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I.

Hélas ! que j'en ai vu mourir de jeunes filles !
C'est le destin. Il faut une proie au trépas.
Il faut que l'herbe tombe au tranchant des faucilles ;
Il faut que dans le bal les folâtres quadrilles
Foulent des roses sous leurs pas.

Il faut que l'eau s'épuise à courir les vallées ;
Il faut que l'éclair brille, et brille peu d'instants,
Il faut qu'avril jaloux brûle de ses gelées
Le beau pommier, trop fier de ses fleurs étoilées,
Neige odorante du printemps.

Oui, c'est la vie. Après le jour, la nuit livide.
Après tout, le réveil, infernal ou divin.
Autour du grand banquet siège une foule avide ;
Mais bien des conviés laissent leur place vide.
Et se lèvent avant la fin.

II.

Que j'en ai vu mourir ! - L'une était rose et blanche ;
L'autre semblait ouïr de célestes accords ;
L'autre, faible, appuyait d'un bras son front qui penche,
Et, comme en s'envolant l'oiseau courbe la branche,
Son âme avait brisé son corps.

Une, pâle, égarée, en proie au noir délire,
Disait tout bas un nom dont nul ne se souvient ;
Une s'évanouit, comme un chant sur la lyre ;
Une autre en expirant avait le doux sourire
D'un jeune ange qui s'en revient.

Toutes fragiles fleurs, sitôt mortes que nées !
Alcyions engloutis avec leurs nids flottants !
Colombes, que le ciel au monde avait données !
Qui, de grâce, et d'enfance, et d'amour couronnées,
Comptaient leurs ans par les printemps !

Quoi, mortes ! quoi, déjà, sous la pierre couchées !
Quoi ! tant d'êtres charmants sans regard et sans voix !
Tant de flambeaux éteints ! tant de fleurs arrachées !...
Oh ! laissez-moi fouler les feuilles desséchées,
Et m'égarer au fond des bois !

Deux fantômes ! c'est là, quand je rêve dans l'ombre,
Qu'ils viennent tour à tour m'entendre et me parler.
Un jour douteux me montre et me cache leur nombre.
A travers les rameaux et le feuillage sombre
Je vois leurs yeux étinceler.

Mon âme est une sœur pour ces ombres si belles.
La vie et le tombeau pour nous n'ont plus de loi.
Tantôt j'aide leurs pas, tantôt je prends leurs ailes.
Vision ineffable où je suis mort comme elles,
Elles, vivantes comme moi !

Elles prêtent leur forme à toutes mes pensées.
Je les vois ! je les vois ! Elles me disent : Viens !
Puis autour d'un tombeau dansent entrelacées ;
Puis s'en vont lentement, par degrés éclipsées.
Alors je songe et me souviens...

III.

Une surtout. - Un ange, une jeune espagnole !
Blanches mains, sein gonflé de soupirs innocents,
Un œil noir, où luisaient des regards de créole,
Et ce charme inconnu, cette fraîche auréole
Qui couronne un front de quinze ans !

Non, ce n'est point d'amour qu'elle est morte : pour elle,
L'amour n'avait encor ni plaisirs ni combats ;
Rien ne faisait encor battre son cœur rebelle ;
Quand tous en la voyant s'écriaient : Qu'elle est belle !
Nul ne le lui disait tout bas.

Elle aimait trop le bal, c'est ce qui l'a tuée.
Le bal éblouissant ! le bal délicieux !
Sa cendre encor frémit, doucement remuée,
Quand, dans la nuit sereine, une blanche nuée
Danse autour du croissant des cieux.

Elle aimait trop le bal. - Quand venait une fête,
Elle y pensait trois jours, trois nuits elle en rêvait,
Et femmes, musiciens, danseurs que rien n'arrête,
Venaient, dans son sommeil, troublant sa jeune tête,
Rire et bruire à son chevet.

Puis c'étaient des bijoux, des colliers, des merveilles !
Des ceintures de moire aux ondoyants reflets ;
Des tissus plus légers que des ailes d'abeilles ;
Des festons, des rubans, à remplir des corbeilles ;
Des fleurs, à payer un palais !

La fête commencée, avec ses sœurs rieuses
Elle accourait, froissant l'éventail sous ses doigts,
Puis s'asseyait parmi les écharpes soyeuses,
Et son cœur éclatait en fanfares joyeuses,
Avec l'orchestre aux mille voix.

C'était plaisir de voir danser la jeune fille !
Sa basquine agitait ses paillettes d'azur ;
Ses grands yeux noirs brillaient sous la noire mantille.
Telle une double étoile au front des nuits scintille
Sous les plis d'un nuage obscur.

Tout en elle était danse, et rire, et folle joie.
Enfant ! - Nous l'admirions dans nos tristes loisirs ;
Car ce n'est point au bal que le cœur se déploie,
La centre y vole autour des tuniques de soie,
L'ennui sombre autour des plaisirs.

Mais elle, par la valse ou la ronde emportée,
Volait, et revenait, et ne respirait pas,
Et s'enivrait des sons de la flûte vantée,
Des fleurs, des lustres d'or, de la fête enchantée,
Du bruit des vois, du bruit des pas.

