how Africans behave ergo: think...
that's not racist: that's a ******* anthropologist tactic....
on the last shift this one Indian looking chap
said the following lines:

'don't think me of being racist...
but what do you think of these blacks?'

ha ha... one curiosity after another...
  i love mingling with people: you never know what
you're (n)ever going to get!
i'm working with this one "creature" who's super
clingy to me... adamant that he's anti-racist...
but... oops... slip... he's actually homophobic...
just because Brighton has a "reputation"...
but a staunch anti-racist.... yet a homophobe....
me? i hate *******...
esp. if you're collecting glasses in a night club
and you're getting groped by... some ******...
come on: a man with long hair is no excuse to
fiddle with my *** while i'm picking up bottles
filled with ****... ******* ******!

about blacks? well... what do i care if i already stereotyped
the Somalis as useless idiots... not even useful idiots
of Communist propaganda...
they're like the Irish... you simply psychoanalyse them...
they're so detached from reality that
they might as well be called Moonpeople...
Somalia best be called Moonland...
no, seriously: not as a racist (although i'd love to be one)
but as an anthropologist (these days?
an ethic apologist, if?!)
they are just that... devoid of reality sort of,
sort of... sort of... a sort of "people"...
a sort of "reality" is attached to them...

never mind that... i was in the supermarket buying a bottle
of cider... a woman with two young girls was making
her shopping... some BLEEP emerged from
the cashier's desk... some... BLEEP some BOOP...
hmm... we're talking primary school aged children...
children... completely un-fuckable... although as loveable
as dogs... perhaps even more:
since? you can't exactly mould a dog...
you can't mould a little Frankenstein of your own
with a dog... a dog is kept ontologically within
the archetypical exactness of what a dog is supposed
to be: what a dog is...
but man? oh... that's a completely different barrel of
laughs!
i stood behind the trio... and listened...

onomatopoeias... once those infernal instruments
made those sounds... the two girls mimicked...
imitated the sounds ...
i would be a terrible father... or perhaps the best...
i like the cognitive-focus on the negative:
maybe that's why i adore the cynics...
i adore the cynics and abhor the sceptics...
i like negative-thinking...
i once assured myself that negative-thinking
attracts... positive-being...
magnets... blah blah...

with i have on my heart's "conscience":
something so innocent... the cure's: a short term effect
from the album *******...
no... woman! no!
that trio of curiosity...
i was going to do an in-depth Kantian analogy
of the origins of the onomotopoeia...
it just so happened that i was walking behind them...
i'm pretty good at lip-readings...
too much exposure to headphones...
NEUROTIC BEASTS OF **** UN-******...
the ugliest women imaginable:
busy-body women.... UGLY *****...
MOTH-FRENZY-MOTH-*****....
i'm good at lip-reading...
oh look... a ******* is the area...

no... is just so happened that the trio bough
more goods that me at the store...
silly ******* agony aunt!
no! i was just going to ask
the two girls...that you spoke an onomatopoeia
without knowledge of what an onomatopoeia
actually is!
an onomatopoeia in the mouth of a child
is not actually a word...
it can't be... there's no rigid Apollonian "humour"...
when a child imitates a sound made by a
machine...
it doesn't imitate the sound with an allocation
of ascribing letters to them...
i could be the best father:
and perhaps the worst...
    i'd become too curios... i'd become a naturally
born scientist...
the mother? just ignored them...
but this **** of a THINFG threw empty accusations
into the air as if it were breathing...

i learned one valuable lesson on my own...
there are people... and there are THINGS...
me, what?
you ******* THING! remain INANIMATE!
sure... move... but remain without character!
did these girls have knowledge
of the "onomatopoeia" of an ONOPATOEIA?
too many ******* vowels..

that's Greek for you...
i'm a what? it just so happened that it's suburbia
and i'm walking behind a giddy trio....
i'm suddenly, what?! HIDE! HIDE... you neurotic *****!
you soothsayer you Satan's last **** available!
you mediocre human being!

how would they know... they're already exploring
onomatopoeias without knowledge of onomatopoeias ...
these creatures mimic... in fact: an onomatopoeia
is something that's to be exacted by being written...
these children... they are yet aware of letters...
letters beside nouns... nouns beside the concepts
of verbs pronouns and the like...

first i'll ask politely... secondly i'll ask less politely:
thirdly: don't tread on me..
fourthly: enough is enough...
but that's how life happens...
you exit the mind-set of... it's not jurisprudence...
etymological hell-havoc...
              ah! pedagogy!
and then the reality of all that's around you...

neurotic old women who think you're: an project
you're a predator;... ******* ****-less *****!
i just wanted to hear what her onomatopoeia went to...
you objectionable UGLY CUT of ****!
she was uttering her first onomatopoeia without
a rubric of letters! as a man who's not going
to be a father: i thought that rather: inquisitive...
i know you women are ******* boors and boredoms...
the more you age the uglier you become
in spirit: let alone in physical appearances...
******* hyenas start looking pretty are a while
once you peak!
no! that's the point! i'm being serious!

it only takes one false accusation: lip-read to demand
a crazy momentum of reaction...
oh no no... it's not going to stop!
best ***** assured this ******* momentum
is not going to stop! now i'm grizzly bear tooth worn
on smiling...

now... i have encountered men who encounter violence
of man against man...
i have yet to encounter men who encounter violence
of woman against man...
let's just say... it's more complicated...
i love children... some women love themselves
to the point of willingly perform... what's that name?
oh.... right... has he risen too?
the deity that's Moloch... the deity of infanticide?!
has he? so... i'm not alone...
there must be more of me...
gents! we're being redeemed!  we're going back
to a singing status of existence in the ***** of our
dearest "Abraham" of Ha-Shem!
let's put on a proper, decent, show!

then again... i might: i just might be...
a solo trick-of-treat... bellowing into the depths of well...
after all... as i looked at the whole affair from
the antithesis of Darwinism...
the strong and the smart don't really reproduce:
en masse...
the idiots do...
mammals like insects...
the ill-fated reproduce: that's why they bemoan
their fate of being ill-stocked in genes...
smart people are exploratory...
i'm exploratory...
i'm not saying i'm smart but i'm certainly not dumb enough
to have children in order for them to suffer
unnecessarily... for a per se reason
that's somehow supposed to be self-explanatory:
without... an accountable self!

there's no chance in hell these two girls imitated those
sounds in the supermarket with...
a knowledge of an onomatopoeia!
no chance! speak to me an "onomatopoeia":
onomatopeia!

     ono-m'ah-t'oh-p'-ah!

   they wouldn't even catch the vowel catches of Hs
in the plural sense without the apostrophe...
no...

write me a poem using linguistic notations:
i.e. onomatopoeia: knock knock: woof woof: .
details of some book... frankly? no book...
journalism rules...
/ˌɒnə(ʊ)matəˈpiːə/
   /nɒk,nɒk/
        /wʊf/ /wʊf/:
      /ˈdiːteɪl/ some
/sʌm,s(ə)m/
                       /bʊk/
  
yeah: that's what i like... linguistic graduates...
graffitti artists with a TAG..
children and onomatopoeias...
you want to play more and more games?
aren't we living in the most circus prone times?!

hey! in current environment of events:
hello herr besondere!
drop qords not bombs!

= +- / ha;f and half...
CK Baker Feb 2017
They fought like crackers
for the coveted prize
from the green bud banter
to the Sunday guise
whipped in a frenzy
by the Callaway score
torn asunder
at the elfin door

The hoodwinked watchman
holding council at post
stung by the folly
of the second floor host
a wild card shuffle
from numskulls and fools
high on their trade
and obstinate rules

Trenchant voices
remarkable cures
Billy’s brigade
and gob smacking boors
wreaking havoc
(in a flatulent way!)
staunch and bitter
and riled foul play

Scissor tailed catcher
and one eyed crow
trolls and packers
unfortunate woes
Lloyd’s forgiveness
and scowls at the chart
***** of fury
from a shot gun start

Gadfly’s and gripers
are unorthodox
the nineteenth hole
for **** in a box
tribunals and judges
a cold reverie
another year of the M.O.D.
ogdiddynash Aug 2014
who will read aloud
my poems
when I'm gone?

that old unfriended thot,
a nagging merry query
was for awhile forgot,
put on the back of an upper shelf,
where dust motes and mites
fear to trend

thoughts,
that I thought
I had dispensed with,
letting time
build illusionary wry walls,
fooling World Trade Center tall

morose forlorn,
pensiveness of
red ant armies,
incapable of
black marker redaction,
there is always one
a lingering malingerer
a sole fado singer,
playing woeful jazz in
the Quarter
on an empty emoty street,
dressed and guised
as the soul of a solitary
cancerous cell
"survivor"

cur overlooked,
biding time,
the surgeons gone,
the drugs flushed,
radiation burning
no more

begins then
the unholy
trilogy cycle

worn out, overused...
invasive categorically relentless
maybes,
what ifs,
then
oh goddamnnotagain

because believed, on knee,
I oathed that
loathed, raven nevermore,
ought
that
cracked door would be open

yet like the
New Orleans levee aged locks
hurricane succumbed
overflowed, overcome,
keyholed, infiltrated,
falllen to the enemy,
mes enfilade,
rumps up the black flag of
surrender

brain sneers
periodically,
like every other
minute, ok,
second,
coyly asking
penny for your
worthless thoughts?

just when you believed
"no mas"
was a prayer that had been heard,
teeth kicked in,
body snatching
hordes and boors
bad boys and ******,
sitting high in the
saddle again,
grinning torturous
tarty smiles
at who,
at you, fool!

you're as alone in that place
as insufficiently as that
impoverished overused
word can ere convey

the nagging realization
that when asking

no one answers

when your thinkings
perish you
your cutesy sweatshirt reads
last standing poet alive,
stabbed ded by awful-truths,
you failed and
all the black cats,
have fled the neighborhood,
just when need was greatest

who will read aloud
my poems when I'm gone,
has been silently answered

by silent applause,
the last theater goer
shuffles out, and turns
and extends his *******
his review leaves a
singular impression,
he looks familiar,
gauntly ghost,
he has accompanied me always
and his finger is his
triumphal parting shot
MEERA SURESH Aug 2020
I stand just beside you
unseen in your frame
How much ever I try anew
People identify me with your name.

We both have the same talent
but I'm ranked with the boors.
You are a famous gallant
As victory is always yours

We are still together
Smile, laugh and enjoy
But Deep inside I wither
Like Achilles in the war of troy
I STRUGGLE TO GET SUCCESS,NAME AND FAME BUT HE GETS IT WITHOUT ANY STRUGGLE.EVEN WHEN PEOPLE TRY TO INTRODUCE ME,THEY NAME AS HIS
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
how strange to read some of the last chances, or commiserations
without a death, the moment a woman or man begins to divide,
so many encouragements arise from nowhere, hence the theatre of
theoretical manoeuvring, way beyond the concept of narrator,
the death of narration is the birth of psychology,
they say, and it must be, treading into this forest of thought without
a compass will soon leave you disorientated, let alone keeping
a narrative continuum - once the narrator dies,
once the narrator dies in you, you either see a psychologist
or begin to write poetry, poetry, the entire cast of Chekov's
the seagull chipping in for the pauper, once famous for
chopping wood or digging for coal on the page
with such flamboyance as to reveal the true spectacle
of the Royal fireworks on the Thames provided
for by Charles II and accompanied by Handel's
composition - everyone is chipping in into
the narrator's porcelain cup - from irina nikolayevna,
through ilya afanasyevich and the personae quasi gratae
like the watchman, the cook... only Yakov having
acquired a name, the rest, mechanised extension
of the salon boors - where real existential debate takes
place due to the serious concerns of the universe
and our place in it. they like Yakov because he was hired,
and could clearly move on elsewhere, a traveller,
not the permanent occupant of the daily dealings of
the estate; but indeed it's not about that -
after they split up she started dreading having his
name tattooed on her, she felt a burning sensation to
burn the ink off her skin - to my surprise she tattooed
his name onto her skin rather than having tattooed
his entirety onto a piece of paper - a poem can be scrapped,
can be cherished or anything, 'write a poem prior to
the tattoo' someone should have said - but the tattoo
came first, and the poem came second - other allegiances
are passed down in ink, as i have never understood
the mentality of tears at a sporting event, notably football,
the tears of your forefathers, elsewhere reasoning gives
crowd like anonymity, soloist sports, cool headed -
no religious-like attachment - first the poem, then the tattoo.
poetry is just another word for juxtaposition -
but what are the two things necessary to contrast?
well... here's one half decent example, of all written text,
an E.U. cucumber,
                                     (a) is it reasonably shaped?
(b) is it practically straight?
                                                       ­ if it isn't coinciding with
points (a) and (b) being satisfactorily met, then this
cucumber is a culprit, being a non-compliant member
of the fruit & veg stand, according to the E.E.C.
1677 / 88
regulation, meaning it can't be a class 1 cucumber,
but a boomerang.                                       and you wonder,
with all those great movies concerning heroism,
the sacrifice to create democracy where tyranny strikes,
to overthrow absolute sovereign power,
all those wars, and all we get in the end, is a vote,
made quiet clearly ineffective because of the by-product
of democracy: bureaucracy - as every it can be said:
an over-simplified observation,
                                                        well, championing the idea
of democracy where the majority of people were
illiterate still, apparently, resonates in how people vote,
make your mark
                                                           ­      X               so you see,
a man made literate when once he would be illiterate
seems offensive to still pretend like i am illiterate -
but what a strange illiteracy this is, i still vote like the first
people voted, instead of ably signing my name,
i am told to write X... which is why, subconsciously,
people seem to be put off voting - it's such a symbolic
event in the mind - i vote by singing my approval with
an X... the little things matter in the end -
no one dying for an ideal could have envisioned
the bureaucratic escapade of counting where the wind
blows in what favourable choice of opinion at the time,
in post-Marxist terminology, we're no longer dealing
with the bourgeoisie types, we're dealing with the bureaucratic
type - there are so many laws on this earth, that few
are known and even fewer are kept -
i know the ten commandments are a joke, given the outdated
phrasing, but aren't the modern laws even more of a joke?
why, i can count to 10... counting to how many there
are is quiet staggering - you might have broken about
a thousand without knowing you had, like eating a
curved cucumber... but then, are picked cucumbers always
bent? i've never seen a straight pickle, i mean theoretically
that's breaking the law - the war of the sexes is what
gave us this ******* - this wasn't a war for Crimea,
not so much a war for independence, once those classical
wars ended, the war of the sexes began -
if Marx was alive, he'd be far from writing a critique of
the bourgeoisie class, after all, urbanity killed off
the etymological root of bourgeoisie - old french, walled
city - given that, or should i say, working from that,
no, if Marx were alive today, it would be the bureaucrat
who'd be attacked.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
philosophy: and yes, we all believed in the insane asylum in the first place... at least the theists are suicidal... the atheists are hanging-on, mundane boors... listening to atheists is like listening to someone trying to erradicate the thesaurus... like someone trying to sharpen a staff... atheism is case of: stoppage of synonyms... because no philosophy book i've read invokes grammatical words, i.e. nouns, verbs... no argument in this direction is cool... the *** knows Tai Chi... i'm just waiting for a ******* to say it's Chinese!*

and beyond the counter to worship,
the atheistic argument
is bound to a lot of talk and thought...
when atheism does do much away with
prayer...
then secularism does...
let's just say: acknowledge the idiot...
   either pray... or think or talk
    and subsequently acknowledge
that sort of ultimatum...
       i can't agree on either pathos...
                    pray... or talk...
find enough Goebbels, and you'll
find enough like-minded manifestos
  of Englishmen...
                   and esp. Jews attired as
such... cos you weren't gangraped enough.
if you were a friend of a friend... and a friend that
said: biology... via the pharaoh's gambit...
                    you still wouldn't
consecrate their friendship over a steak,
but you would.
atheists don't have an argument,
they still abide to arguing his existence,
by thinking about him, or talking about him,
prayer seems the most lazy escapism
to the caged compensated comparison,
given we're all caged...
and escapist... and bound to escapism...
   you construct the pyramids!
you do!
    a bunch of quasi intellectuals!
    plainly stated: brick on brick!
you lay it down: down to: a word on word!

  i can have an argument...
   but i can't be even bothered to keep it...
  it just gets boring after a while,
and given that i'm not keeping the argument
for a way to shove food down my mouth...
      i just think atheism exists because
we have transcended so many natural obstacles...
personally? i'd rather hear a tsunami quake
than hear an atheist talk...
          and that's because so few of us will have
the actual argument in this stratosphere...
since most of us will probably rather the thrill
of a tornado... than a **** on our daily commute...
  even the Frankenstein monster will be more
attractive in experience than the roudabout of an atheist...
       women are least likely to champion atheism...
might be a quest for feeling...
                 with all the pathology...
                 rather than that other quest for feeling:
apathy...
  and that's really, truly, manly.
can we simply prescribe one label: i think?
   no... evidently we need many more labels.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2017
Platitudinous, pusillanimous,
Pulchritudinous, posterior
Poseur, postulating pus bag
Posing as plenipotentatious
President POTUS, posturesome
Proudly putting paws on *******
Publicly preposterous woosie
Pretending propriety: a putz.

Eternal egregious eccentricity,
Endless empathy-less publicity,
Effectively inbalming ethnicity
Eviscerates any essential nobility
Excluding even existential energies
Of expectations of excellence
Instead enacting evolution-free
Economical inimical extortion.

Hourly horror holler hate,
Both houses holding hotheads
And hundreds of houris
Honoring honor-free hopes
Hesitation-free horrible haste
Hosing hope and helpmeets
Who have inherited helplessness
From heartless halfwit hoydens.

Boisterous ***** and boors
Beat beauty and belief badly
But beg and bawl for bounty
Bathing in bastardy and blood
But beyond bowing to betters
Banquets and bowers of berks
Badly bent beyond blessing,
They’re best boxed for burying.
Aduain Feb 2020
FHC
Take Hope, sweet charity,
The future is yours,
As a system fails.
Imputed, incessant boors
will serve the secure,
In halls of failure,
for a presuming crowd.

Have Faith, sweet charity,
The past has revealed,
Leaving wrongs unchecked,
Will result in steel
witches, untested
In skills vital,
To help destitute survive.

Charity, and Hope,
Rely on the Faith,
Of the populace.
Over the greed of the few,
within adorned palaces
of inherited right,
to make reparation.
Walter Daniel Oct 2020
preserved breviaries Catholic, properly categorised
plenty of answers many questions added to, juxtaposition
of many images, a precise definition
of antagonisation, sycophantic normal positions despised
totally, military misers accused of ensnarement orderly memorialised
properties properly improved, revealed superstition
and suspicion, doubtfully splendid spirited perdition
distinguished, heirs of documents are identified, minimised
images and boors' occupied regions, grandiose
sciences are indeterminable, safely secured benefits
for runic understandings pretentious
obstinate beasts acquire in disruption, types of otiose
considerations ill-prepared to deal with credits
and debts for answering questions licentious
From "Aestas, or Walter Daniel's Very Difficult Poems for Readers"
http://aestas.sakura.ne.jp/
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2023
sad fact and none truer,
despite my accumulation
of millions of trinkets,
and millions of lottery tickets,
useless word combines,
acres of scripted scripture
of scrumptious scarred
scribbles,
and dollars,

I boast not of my good fortune
for I am a waste not~want not
tykee type, no spendthrift me,
and my phone and writing tablet
date from the Paleo Age, technically,
and one’s batteries live in the
red and yellow light of the
dying lightening edge of the
OMGF,

1%

otherwise known as nearer to death experience.

carry chargers everywhere but my
batter usage habits have eroded my
charging life and happiness for us
a mere clean
green clean 20%

you see or maybe
you don’t,
my devices
have endured countless
drops and falls, just like
my body at this tender age,
and the male man ~~😵 female connectivity
of plug and plug hole are deformed,
bent so that charging is a struggle moderne,
a dance of avoidance of an earliest death

Living on the edge of 1%
changes a human, one thinks
constantly of the fragility of the
electric grid, and how the hell
we will charge all them unwanted
EV’s with insufficient charging stations,
not to mention all those spanking brand
new power plants we are rushing to build
NIMBY