Quel bonheur de bondir, éperdue, en la foule,
De sentir par le bal ses sens multipliés,
Et de ne pas savoir si dans la nue on roule,
Si l'on chasse en fuyant la terre, ou si l'on foule
Un flot tournoyant sous ses pieds !

Mais hélas ! il fallait, quand l'aube était venue,
Partir, attendre au seuil le manteau de satin.
C'est alors que souvent la danseuse ingénue
Sentit en frissonnant sur son épaule nue
Glisser le souffle du matin.

Quels tristes lendemains laisse le bal folâtre !
Adieu parure, et danse, et rires enfantins !
Aux chansons succédait la toux opiniâtre,
Au plaisir rose et frais la fièvre au teint bleuâtre,
Aux yeux brillants les yeux éteints.

IV.

Elle est morte. - A quinze ans, belle, heureuse, adorée !
Morte au sortir d'un bal qui nous mit tous en deuil.
Morte, hélas ! et des bras d'une mère égarée
La mort aux froides mains la prit toute parée,
Pour l'endormir dans le cercueil.

Pour danser d'autres bals elle était encor prête,
Tant la mort fut pressée à prendre un corps si beau !
Et ces roses d'un jour qui couronnaient sa tête,
Qui s'épanouissaient la veille en une fête,
Se fanèrent dans un tombeau.

V.

Sa pauvre mère ! - hélas ! de son sort ignorante,
Avoir mis tant d'amour sur ce frêle roseau,
Et si longtemps veillé son enfance souffrante,
Et passé tant de nuits à l'endormir pleurante
Toute petite en son berceau !

A quoi bon ? - Maintenant la jeune trépassée,
Sous le plomb du cercueil, livide, en proie au ver,
Dort ; et si, dans la tombe où nous l'avons laissée,
Quelque fête des morts la réveille glacée,
Par une belle nuit d'hiver,

Un spectre au rire affreux à sa morne toilette
Préside au lieu de mère, et lui dit : Il est temps !
Et, glaçant d'un baiser sa lèvre violette,
Passe les doigts noueux de sa main de squelette
Sous ses cheveux longs et flottants.

Puis, tremblante, il la mène à la danse fatale,
Au chœur aérien dans l'ombre voltigeant ;
Et sur l'horizon gris la lune est large et pâle,
Et l'arc-en-ciel des nuits teint d'un reflet d'opale
Le nuage aux franges d'argent.

VI.

Vous toutes qu'à ses jeux le bal riant convie,
Pensez à l'espagnole éteinte sans retour,
Jeunes filles ! Joyeuse, et d'une main ravie,
Elle allait moissonnant les roses de la vie,
Beauté, plaisir, jeunesse, amour !

La pauvre enfant, de fête en fête promenée,
De ce bouquet charmant arrangeait les couleurs ;
Mais qu'elle a passé vite, hélas ! l'infortunée !
Ainsi qu'Ophélia par le fleuve entraînée,
Elle est morte en cueillant des fleurs !