(cmon, you can’t be unaware of this
contraction, for it is the guiding principle
of urban design, today)

anyway, my tablet is in the bathroom sink,
whose rigid porcelain angles allows for 
a conjoing  of the cord into that
flux capacitor hole to make tentative
kissy
kissy noises
and by the light of the
early morn,
said antique Generation 1 ipad
will be restored to usable status
for yet another brief moment
in time
and another
bad poem

this choring is a skill honed bendless endless
experimentation as to how
to insert a Peroni shaped
(beer bottle; no, not not a Pony Man plug shape)
into a lightening squarish O, and witness the
miracle of ******* of
Yes! Yes! YES!
(thank you Steven Spielberg))
a semi functioning de-vice,

vice being the exactly right adjective

my mind is weird, true,
but I draw on my experience
to share with you the specialness
of being in the  elite,
them
1%

so you can be less envious.
you satisfied boors,
awakening refreshed after
eight hours sleep and a green light indicator
smugly informing you are an overheated hoi peloi
member of the
100%ers

yes I’m done!
why does my software
keep asking me that?
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2023
sad fact and none truer,
despite my accumulation
of millions of trinkets,
and millions of lottery tickets,
useless word combines,
acres of scripted scripture
of scrumptious scarred
scribbles,
and dollars,

I boast not of my good fortune
for I am a waste not~want not
tykee type, no spendthrift me,
and my phone and writing tablet
date from the Paleo Age, technically,
and one’s batteries live in the
red and yellow light of the
dying lightening edge of the
OMGF,

1%

otherwise known as nearer to death experience.

carry chargers everywhere but my
batter usage habits have eroded my
charging life and happiness for us
a mere clean
green clean 20%

you see or maybe
you don’t,
my devices
have endured countless
drops and falls, just like
my body at this tender age,
and the male man ~~😵 female connectivity
of plug and plug hole are deformed,
bent so that charging is a struggle moderne,
a dance of avoidance of an earliest death

Living on the edge of 1%
changes a human, one thinks
constantly of the fragility of the
electric grid, and how the hell
we will charge all them unwanted
EV’s with insufficient charging stations,
not to mention all those spanking brand
new power plants we are rushing to build
NIMBY

(cmon, you can’t be unaware of this
contraction, for it is the guiding principle
of urban design, today)

anyway, my tablet is in the bathroom sink,
whose rigid porcelain angles allows for 
a conjoing  of the cord into that
flux capacitor hole to make tentative
kissy
kissy noises
and by the light of the
early morn,
said antique Generation 1 ipad
will be restored to usable status
for yet another brief moment
in time
and another
bad poem

this choring is a skill honed bendless endless
experimentation as to how
to insert a Peroni shaped (beer bottle,
(no,
not a Pony Man plug shape)
into a lightening squarish O, and witness the
miracle of ******* of
Yes! Yes! YES!
(thank you Steven Spielberg)
a semi functioning de-vice,

vice being the exactly right adjective

my mind is weird, true,
but I draw on my experience
to share with you the specialness
of being in the  elite,
them
1%

so you can be less envious.
you satisfied boors,
awakening refreshed after
eight hours sleep and a green light indicator
smugly informing you are a hoi peloi
member of the
100%ers

yes I’m done,
why does my software
keep asking me that?
thelonious Sep 2022
Necessary of onion
by onion and through onion
necessary onion
onion laquered
stimulants, rest
high bridge formula
with footprinted snow, flecked
with spring grass
green light of rash
of broken skin of
red postules flood
in valley of valley
of least resistance
consecrated
goose down mystery
aisles flush with
flooding valleys begins
recondite conditions for
all eves of spectral,
ice skates on self
replicating graph of
destitute and of savor in
binge watch Americans binge
fetish announcements of coral of
nylon per regulation
per workers safety and isolation
news travels, ague fashion of
landed boors bereaved
in fleece in gold of
gentry, pro forma ribbons
in arched halls’
winning rabbit.
Destroying Independent Thought by Overloading Memory with Lies and Nonsense

Repetition breeds submission,
Deceit’s the father, dullness—queen.
Trapped in “schools” of false traditions,
Soon no mind will dare be seen.

Fools collect their load of madness,
Reason fades—a few survive.
Lies spread fast, like rotting fungus,
Boundless, growing, still alive.

This process knows no final stages,
Layered weight will crush the rest.
Like a press in endless motion,
Stamping minds with flawed pretext.



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



Shifting Proportions in Mind, or The Oily "Kindness" of Beasts

Can too much oil spoil the porridge?
Drown the grain, and taste is lost.
Only slaves, in lies submerged,
Fail to see the heavy cost.

In their minds, so dim and hollow,
Reason’s grain is hard to find.
Lies and horrors darkly follow,
Drowning souls in grease refined.

Lose your edge, ignore your senses,
Let them preach their “gentle” creed—
Like an abscess, it condenses,
Bursts within, and makes you bleed.

Soon your Soul and mind will wither,
Drowned in poison, drowned in gloom.
Grain is lost—just scraps that linger,
Smothered nine to two in doom...



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



By Stealth or by Force?

By stealth they creep, by force they strike—
A "mighty choice," or so it seems.
But once you're trapped in creatures’ vice,
Your will is crushed beneath their schemes.

Expand your mind—there lies the way,
Not to shatter all their chains,
But to rise above decay,
Not rot in cells with thoughtless brains.

This world dissolves in filth and lies,
And slaves will rot within its frame.
Bow your head—you'll be despised,
The wicked mold you to their game.

But those who fight, who see, who rise,
Will break beyond this poisoned sphere.
Through Spirit’s light, beyond the cries
Of madness that will end it here.



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



Evil’s Long-Term Plans

Through the ages, fools obey—
Tricked to think they have a say.
Yet the ones who rule the land
Are but clans with schemes well-planned.

Obvious? It’s clear as day.
Still, the blind look far away,
Trust the clowns who sit on high,
And when they’re gone, they breathe a sigh.

But monsters lie—deceit refined,
They swap the masks, but not the mind.
For every puppet in the light,
A hidden hand controls the fight.

Their craft is rot, passed down through time,
Decay refined into a science.
Through the ages, they endure,
To shape the slaves, to keep control secure.



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



The Blind, Deaf, and Cowardly Fools

Blind, deaf, mute—
No greater theme, no deeper root.
Except for folly, fear, and vice,
The cowardice that feeds the lies.



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



The End of the Historical Cycle

Banzai charges—motorbikes,
Rushing straight at guns and strikes,
Machine guns roar. The Cycle ends—
If minds are dull, all will descend.



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



The End of the World and the Transition to Another Realm

A ragged crowd in "Transition"?
A new Hell waits their admission!
Once more they burn the world away—
Only a madman won't see the fray.

The honest soul, where will it go?
In time, we’ll know—I’m out of flow...
Everything else is mere disguise—
The Light’s a flash, gone from their eyes.



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



Conquering New Worlds in Science Fiction

Galactic Fool—an honored name,
Advance! Pursue your endless claim.
You’ll gather skins, and countless more,
While countless lives you’ll tear and floor.

The whole Galaxy will shudder,
At slaves unknown, beneath the smother.
Lucifer will sharpen skill,
Exporting FEAR, LIES, and CHAINS at will.



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



A Merry March to Hell

The boors march straight to Hell’s domain—
They’ll call it Heaven, all in vain.
No need for lies to bind the fool,
Stubbornness his only rule.
Yet in his mind, there’s empty space,
A problem in his thinking’s place—
Soon enough, he’ll meet his fate,
And find his soul’s a rotten state.

To heed the heart? That’s no delight,
In a world of need, where greed takes flight.
The Spirit dies, consumed by strife,
In the last turn of their cursed life.
And so, the fools arrive, at last,
At Hell’s gate, their die is cast.



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



On Flags

Hell’s "joy" is lies that "serve the cause."
A red cross on a white flag’s jaws,
Completes the grim and painted scene—
Bowed down, they bend to CowID’s "sheen".

The hippo’s plague will come around—
"Quarantine!"—they scurry, all unwound!
The fools still trust the creatures' call,
With media leading, ever tall.

If they believe, they’ll build the Camp,
A digital one, beneath black’s lamp.
A deep, dark minus marks the cost—
It’ll strip their minds, a final loss.



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



The Search for the Normal in War

A frantic rush—messages fly,
Searching for the "normal" under the sky.
It’s hard to find, as deep woods grow—
A devil’s easier to spot, if we bend the hook just so.



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



Believing Everything the Beasts Say on the TV

A total fool,
Believes it all, no matter what they say.
Easier still, that beast will fall,
And turn to NOTHING, day by day.



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



Self-Censorship on Stupid, Slave-like, So-called Literary Sites

"Chief Moderator"—
Once was the censors' might...
Self-provocator?!
No cash? That’s pure shameful plight!

"Self-isolation,"
It was all the same:
A mind's castration,
Simply—no cash, no fame.



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



The Beast

The earthly beast is strange indeed—
Wounds in the mind, the soul in need,
But to fall so LOW, to sink so deep,
One must learn well from Hell’s own keep.

And if that’s true, they’re not to blame,
These twisted forms, in spite of shame—
Their judgment will come, though not today:
When they’re compared to Hell's own face, they’ll pay.



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



Hollow Feasts of Hollow Lives

They pop the corks and cheer out loud,
A "grand success" they celebrate.
But what they hail, so vain and proud,
Is worthless even to elate.

Success is when the soul ignites,
And mind is honed to shape its spark.
If praise and gold define your heights,
You’ve missed the truth and groped in dark:

What is God’s Fire? What is Creation?
What’s art? Why does this Earth endure
A swarm of wasted generations,
Drowned in deceit and darkness pure?



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



Inertia of Thought

Inertia traps the mind in chains,
A road that leads to Nowhere plain.
The soul decays, yet time remains—
The rot unfolds through years of pain.

So warning signs are cast aside,
Ignored until too late to see—
And then you stand, arms open wide,
To welcome in your enemy.

But intuition holds the key
To break that wheel and tear apart—
One ancient path, eternally,
To save the soul from sinking dark.



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



Propaganda

The sewage flows into your home—
Dark propaganda, strong and vile.
Believe their lies? You’ll stand alone,
A scapegoat led to slaughter’s aisle.

No war declared, yet battles rage,
Your mind and soul—their battleground.
Struck once, you join the fools engaged,
As more must fall without a sound.

The cycle’s done. And soon will gloat
That cunning fiend with twisted grin,
Counting souls he’s lured and caught—
His tally shows the ones who sinned.



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



Chaos, or the Roulette of Hollow Life

Zero.
Grey glow.
You place your bets on red and black,
So swift, so sure—no turning back.
Yet while you bet, they bet on you—
The beasts won’t stop, they’ll push you through.

For them, the game is crushing fools,
Who guard their skins but live by rules
Of chains unseen. No fate to tell—
This rigged roulette is chaos—hell.



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



****** Films and Nonsense Shows

They churn out plots with lazy hand,
Cheap scripts are made with ease—
No talent needed to expand
A flood of **** to please.

The screens are filled with filth unchecked,
The web is drowning too.
Yet filth is tame—now pure neglect
Lets madness take its due.



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



The Fog of a Rotten World

A poisoned fog engulfs the land,
Its fumes of lies pollute the air.
It veils the goal, so far, so grand,
While wretches lead you to despair.

Your goal is clear—just think, just see,
If still your soul can feel the light.
But wretches serve the Enemy,
For coin they push, for coin they fight.

The fog grows thicker every day,
Dispersed by madness, not by thought.
And soon we’ll all just rot away—
The "last one standing" rots the least.



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



The Knight in Shining Armor

Behold the knight in armor bright—
A jester’s show, a hollow sight.
His "armor" is success and fame,
Each step—a milestone in the game.

A game of lies, a life for sale,
Where souls are lost beyond the pale.
Corrupted deep, they grieve no more—
But only crave to rise and score.

For "glory" blind, for wealth they run,
Their greed devours everyone.
No honor left—just hunger raw,
For power, gold, and hollow law.



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



To Heal and Extinguish...

We stamp the seals, we quench the lime,
We drown out minds in waves of lies.
A cunning fiend, who bides his time,
Wears a mask of sane disguise.

We heal the wounds, we numb the pain,
We "cure" the mind in CowID's name.
Our fate is set, the script’s the same—
Once, they "healed" us under "AIDS".

We’ll trust, obey, and play along,
We’ll **** our minds for fleeting gain.
Till all is priced, till right is wrong,
And all drop dead—no soul remains.



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



This World

A crippled world, where Freedom’s name
Is torn to shreds—just empty sound.
And every struggle, every shame,
A tool to break the herd and hound.

The weak obey, they laugh, they crawl,
So blind, so dull—a wretched breed.
Here Satan wears a godlike shawl,
And none but madmen dare be freed.

Yet madness here is called the norm,
So if you see, you stand alone.
This world is swallowed by the storm
Of filth and shame upon the throne.



--- Total 23 poems. ---
"Crusaders"

The Creed Crusaders march with pride —
Their mission: fight the West worldwide!
Obey the double-headed freak,
And dare not think, or even speak.

Again, the rake is in your way —
You’ll step on it, like yesterday.
The filthy fiends lie smooth and slow,
Corrupting minds before the blow.

The mass dumb-down — their sacred plan,
Decay rebranded as “We’ll stand!”
The slogans rise, the brains decline —
Like deer in headlights, dead in line.

The idiot mill is working fast —
These freaks are now the ruling caste.
And since the herd believes their lies,
The filth are kings in dumb disguise.

They showed it all through CowID’s reign.
But now it’s worse. The crawling bane
“Defends” their land by breaking others —
Bombs for peace. Like rabid brothers.

They clear the space with holy wrath —
For Khanate’s hell, a ****** path
Of rot, abuse and sterilized
Descendants *****, dehumanized.

The genocide’s a timeless feat —
Now built by hands that kiss their feet.
Behold the Khanate of pure doom —
“Hit the Khokhol harder, **** — make room!”



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




Crusaders of rot, with lies they march —
Spreading death beneath a righteous arch.



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




"Protect the land!" — while bombing towns,
The Devil crowns his loyal clowns.



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




A Khanate forged in blood and lies,
Where future generations die.
They shout of honor, pride, defense —
While marching into pestilence.



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



Russian Troops in Donbas, 2014

Four thousand came to start the war,
While shouting “Miners!” — nothing more.
And idiots believed the tale,
That myth still rides the Kremlin rail.

Deceit evolved into pure lies —
Since Goebbels is their god and guide.
Just multiply the filth you spread —
And rule the brainless world ahead.

We saw it all in CowID’s show —
The same old beasts, the same old blow.
Those muzzling freaks now stage a Shame,
With round-two ghouls who play war games.

Some ****-brained **** became a knight,
He “liberates” through scorched delight.
Yet in his mind he sees no crime —
Just “glory” smeared with blood and slime.

No future left, no way to heal —
The Dumb Parade is now the deal.
If you’re not dumb — you’re “mad” or “lost”,
While raving brutes serve war at cost.

The sane are few, but they exist —
They rose like truth from poison mist.
They showed that Honor isn’t dead —
Though all the world is rot and dread.

The beasts won’t win, though they parade —
A world-wide Shock will soon invade.
It’ll crush their fake triumphant path —
A trump card born of cosmic wrath.



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




They came as “miners” — masked and armed,
While fools stood still, confused, disarmed.

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




From Donbas lies to global chains —
The Devil always re-explains.



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




They call it truth — pure rot and shame.
But blood still burns behind the name.



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




A million masks, one face beneath —
The face of lies, the stench of death.



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




Where reason dies, the fools arise —
And call their madness "sacrifice".



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




Sanity’s corpse lies cold and bare —
While flags of glory fill the air.



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




They buried truth beneath their feet,
Then crowned the lie and called it sweet.



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




When reason rots, the monsters breed —
And praise each genocidal deed.



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




The death of sense was not a flaw —
It was the plan, it is the law.



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




When reason dies, the end begins —
A flood of lies, a world of sins.



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




Sanity fell — the trumpets wailed,
And beasts arose where humans failed.



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




The mind collapsed. The void took shape.
And truth was hung in blood-red drape.



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




The age of sense was torn apart —
Now shadows feast on dying hearts.



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




No reason left, no final plea —
Just fire crowned in lunacy.



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



The Song of Reason’s End

When reason dies, the end begins —
A flood of lies, a world of sins.
The mind collapsed. The void took shape.
And truth was hung in blood-red drape.

They danced around the burning throne,
Each beast convinced he stood alone.
The sky turned black. The silence screamed.
The prophets wept. The madmen dreamed.

No final plea. No voice to guide.
Just ash and echoes, multiplied.
The books were burned. The stars went blind.
And shadow ruled the fractured mind.

Sanity fell — the trumpets wailed,
And beasts arose where humans failed.
They crowned the lie. They praised the flame.
And scorched the world in Reason’s name.



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



The Prophecy of Madness

When Reason broke and Silence spoke,
The minds of men were wrapped in smoke.
They crowned the Lie as Holy Light,
And called the Day what once was Night.

The Truth was chained in iron lore,
While every beast became a war.
They feasted on the ash of thought,
And praised the plague their hands had wrought.

The final books were torn apart —
The flame devoured both mind and heart.
Each question burned. Each answer screamed.
And lunacy became the Dream.

The stars withdrew, the sky went blind,
The last of hope betrayed the mind.
The wise were cursed, the fools adored —
And Madness sat upon the Lord.

No bells were rung. No angels wept.
The soul of reason coldly slept.
And from that grave of shattered laws
Rose Man, the Beast — with flaming jaws.


---

Glimmer of Light

But in the dark, beneath the ash,
Where time had stopped in silent flash,
A pulse remained — not born, not dead —
A spark no madness yet could shred.

It was no scream, it was no cry —
Just quiet deeper than the sky.
No flag it raised, no war it led,
It simply was, while all had fled.

It shone not outward, but within —
A light not made to fight or win,
But one that knew, through death and dust,
What doesn’t burn is what we trust.

No creed, no name, no bleeding crown —
Just Being, still, while all fell down.
And those who saw — though few, though torn —
Felt something vast begin… reborn.


---


Return of the Seers

They were not saints, nor crowned with fire —
No thunder marked their long desire.
They walked through ruins, bare and slow,
As ones who saw, not claimed to know.

Their eyes had burned in ancient flame,
Yet bore no pride, no earthly name.
They spoke not loud, but when they breathed —
The wind itself would pause, unsheathed.

They carried silence, deep and wide,
A vastness no one dared to guide.
Not saviors — no — but ones who heard
The voice beneath the shattered word.

They had no army, wore no sign,
Yet something in their gaze aligned
The scattered sparks, the thoughtless dust —
And whispered: “Still... in Light, we trust.”

No dogma lit their path ahead —
They walked where even echoes fled.
But every step upon the ground
Unsealed a truth, profound, unbound.


---


Breath of the Source

No thunder calls. No armies rise.
Just silent vastness fills the skies.
The Source inhales — a sacred breath,
A pulse beyond the edge of death.

It’s not a spark, nor flame, nor sound —
But where all time and space are bound.
A stillness weaving through the night,
Unfolding into endless light.

No eyes can see, no mind can grasp —
The Presence beyond all collapse.
It is the root, the well, the seed,
From which all thoughts and worlds proceed.

The Breath renews the shattered frame,
No need for glory, fear, or claim.
In quiet depths, the truth is born —
A dawn beyond all dusk and scorn.

And those who walk this path unseen
Will find the Source where Light has been.
No longer lost in endless fight —
But homeward bound, into the Light.



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



Monsters

So many sellouts crawl around,
There’s barely any folk left now.
The bitter wise are left to mourn —
The world is filled with beasts and scorn.

Idiots, traitors, fascist slime,
Their strength all spent — they waste our time.
No way to teach these fiends, no cure —
They must be crushed. The wound is pure.

For them, the only joy remains:
To wipe out all that still sustains.
Even Nature’s ready, poised to strike —
No monsters, ****, or fascists like.

A cataclysm will come,
To purge the rot, to beat the drum.
No place for filth, no place for lies —
The earth will cleanse beneath the skies.



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




Monsters breed, the wise grow few —
The world is rotten through and through.
No reasoning with fascist **** —
Only fire will make them numb.



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



"Imperial Games"

A rotten colony chose to play
The empire’s games — to spite, betray.
But “tigers” turned to cardboard shells,
“No equals found!” — the ******* sells.

The masters gave the deadly call,
To send them blindly to their fall.
And propaganda’s twisted rage
Invented fights for “values” staged.

The bitter end: the cards all burned,
The “meat” ground up — a fate they earned.
For “meat” too — don’t trust the ****,
If only once — God saves some dumb.



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




Cardboard Tigers, cheap charade,
Sent to die in masters’ game.
Meat for grind — a worthless pawn,
Trust the ****? You’re already gone.



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




Tigers fake — just paper shells,
Masters send them straight to hell.
Meat on hooks, no hope, no grace —
Fools who trust deserve disgrace.



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



Imperial Game Over

They played their cards — all flimsy, torn,
Paper tigers, so forlorn.
Masters smiled, the orders came —
“Send them all to feed the flame.”

Propaganda’s lies took flight,
“Fight for values!”— empty fight.
But truth revealed the final score:
The pawns are meat, no less, no more.

Burnt-out shells on battlefield,
No glory left, no sword to wield.
And those who trusted filth and ****
Are lost beneath the crushing drum.

No saviors come, no hope remains,
Just broken dreams and bloodied chains.
The game is done — the end is clear:
Imperial fools disappear.



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



Fascist Power

Fascist power rages wild,
A tyrant’s cruel and reckless child.
The **** of traitors seem to’ve lost
All memory of what it cost.

What happened once to gendarmes’ hand,
To cops who fought across the land?
Not all became fools or cowards here
Within this poor land’s atmosphere.

Not everyone turned pale with fear —
No mercy should the fiends draw near!
We’ll deal with all that fascist filth —
The ******* paid in blood and guilt.

They’ll hang in chains, the time is near,
The reckoning for Judas’ sneer.
That warning bell will sound so soon —
To cleanse the filth beneath the moon.



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



Armageddon

****’s on call, no shame, no mind,
Fools in squads, all blind and blind.
They feast not on foes made-up —
But on their neighbors, bitter cup.

Such are times for soulless breeds,
Madness sown like wicked seeds.
A filthy plague has spilled around —
A stinking flood on rotten ground.

The prophecy has come to pass:
A world decayed, a shattered mass.
It moves toward the final dawn —
The Armageddon drawing on.

Much suffering yet waits to come,
While Mind and Spirit here are numb.



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



Armageddon

****’s on standby, void of shame,
Fools march blind, no soul, no aim.
They gnaw not foes of false design,
But neighbors torn by cursed spine.

Times have birthed this soulless breed,
Madness spread like poisoned seed.
A plague of filth seeps through the land —
A sewer’s flood, a death’s command.

The vision dark has come to life:
A rotting world in endless strife.
It crawls toward the final pyre —
Armageddon’s funeral fire.

No hope remains, no light to find,
When Mind and Spirit cease to bind.
The doom is near, the end’s embrace —
A hollow shell, a ghostly place.



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



Dark Lines


When reason dies, the darkness wakes.

A hollow world beneath the lies.

Madness flows like blood through veins.

The final fire will cleanse the stains.

No soul remains to light the night.

The graveyard’s breath replaces sight.

From ashes cold, no hope will rise.

Only silence fills the skies.

Spirit shattered, mind undone —
The end begins where all is none.

Doom creeps slow with deadly grace.

A cursed earth, a haunted place.

When all is lost, the void will sing.

Armageddon’s shadow takes its king.



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



Armageddon’s Shadow

When reason dies, the darkness wakes,
A hollow world beneath the lies.
Madness flows like blood through veins,
The final fire will cleanse the stains.

No soul remains to light the night,
The graveyard’s breath replaces sight.
From ashes cold, no hope will rise —
Only silence fills the skies.

Spirit shattered, mind undone —
The end begins where all is none.
Doom creeps slow with deadly grace,
A cursed earth, a haunted place.

When all is lost, the void will sing —
Armageddon’s shadow takes its king.



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



Global Madness — New Millennium, January 1, 2000

A madhouse spans the planet wide —
They call this “new age” at zero’s tide.
Dumber only toads could be —
When heads refuse to think and see.

The second decade starts this way,
For fools to rule the foolish play.
The wise are few, we scrape the rest,
And send them off to fascist’s quest.

All must fall beneath the shot,
So joy and madness hit the spot.
The peak of dumbness now attained,
No lies or filth remain unchained.

Oppress and **** the helpless herd,
A “ruler” mad beyond all word.
Satanism’s their twisted creed —
The vile all serve this darkened seed.

Above them stands a beast so vile,
Fascists bow, remain the file.
And fools still grin, believe the gifts,
Of Danai’s doom — the cursed shifts.



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




Global madhouse, fools in charge,
Lies spread wide and hope is scarred.
Rulers mad, their dark creed known —
Satan’s seed has fully grown.



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



Rashists

To strike the tallest towers down —
Rashists follow orders bound.
A cruel contest set to scar —
A child’s eye as battlefield’s star?

Fascists, Rashists — one vile breed,
But skies will clear, their fate decreed.
Criminal marks branded deep,
No statute’s mercy theirs to keep.

The brave folk of Nenka’s land
Will sift the fiends like cursed sand.
They guard their freedom, dignity —
Fascist **** to graves, let be.

Their armor’s dust — no shield remains,
Their hate will fall with final pains.



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




Rashists strike with orders grim,
Fascist **** — the world grows dim.
Brave will sift the fiends like sand,
Freedom’s sword in righteous hand.



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




Rashist beasts, no mercy shown,
Tearing down what’s not their own.
**** of fascist blood and lies —
Their fate’s in fire, where justice flies.



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



Rashist Reckoning

They strike the towers, blind and cruel,
A twisted game, a heartless rule.
A child’s eye marks their savage play,
Dark shadows cast where children stray.

Fascists, Rashists — one vile breed,
Fed by hate and ruthless greed.
But skies will clear, the truth will claim
The criminals, marked by shame.

No statute bars the coming wrath,
Their trail of blood — a deadly path.
The brave of Nenka stand as one,
To turn their hordes to dust and sun.

With freedom’s sword and honor’s flame,
They’ll burn the fascist **** to shame.
No armor saves the evil throng,
Their reign ends where justice’s strong.



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



The Flow

Today the propagandists
Spout lies in endless mist.
Tons of filth pour down the drain,
A stench that kills like acid rain.

It’d fell a horse, no doubt,
But still, our fool stands stout.
The deaf are stunned, confused,
By fascist lies abused.

So not their faces —
But their backsides take the races.
Fascists boast with pride so vile —
For liars, barriers fell awhile.

From screens the gray mass pours,
Nothing but **** in endless scores.



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




Propaganda’s toxic flood,
Spewing lies like burning mud.
Not their faces, but their backs —
Fascist filth exposed and cracked.



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



The Kunstkamera

A blind man led the way ahead,
A mute passed orders, none but said.
A crippled fool was at the helm,
A deaf one followed, lost in realm.

A handless craftsman built the scene,
A legless courier moved between.
A soulless priest the church did make,
A madman set the grim example’s stake.

A dullard taught the natural laws,
A cruel doctor dealt his claws.
A miser fed the crowd with trash,
While wisdom’s voice was always cast.



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



The Kunstkamera

A blind man led — sure, what a guide!
A mute barked orders from inside.
A crippled fool sat at the throne,
While deaf ears made the madness known.

A handless craftsman built the show,
A legless courier ran the low.
A soulless priest staged hollow rites,
A madman crowned the dreadful sights.

A ******* taught what nature meant,
A sadist doctored punishment.
A miser’s greed fed all the trash —
While wisdom’s voice was kicked to ash.



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



The Kunstkamera

A blind man marched — the grand parade,
A mute gave orders — all obeyed.
A crippled fool played king of clowns,
While deaf men spun the world upside down.

A handless builder slammed the nails,
A legless courier told the tales.
A soulless priest held hollow mass,
A madman led the circus farce.

A dullard schooled in nature’s lies,
A sadist doctored alibis.
A miser fed the stinking heap —
While wisdom drowned in shadows deep.

Welcome to this freakish show,
Where sanity’s the last to go.



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



Goblins and the Gnome

The goblins listened close and tight —
The gnome promised them a goblin’s right.
But promises soon cracked and broke,
A vile, dumb, and wretched joke.

All pledges built to trap and lull,
A bait to keep the mind in lull.
But waking finds the world’s diseased —
Rot, stench, decay, the floor’s uneased.

That bottom planned by gnome’s own hand:
One goal — to crush, destroy the land.
These goblins, like a cancerous sore,
Believed the lies, then bred some more.

No thoughts or spirit rise or flow —
Their petty world is set to show:
To be “happy,” always bow and nod —
For gnome’s a god, their iron rod.



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




Goblins hooked on gnome’s deceit,
Promises cracked beneath their feet.
No spirit left, just blind obey —
The gnome’s god-rule leads minds astray.



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



“Headless Horsemen,” or Long-Distance Runs

"Intellectuals don’t run marathons fast."
— Vladimir Kireev, late marathoner and coach.


A marathon was run. The work
Is fit for fools — that’s just the perk.
The highest bar? A thirty-mile,
Beyond that, body’s out of style.

Long is the time for healing slow,
But forward drives the strong-willed go.
Usually leads into a pit —
The pit of form lost bit by bit.

Don’t mind the fools who run ahead —
The “headless horsemen,” so they’re said.
Better stick to simple moves,
And life will smile, bring joyful grooves.

After running — sweet reward,
Body needs it — can’t be ignored.
Aerobic stress it craves,
And mental calm it always saves.

The psyche’s rarely ever fine,
While trapped in Hell’s own dark confine.
So running’s super-yoga, friend —
Till thirty miles, God willing, end.



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



Total Box

A punch, a knockout — strength’s my law:
To strike a face’s almost raw.
Slave beats slave, the master’s glad
The fiend won’t raise his hand — how sad.

Against those who build hell’s own pit,
The global media backs their hit —
Distracts with games, with wars, a show,
While fools watch on, caught in the flow.

The foe is only near, they say —
A slave who dares to stray away.
A different tongue, a different creed —
They’ll tear his throat if he won’t heed.

A fascist order spans the land,
By varied names they make their stand.
They plant the lie: “You’re free,” they shout,
While neighbors serve the dark devout.

A grayish darkness cloaks the earth,
It drags the world down to the dirt.
They showed us “AIDS,” and CowID —
And reason here is nearly killed.



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




Punch and knockout, rule of law,
Slave beats slave, and tyrants draw.
Media distracts with lies and war,
True foes near—don’t trust the score.



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



The Horseman Rode the Seine

Bots float down the river’s flow —
Olympians riding slow.
Behind them, rides a twisted fiend,
A grim-faced ******, dark and mean.

He drags a flag flipped upside down,
Prepared to raise it o’er the town.
What fools must be to fail to see
This flag’s a sign of blasphemy.

A symbol dark of Satan’s reign —
The Horseman brings Armageddon’s pain.
The world bows low to fascist reign,
Where reason’s cast out, lost, in vain.

They showed it all through CowID’s lie,
And fresh wars burning in the sky.
You must be vile to call this rod
Of Darkness ancient, not a fraud.

Before each event, it taps the drum,
A sign that horrors soon will come.
No subtle meaning here at all —
Just beasts who turned to **** and thrall.

Such wicked symbolism
Marks times of evil’s reign.
The world’s in change — but none benign:
A spiral deep in Satan’s sign.



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




The horseman rides, the flag’s reversed,
A sign of darkness, fate coerced.
Armageddon’s voice is clear —
Fascism’s shadow looms so near.



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



The Writing Brotherhood

Accusations often sound,
We don’t try hard, just spin around —
Lessons lost on shallow lives,
Where God’s own spark no longer thrives.

All our efforts feed the beast —
A rotten fascist, vile feast,
Built on cretinism’s base,
A toxic, sickening disgrace.

True fools are few, they fade away,
But overall — we’ve lost the way.
Changes come, but only worse,
A world descending in its curse.

So poems, blogs — we write in pain,
In this pitiful domain.
It’s needed, though it hurts to say —
In this sad and broken fray.

It hurts to speak in words the craze,
The madness, wildness that now stays.
Surrounded by fools’ blind sight,
Horror, despair become the right.

We won’t end life with a dot,
But with a half-spoken plot.
Let the verse be sharp and keen,
A blade to cut through dull and mean.



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



United Packs

The jackals run as one fierce pack,
Charging forward, no way back.
Mind and conscience melt away,
Reduced to filth, they lose their way.

These jackals—no humans at all,
Nor monsters in propaganda’s thrall.
They’re freaks served up on devil’s plate,
A feast for fiends—sealed is their fate.

The Rubicon is crossed, no flight,
No turning back to human light.
Terrible reckoning will fall,
Once jackal’s lost, they’ve lost it all.

All soulless beasts now bound to rust,
Sent to scrap, consumed by dust.
The world chokes in this filthy haze,
Not peace, but rot, these bitter days.



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




Jackals run as one dark pack,
Mind and conscience fade to black.
No return once Rubicon’s crossed —
Soulless beasts forever lost.



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



Darkness

Darkness — fascist power’s reign:
No lower fall, no greater pain.
Not long ‘til you’re lost and tossed —
Like the jaws of Hell, all crossed.

Hell incarnate, here it stands,
Betrayer, fiend with ****** hands.
“Commander” now, the mind’s disgrace,
Reason’s curse, a brutal face.

No longer world, but beastly cage,
Fools rejoice in rage and rage.
For freaks, a twisted, foul parade —
Submit, and you’re the monster made.

Fight relentless, stand your ground:
Beneath fascists, life’s not found.
Wake from lies and clear your eyes —
See the slime, this vile disguise!



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



Darkness

Darkness reigns — fascist’s curse,
A fall beyond the deepest worse.
Not far now — the abyss calls,
Hell’s own jaws devour all.

Hell made flesh, a traitor’s face,
A fiend who rules with cruel disgrace.
“Commander” now, the mind’s demise,
Reason crushed beneath dark skies.

No world left — a zoo of pain,
Fools rejoice in madness’ reign.
For monsters, a cruel charade —
Submit, become the beast they made.

Fight unyielding, break the chain:
Under fascists, none remain.
Shatter lies, reveal the slime —
This loathsome, vile, eternal grime.



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



Darkness Falls

Darkness — fascist nightmare’s grip,
No depth remains beyond this dip.
A yawning chasm swallows whole,
Hell’s jaws clamp tight around the soul.

Hell reborn in traitor’s breath,
A fiend that drags the world to death.
“Commander” crowned in reason’s grave,
The mind enslaved, no will to save.

No earth remains — a cage of beasts,
Where madness reigns and terror feasts.
Monsters march in cruel parade,
Your soul consumed, your light betrayed.

Resist or drown beneath the night,
For fascists ***** the flickering light.
Wake from falsehood’s choking slime —
Or perish in the end of time.



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



Fascist Filth

The Gestapo, cops in line,
Filthy guards of FSIN’s sign.
Prosecutors — dog packs growl,
All of them in darkness prowl.

The master — something not quite human,
A Kremlin dwarf, a vile goon.
A double’s thrall, a servant’s role,
This land? A madhouse swallowing whole.

Not long will last this fascist night,
For light will break and win the fight.
Even in this filth and grime,
The dawn will come — it’s only time.



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




Gestapo dogs and ***** guards,
Fascist filth behind the bars.
Kremlin’s dwarf, a twisted pawn —
But light will break, a brand new dawn.



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



Double Meanings

Reader — brain-digger, sifter keen,
Unraveling the “double mean.”
Usually there’s no thought at all,
Clear nothing in the messy sprawl.

You waste your time — beware the muck,
Thousands here, a fatal pluck.
Seek grains of truth so you don’t break,
For all this filth drags down the stake.

The bottom’s pierced, all beaten flat,
Or slandered lies by fascist’s spat.
No hope beneath this stinking ruse —
Just shattered truth and vile abuse.



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



Double Meanings

Oh reader, digging through the muck,
Chasing ghosts that don’t give luck.
No real thoughts beneath the slime,
Just endless drivel, waste of time.

Why waste your brain on heaps of crap?
Thousands more — a fatal trap.
Search for truth? Good luck with that —
It drags us all beneath the flat.

The bottom’s broken, beaten down,
Or smeared with lies by fascist clowns.
No secrets here, just twisted schemes —
A circus filled with shattered dreams.



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



Fools and Trifles

Trifles, trifles, trifles all,
Nonsense, nonsense — heed the call.
Fools, fools, fools, the same refrain,
Clutter, clutter — pointless strain.

Synonyms packed in every line,
Repeats that circle, intertwine.
Yet it’s the fools who hold this sway,
But don’t disturb the dolts’ display.

Touch a trifle, bruise your pride,
Like a fool who stumbles wide.
A stone upon a narrow track —
Just step around, don’t argue back.



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




Fools and trifles, nonsense too,
Same old words, but nothing new.
Step on stones, avoid the fight —
Better skip their pointless spite.



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




Fools and trifles, endless waste,
Dumb repeats with no good taste.
Step on stones? Just walk away —
Debates with idiots? No way.



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



Fools and Trifles

Fools and trash, a stinking pile,
Idiots babble all the while.
Step on stones? Just leave them flat —
No fight with ****, ignore the rat.

Their empty words like poison spit,
No sense, no truth, just endless ****.
They prance around in shallow pride,
But wisdom’s flame’s been long denied.

Debate? A trap for fools to fall,
Their noise — a blight that chills us all.
So close your ears, reject the pest —
Save your strength for real contest.

They bark like dogs, but bite is none,
Just empty threats beneath the sun.
Their minds are locked in shallow graves,
Drowned in lies, devoid of braves.

No room for fools in wisdom’s hall,
Their babble only builds the wall.
So spit on noise, dismiss the clown,
True power wears no foolish crown.

The fool’s parade will soon decay,
Their shallow games will fade away.
But shadows creep where light once burned,
And twisted truths remain unturned.

In darkest pits their echoes roar,
A curse upon the fractured core.
Yet from the depths, a fire will rise —
To scorch the fools and burn their lies.

The weakling’s cry, the empty boast,
Are whispers lost on barren ghost.
Their kingdom built on rotted ground,
Will crumble, crash, no grace be found.

For every lie they’ve spun so tight,
A reckoning will claim the night.
No mercy waits for those who breed
The poison sown in word and deed.

So hold the flame, keep fury sharp,
Cut through the lies, ignite the dark.
The fools may howl, but none will stand
When truth burns bright across the land.



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



Super-Idiots

It’s suffocating. Shameful. Grim.
Rot and madness at the brim.
Play it raw, with nerves on edge —
Don’t expect from us a pledge.

Sold our souls for tin and “glory,”
Honors steeped in fraud and story.
Crafted lies — supreme and hollow —
That’s our “art.” No need to follow.

Touch us not — the stench is spreading.
Bureaucrats decide what’s heading.
We perform what’s been assigned —
Fake applause, and cash aligned.

Standards? Lies and flattery.
Truth? A dead accessory.
Led by Goats toward the flame,
Bleat in rhythm — that's the game.

One false bleat — and off they go,
Toward the Chimera’s fatal show.
Trusting freaks who weave deceit
At every soulless, bloated meet.

Dal would faint if he could see
How “super” now’s the highest fee.
How deep the idiot’s bowed spine,
A Super-Fool by grand design.

To save this world? It’s far too late —
“Super” trumps all higher state.
The whole **** thing is truly rot —
And lies are what the Super-Idiot’s got.

Lies are crueler, bolder, darker,
Truth is now a buried marker.
Dying like Dal — is that the way?
Pour us all one last cliché...



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



Super-Idiot Creed

They march to lies, they cheer decay —
Each goat-led fool just bleats "Hooray!"
Truth is dead, and art's a fraud,
Their medals minted straight from God.



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



The End of Light

Selfish little errands,
Blindness, fear, and spite —
Idiots in torrents
Speeding into night.

Few remain who feel it,
Few whose hearts aren’t dead —
But this world will steal it,
Turning souls to lead.

Masks revealed the vermin —
Now the truth is clear:
Scoundrels rule the sermon,
Fiends parade as “dear.”

Evil finds a haven,
Swells in fool-fed might.
Spirit’s light is fading —
Time to end this blight.

Judgment comes with thunder,
Crashing through the shame,
Stripping lies asunder,
Torching every game.

Better start salvation
At the final gate.
Some will know elation —
Sheep shall meet their fate.



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



Endgame

The mask came off — the filth stood proud.
Now Light retreats. The grave gets loud.
Let sheep go down. The truth will rise.
The few will burn — then cleanse — the lies.



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



Gentlemen of Misfortune

“Villainy is the only solid ground on which a man may firmly stand.”
— M. Saltykov-Shchedrin, "Modern Idyll", 1883


We, the Gentlemen of Loss,
Wear no tears — we bear no cross.
Freedom’s mind — the price is steep:
Always trailing in the sweep.

No elbows thrown to steal a seat,
No pacts with butchers in the street.
We loathe the bribe, despise the pack,
Their “unity” — a swarm attack.

They unite on petty evil,
Not a dream, but base upheaval.
Even Saltykov once said:
“Truth is wasted on the dead.”

We, the Gentlemen unfavored,
Hold one task that’s truly savored:
Hear the soul — ignore the noise,
Strip away their plastic toys.

Spirit-knights — we stand alone.
Mind without the soul’s a stone.
Things are simple once you see:
**** the lie, and speak what’s free.

Yes, the knight walks paths deserted,
But he’s hardly broken-hearted.
Fleeting life in this abyss —
Only Spirit holds true bliss.

Soon a storm will clear the slate:
Shame became the planet’s fate.
And for filth that fed this flood —
Let them burn in cleansing blood.

There is life beyond the blaze —
But the Spirit tests and weighs:
Do your task — and make it right:
Reignite your inner light.



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



Knight of Spirit

Let the mob eat lies and gold —
We walk flames, but don’t grow cold.
Truth is exile. Light is pain.
But the Soul must rise — again.



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



The Next Generation

Google trash, and social fever,
Zen-like sludge from YouTube's sewer —
Censorship becomes the weaver
Of a dull, obedient viewer.

Add their “colleges” and “classes,”
Nursery-school for drooling masses,
Toxic news and slave-like labor —
Here’s your worm. And here’s his neighbor.

Chances now to break the chain
Are so slim — it feels insane.
Truth be told, the war is lost:
Rotten minds at any cost.

A Pavlov mutt is what they’ll breed —
And AI gives the dog its feed.
The rare ones not turned into swine
Will lose access — by design.

The system’s eye will cut their ration,
And ban their steps without permission.
The “pawns” won’t help — they’re in submission,
Obeying every **** transmission.

And thus will History conclude:
If your grandsire bowed and cheered,
You’ll march in step — chipped and subdued —
While Klaus the Butcher grins, revered.



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



Next Gen Programmed

They trained the dog, removed the spark —
Now Silence rules, enforced and dark.
The pawn obeys. The soul is banned.
The Butcher’s chip is in your hand.



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



Darkness of Filth

Overkill.
Overrun.
Dragged through swill.
Truth undone.
All defiled.
Violence off the chart today,
Lies in layers choke the way.
Every effort to create
Turns to breeding rot and hate.

Spirit slandered, mind debased —
Cynic smirks in reason’s place.
What remains? Just stench and grime —
This is darkness made of slime.



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



Filth Reigns

Truth is choked, the mind betrayed —
Rot and lies parade in shade.
Light is banned. The ****** applaud.
Welcome to the reign of fraud.



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


Silencing Truth by Pseudoscience

Shocking facts are swept away,
Under tables — hidden deep.
Pseudoscience rules the day —
Fool if you believe their leap.

Their wild theories fall apart
Once the facts come crashing through.
Pseudoscience — mind’s bomb blast,
Soon the end is overdue.

Dumbing down goes on for years,
A new camp built to rot and rot —
Digital decay appears,
For fools trapped inside the plot.

Monsters build it fast and cold,
While catastrophe draws near.
But that storm will sweep and hold —
Smash fascism’s poisoned sphere.

Global fascism’s here, revealed
In plagues like CowID’s game.
Tremble, worms — your fate is sealed —
Shame and ruin is your name.

The honest soul who won’t betray,
Will leap to worlds fresh and clean.
Yet decay’s last spiral stays —
Madness grips the rotten scene.



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



Truth Silenced

Facts get buried, lies deploy,
Pseudoscience kills the joy.
Fascists tremble — end’s in sight,
Pure souls rise beyond the night.



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



The Magician’s Box

A zombie-box — a true marvel,
Rabbit’s not your common marvel.
It’s a seer, looking forward,
Feeding talking heads, the ward.

Down come circular decrees,
Sent by Houdini — master keys.
Audience cheers the staged charade,
Blind to traps the show has laid.

Stanley Kubrick directs the scene,
Mastermind of lunar dream.
Forgery so crude and wide,
Like CowID — drags worlds to tide.

In an instant, all’s undone,
Falsehood’s reign has just begun.
Cinema eclipsed by lies,
Magician’s box deceives our eyes.

It spreads in minds dull and mean,
Lost, degraded, dark and lean.
Building camps digital,
Minds infected, very ill.

Sadly, many such exist —
Earth is lost in their dark mist.
All will burn, then start anew —
No more tricks — just floods of untrue.



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



Magic Box

Lies drop fast, the rabble’s fed,
Houdini’s tricks — the masses led.
False moon flights, the world’s descent,
Digital camps of dark intent.



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



Suckers

Suckers,
Like fleas —
So they began to crush
In this evil age.
To **** them all —
The beast’s supreme task.
Worse than fleas,
That beast remains.
Only luck is found
By those who’re not dumb hounds.



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



Suckers’ Fate

Like fleas, they crawl and choke,
Crushed beneath the beast’s stroke.
Only fools get caught and burned—
Luck’s for those who’ve learned.



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



So-Called "Power"

The gang called “Power”:
**** and steal — their hour.
**** always on the rise.
For people — only demise.

Leave the Hell — it’s ruled
By a fiend, cruel and cruel.
Happy to destroy all souls,
Depart — then curses roll.

People serve as food,
In darkness, lies, and crude.
“Listen close to what we say —
Or we’ll crush you anyway.”



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



Gang of Power

**** and steal, the ****’s delight,
Crush the people — end their fight.
Hear their lies, obey their game,
Or be broken all the same.



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



The End of the Regatta

"We’re all participants in the race,
Rowing hard to win our place,
For glory, gold, and pleasures sweet,
Wine, beauties, and all the deceit.
Envy eats our souls inside,
Who grabs more, who’ll swell with pride.
Consumption grows, production stalls —
The race goes on as reason falls."
— From Treasure Island’s song.


The regatta’s over now —
No turning back, no final bow.
It’s also checkmate, cruel and cold —
No more tricks, no moves to hold.

We’ve reached the shore — no more to sail!
Spirit, Mind have ceased to prevail.
Only cops remain in sight —
When Honor’s lost, there’s only night.

This is average, sadly true.
Think critically — your odds are few.
Yet cycles churn, the ocean’s sway —
Destruction comes to clear the way.

All will be wiped away soon —
Ending madness, like a tomb.
Folly’s grown too long, too wide,
Time to purge the great divide.



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



Regatta’s End

No turning back, the race is done,
Spirit killed, the truth outrun.
Madness reigns — they’ll burn it down,
From wreckage rises new renown.



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



The Wretched Regatta

“We’re all racers in the race,
Rowing hard to grab our place,
For glory, gold, and wine’s embrace,
For beauties, and the rat race pace.
Envy eats the soul inside —
Who can grab the bigger tide?
Consumption grows, but work’s behind —
This race is rigged to crush the mind.”
— From Treasure Island’s song.


The regatta is a price:
To “success” — pay the vice!
But if your brain is full of fluff,
Your prize will be—an empty bluff.

Along the way you’ll sink and drown,
Pulling many spirits down.
If you wake, you’ll understand —
You’ve drifted deep to Hell’s own land.

Few will wake from mindless craze,
Lost within the dazed malaise.
The soul’s gone missing in the mess,
Drowned in chaos and distress.

The ones who lead? They’re cruel and brute —
Rude thugs with Satan’s suit.
If your vessel’s weak and thin,
Break the bottom — fight to win!

Or shame will flood your lowest part,
A sea of filth that breaks the heart.
You’ll drown within the media’s sea,
Breathless, lost in misery.

With such news, you’ll turn a fiend,
If you heed the evil scheme.



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



Wretched Race

Drown in lies the media spews,
Fiends are bred from twisted news.
Break the hull or sink in shame,
Only fools obey the game.



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



The Fools’ “God”

An outcast land —
More like a scare.
With you, that **** —
God of fools, declared.

Maybe just a double —
Fools trance-bound deep.
Reason’s faded, humble —
Lost in decadence steep.



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



Fools’ God

****’s your “god” — a twisted farce,
Fools in trance, lost in the dark.



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



Zombies and ****

Zombies and ****, **** and zombies,
******* propagandists on the rise.
Hell incarnate — this “combo” frenzy —
Where victims are the foes, if wisdom dies.

Zombies more fearsome than the trash,
Regime’s last stronghold, fascism’s lash.
It tears apart all that’s “art” —
Hybrid war’s dynamite, fools’ part.

Those zombie armies worse than foes,
Once trampling native lands and homes.
Dark forecasts for the puppeteers,
Spiritual death, a noose appears.

It strangles, kills without return —
Soulless robots, no heart to burn.
Humanity’s scarce in every space —
Thus dawns the age of vile disgrace.



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



Zombies & ****

Zombies crush what’s left of light,
**** fuels lies, sustains the fight.
Soulless bots, no hope remains —
Darkness spreads its cursed chains.



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



Social-Realism’s Curse

"Social-Realism — and what of it... The most hated phrase for me. Social-Realism is art’s death. Social-Realism is art devoured by boors, incompetents, philistines, scoundrels, crooks, fools in high seats. Social-Realism — a term with no true meaning. Social-Realism — nothing, zero, void. Nature abhors a vacuum. So this talentless void called Social-Realism instantly filled with filth and dishonor, **** without conscience or soul. No talent needed to **** this **** called “Social-Realism.” Just know the game, and your bankbooks will grow! Social-Realism means awards and ranks!"
— Oleg Dal, from his diary.


Vysotsky and Dal were crushed
By that nonsense, pure and raw.
Promises of carnal paradise —
Nothing but the vilest law.

A cesspool for the talentless —
A golden breadland’s guise.
But for the folk — the vampires lurk:
First dull the mind’s bright eyes,

Then **** away their honor —
Drain their spirit dry.
Fueled by greed and arrogance,
In devil’s service lie.

Many joined that wretched scheme —
“Cut down, smash, and take!”
Wretched beasts constructing hell,
For creatures made to break.

Built it fast, and just as quick,
To guard their piles of gold —
In savings books and treasures deep —
Their fortunes to uphold.

They crushed the rotten Soviet mess,
That stinking, foul disgrace.
Capitalism reborn anew —
Yet folk sweat in vain’s embrace.



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



Social-Realism’s Hell

Art devoured by **** and greed,
Fools rewarded for the deed.
Vampires **** the people dry,
New chains forged beneath the sky.



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



Changes in the Hellish Spheres

Can Cipollino — just a vegetable —
Defeat the Darkness’ wild assault?
Only demons will be reckoned,
By severing the head’s default.

The former Lord of this cruel world
Will torture, start anew the reign.
The “idols” too will rally fast —
Hell’s reborn to haunt again.

They’ll paint it over swiftly,
Propaganda strong and loud.
Minions sprout up quick as sparks —
“Fatherland’s loyal crowd.”

Claiming worth and iron will,
The farce begins once more.
The sheep will trust these “laws” again —
Blind fools led to the floor.

“New” education dulls the mind,
Turning sheep to empty shells.
Deceit herds all to sacrifice —
A pack of lies compels.

“New” faiths rise with Satan’s base,
Hidden depths of darkest sin.
Only few will pierce the veil —
They’re branded filth within.

Again all sinks to rotten core,
Decay returns to claim the night.
The demon (once a child’s plaything)
Builds his “Super-New” blight.



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



Hell’s New Game

Demon cuts the old king’s head,
New hell’s painted, lies widespread.
Sheep believe the latest scheme,
Darkness fuels the endless dream.



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


A Bad Deal

"A lifebuoy turned a collar tight."
— Stanisław Jerzy Lec

"Dignity — above all, dignity,
So those who grant the gifts don’t drag you
To the stall and stuff your mouth with hay."
— Yevgeny Yevtushenko


“Saviors,” “rescuers,”
“Givers of gifts,”
Spent great effort —
To turn us all to beasts.

Each put in a collar — from childhood bound,
Only few find strength and means to stand their ground.
But these few can’t shake the herd today:
Reason’s just a mirage — two thirds idiots sway.

Clinical fools, plus a quarter mad,
A rotten deal: devils rule the pad.
A crooked thief just one step below —
This is the state of the world we know.



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



Bad Deal

Lifebuoy turned collar tight,
Saviors drag us into night.
Fools and madmen rule the land,
Devils guide the traitor’s hand.



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



The Land of “Pu-du-gi”

Pu-Pu-Pu — the double’s here, Putler.
Du-Du-Du — a fool who trusts all fear.
Gi-Gi-Gi — but not old ******’s guise:
The Kremlin **** just mocks and lies.

Doors locked tight in “bunker” gloom —
Filming’s canceled, Botox’s doom.
The speechwriter’s lost the knack,
One guard even slipped the track.

Soon the rats will scatter wide —
The ship is sinking, no place to hide.
In Kremlin halls they quake with dread —
All promises are dead and fled.



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



Putler’s Fall

Rats scatter as ship goes down,
Bunker doors and Botox frown.
Kremlin lies have lost their might —
Darkness swallows all their fight.



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



Abomination

Roofs are pierced,
Souls have vanished.
Fainter grows
The Light, now banished.

Crushed from all sides —
No salvation near.
Fascism praised
As if a cure, sincere.

Only fire can burn the pit —
Of fools and fiends that sit
Crooked, spawn of Hell,
In this cursed shell.

Yet the Sun still shines,
Burning filth away.
All this abomination
Will answer one day.



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



Rot Burns

Roofs cracked, souls lost to night,
Light fades under crushing blight.
Fools and fiends, the pit must burn,
Sun will come — their fate will turn.



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



Fight — Don’t Submit!

Don’t trust, don’t bow —
Send fascism to hell somehow.
Build community, unite,
Salvation’s in this fight.

Crush the lies, all lies that spread,
Multiply the truths instead.
Fatal “power” of the herd,
Don’t give them a single word.

Meet force with force — but wise,
Cast off weakness, clear your eyes.
We are nearing final days,
Soul’s salvation in the frays.

Don’t heed **** who preach the dark —
Or you’ll be lost, erased, no mark.



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



Fight Back!

Don’t submit, don’t trust the lies,
Smash the **** before they rise.
Truth’s your weapon, soul your guide,
Stand and fight — don’t step aside!



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



Fascism and Fools

Putler’s old,
But slavery’s new:
The zombie box now rules the crew.
All the fools
Like logs in stacks —
They pile them high, no turning back.

What then? They’ll be laid to rest —
And burned away, if dumb’s the test.
Worldwide fascism’s spread,
The meek fool’s voice is dead.

Lies and hysteria flood the air,
No shore in sight — a sea of despair.
Fools listen, deaf and blind —
Polluted Earth, a world maligned.

The whole world’s lost in sheepish trance —
The herd’s caught in a fatal dance.



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



Global Fascism

Putler rules, the slaves obey,
Zombies march and fade away.
Fools like logs stacked high and deep,
Sheep who follow fall and sleep.



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



Fascist Guts

Fascist guts put on a show:
Bragging, violence, bluff and blow.
Lies — the powder of their hate,
Turning countries into pens of fate.

Donkeys, sheep, and swine abound,
The worst of beasts make up the ground.
Mostly guilty for this shame —
Slaves to belly’s cruel game.

Souls and thoughts sold cheap for swill,
Food and drink their only thrill.
For this, wars sting like poison’s bite —
**** must answer, face the fight.

So few remain with hearts that care,
While beasts grow bolder, thick with snare.
And fascist fools, more cruel, more blind,
Grow darker still, with hate combined.



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



Fascist Guts

Bragging, bluff, and deadly lies,
Beasts that crawl beneath the skies.
Souls sold cheap, the wars ignite,
**** must fall to end the night.



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



Paperwork in the Madhouse

Screen’s black soot,
Easy to *****,
Spews its lies,
“By decree” — rough.

Says only paper,
Without a sign,
Hard to call
A valid line.

These moments show
Madhouse symptoms clear,
That all the world’s
In fascist fear.

Everywhere —
This rotten game,
A global madhouse,
All the same.



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



Paper Lies

Screens spew filth, decree the fake,
Paper’s worthless if no sign they make.
Madhouse grips the world so tight,
Fascism’s shadow blocks the light.



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



“Art”

Lacy husks of second-rate,
All that’s called the “art” we hate.
Nonsense piled to heights absurd,
But when stubborn craftsman’s stirred,

He will raise that nonsense high —
To peaks that scrape the sky.
No middle ground — just good or bad,
A stink, a shoe, a toilet pad,

Can be shown as “art,” you see,
To fools and fools’ society.
Monsters have the orders clear —
“Crush the wise with art’s veneer.”

Flush your strength down porcelain bowls,
Art as valve that drains our souls.
You’ll become a hollow shell,
If in that false hope you dwell.

At first it charms with pretty lies,
Then boredom’s dull, your spirit dies.
Only chaff and fools delight,
The touchy weak cling to the night.

Here the Spirit’s at the core,
No Spirit — just a rotten bore.
Flee the darkness, servants’ schemes,
If you’re yet a wounded dream.

This chaos grinds and grinds you down,
But let them loose — they’ll end the town.
Only Spirit keeps us strong,
Think how to break chains so wrong.

Where’s the spark for Freedom’s flight,
In this half-baked, soulless blight?
It’s a festering sore, a lie,
Feeding rotten hearts nearby.

Hearts that rot as flocks amuse
Their lusts and whims — false comforts’ use.
For fiends the pain is sweet,
Beneath thick fascism’s beat.

Where is fight against that hell?
The shameless art won’t tell.
Shots fired blank, no aim or spark —
All is gloom and bitter dark.

Exceptions? Maybe one or two,
But I ignore the chosen few.
Time for honor, truth to rise —
Yet rot advances, vile lies.

That filth serves fiends on call,
If Spirit’s alive, it must stand tall.
Speak the truth that saves the day,
Sell not your soul or run away.

The world’s in grave, soon cleansed anew —
So cast the thief and lies from view.
Judgment Day will come in time,
Death for servants of the crime.

Only truth will then survive,
While foul art can’t stay alive.
Stench so strong, a butcher’s blade
Could chop this rotten masquerade.

Today through film, the **** convey
Their filthy schemes in foul display.
Reclaim your Spirit, fight the lies —
Too soon to write the Spirit’s demise.

Though in the fight you fall and fade,
Your soul’s saved in the fiery blade.
Say “No!” to fate so dull and cold —
Burn the framed lies you’ve been sold.

If sent by demons’ call,
Stop believing in that thrall.
Mad world’s sailed to Hell’s abyss —
Fight to save your soul in this.



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



Art’s Rot

Second-rate, lace thin and fake,
Craftsmen build the cruelest fake.
Spirit lost — all turns to waste,
Freedom’s spark crushed, dreams displaced.

Fools applaud the hollow show,
Fiends in shadows pull the flow.
Fight the lies, reclaim the flame —
Burn the falsehood, break the shame.



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



Sports on the Zombie Box

"You can easily remove me from the game,
I’m weak before the strong — I shame,
But stop me by force? No, never!
When football calls, I break through clever!"
— Vladimir Vysotsky, 1971


Physical culture — always fine,
Beginner’s sport, a hopeful sign,
Until the Party hack takes seat —
Then sports become a trap and cheat.

In that machine of lies and spin,
The sporting world’s a game to win
By fools whose god is “success” —
A mask to hide the deep distress.

But truth — that “success” is fake,
A curtain drawn for eyes to break.
“Give me a slave of newer breed!” —
The Party hack fulfills the deed.

Energy flushed down the drain,
That’s what this sport will help sustain.
The world’s now in a phase extreme —
Of slavish trance, a dulling dream.

Fools think they’re free to heed
The lies that serve their twisted creed.
With falsehood, one can **** and spite —
While drowning out the inner light.

Distraction’s needed — games are key,
To blind the world we fail to see.
Under fascism’s foul rod,
No country’s free beneath the sod.

Fake countries, fake wins, all bought,
With doping’s poison deeply wrought.
No trace of reason will remain,
Only fear and madness reign.

That Party hack once wore red’s crown,
Now sells his soul, lets freedom down.
He serves fascists with zeal extreme,
Preparing souls for death’s grim scheme.

The goal: to **** the Spirit’s fire,
And wielding lies as dark desire.
Football, archery, fill the mind,
While truth and light fall far behind.

At matches, nations hold their breath —
Blind to the growing shade of death.
The best are killed in darkness deep,
While propaganda’s dung they keep.

The world is one vast lie machine,
Where sport’s the greatest show obscene.
Russia turned to Uganda’s place —
A lost and empty, shameful space.

Even sports are torn apart,
Fascists rule and crush the heart.
One stubborn box of zombie lies
Deludes the herd with empty cries.

The people herd, all over,
Feed them shows and empty cover.
The world has turned to stinking ****,
Where hell’s own “paradise” has come.

Such “sports” reveal the rotten core —
Exposing them leads to Hell’s door.
Only memes remain to spread
The psychic virus — minds are dead.

Seek the Path, build your commune,
Leave this global madhouse soon.
There are still some Men who stand —
Not every soul can be made bland.



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



Zombie Sports

Slaves to screens, the sport’s a trap,
Party hacks run every map.
Fools cheer lies, the Spirit dies,
World’s a stage for twisted lies.

Doping wins and fake acclaim,
Fascist rule, the people’s shame.
Break the herd, reclaim your soul —
Fight the darkness, make it whole.

— The End —