Avril 1828.
Bianka Mar 2014
When you die I will surely mourn,
I will miss the warmth of your embrace,
A blanket in the cold cruelty of the night,
I will miss how you'd tell me,
"Darling, it'll be better in the morning"
But it'll only be better after the mourning,
Oh Mother we're all going to die,  
That's certain,
And there will be just as much not to miss,
I will not miss your words sharp as blades,
Cutting away slowly at my insides,
And the way they stuck like severed tacks in my mind,
I will not miss your beliefs,
So isolated and different from mine,
Your good intentions and fouler methods,
I will not miss the strike of your hands,
Like thunder,
Or your temper,
Like a hurricane,
Nor the vigilant and wary eye of a self-proclaimed victim,
An agent in broad daylight, lurking, critical and hideous,
But most of all, I will not miss your condescension,
Oh Mother,
I know I told you I'd never bow,
But just this once,
At your tombstone,
I will be free of it,
The best of the worst and the worst of the best,
I will mourn,
I'll take a bow for you,
Good riddance, I'll miss you,
Adieu, I love you,
And Mama?
Godspeed Mama, Godspeed.
Ashwin Kumar Oct 2023
At a time when I was held prisoner
By my shy nature
Especially when it comest to talking with girls
You put your best foot forward
In order to break the ice
Which was doing its best
To try and freeze me to death
As though I were but in Antarctica
So, I thought you my friend
Mind you, an assumption it wasn't
You called me your best friend
Not once or twice
But many a time
You even called yourself my sister
A trusting person that I am
I took you at face value
Which was probably one of the biggest mistakes
Of my life in entirety
If Australia dominated cricket
You were my dominator
Your name stands for desire
And all you desired
Was getting your way
When it comest to anything and everything
You were such a drama queen
You put the Kardashians to shame
Only your "bestest friend" escaped
From your terrifying glare
Which burnest everything in its path
Much like Lord Shiva's third eye
You were always right
We were always wrong
Again, with a notable exception
Your precious little "bestest friend"
What he saw in you
Only God knowest
Marking you absent in the attendance register
Which was but my duty
Turned out to be a crime
Fouler than ****** itself!!
How dare I mark the "Queen" absent
Even if she were indeed absent!!
How dare I support Chennai Superkings
Even if I were but from Chennai
Not to mention, a huge fan of MS Dhoni!!
East or West, North, South Or Central
Mumbai Indians were always the best
All other teams were trash
You and your whims and fancies
Driveth all of us mad
Quicker than a tracer bullet
As Ravi Shastri would say
Even to this day
But you were my best friend
Not to mention, my sister!!
So mum I kept
As would a fiercely loyal dog
Even when ignored by its master
After our college days endeth
I stayed in touch
As would every friend in the world
In particular, a best friend
But best friend you were certainly not
I can forgive even an enemy
But not a friend who cuts me off
For the flimsiest reason in the world
To you, I was wrong
Though reality speaketh otherwise
But hey, why would I want to lose my best friend?
So did I apologise
Not once or twice
But many a time
Though for the kind of response I receiveth
Might I have spoken to the wall instead!!
After ages and ages
Cometh your response
As arrogant as James Potter in his school days
You showeth me your true face
Nothing but a jumped up rich Punjabi Brahmin
Who thinkest she were the best
In not just India
But the world in its entirety
Gone was your sweet tongue
In full display was a mini Bellatrix Lestrange
Ready to **** even her best friend
As the real Bellatrix did
With her cousin Sirius Black
Well, I would rather I died
Than maintain a friendship
With a cunning ***** like yourself
You deserve not
A single true friend in the world
Not even your "bestest friend"
You smashed my self-confidence
Into a billion little pieces
Pieces that I continue to pick up
Even to this day
Something I could but have avoided
Had I not taken you up
On your offer of friendship
Which was but as fake
As the smile of a Kardashian
I endeth on this note
It is but a lesson to all
Not to get swayed by sweet tongues
Scratch beneath the surface
Then only showeth up the true character
Poem dedicated to my first female friend, who cut me off because of a comment on one of her Facebook photos.
I am a little world made cunningly
Of elements and an angelic sprite,
But black sin hath betray'd to endless night
My world's both parts, and oh both parts must die.
You which beyond that heaven which was most high
Have found new spheres, and of new lands can write,
Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might
Drown my world with my weeping earnestly,
Or wash it, if it must be drown'd no more.
But oh it must be burnt; alas the fire
Of lust and envy have burnt it heretofore,
And made it fouler; let their flames retire,
And burn me O Lord, with a fiery zeal
Of thee and thy house, which doth in eating heal.
Your peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines!
  In the soft light of these serenest skies;
From the broad highland region, black with pines,
  Fair as the hills of Paradise they rise,
Bathed in the tint Peruvian slaves behold
In rosy flushes on the ****** gold.

There, rooted to the aerial shelves that wear
  The glory of a brighter world, might spring
Sweet flowers of heaven to scent the unbreathed air,
  And heaven's fleet messengers might rest the wing,
To view the fair earth in its summer sleep,
Silent, and cradled by the glimmering deep.

Below you lie men's sepulchres, the old
  Etrurian tombs, the graves of yesterday;
The herd's white bones lie mixed with human mould--
  Yet up the radiant steeps that I survey
Death never climbed, nor life's soft breath, with pain,
Was yielded to the elements again.

Ages of war have filled these plains with fear;
  How oft the hind has started at the clash
Of spears, and yell of meeting, armies here,
  Or seen the lightning of the battle flash
From clouds, that rising with the thunder's sound,
Hung like an earth-born tempest o'er the ground!

Ah me! what armed nations--Asian horde,
  And Libyan host--the Scythian and the Gaul,
Have swept your base and through your passes poured,
  Like ocean-tides uprising at the call
Of tyrant winds--against your rocky side
The ****** billows dashed, and howled, and died.

How crashed the towers before beleaguering foes,
  Sacked cities smoked and realms were rent in twain;
And commonwealths against their rivals rose,
  Trode out their lives and earned the curse of Cain!
While in the noiseless air and light that flowed
Round your far brows, eternal Peace abode.

Here pealed the impious hymn, and altar flames
  Rose to false gods, a dream-begotten throng,
Jove, Bacchus, Pan, and earlier, fouler names;
  While, as the unheeding ages passed along,
Ye, from your station in the middle skies,
Proclaimed the essential Goodness, strong and wise.

In you the heart that sighs for freedom seeks
  Her image; there the winds no barrier know,
Clouds come and rest and leave your fairy peaks;
  While even the immaterial Mind, below,
And thought, her winged offspring, chained by power,
Pine silently for the redeeming hour.
Start not—nor deem my spirit fled:
  In me behold the only skull,
From which, unlike a living head,
  Whatever flows is never dull.

I lived, I loved, I quaff’d, like thee:
  I died: let earth my bones resign;
Fill up—thou canst not injure me;
  The worm hath fouler lips than thine.

Better to hold the sparkling grape,
  Than nurse the earth-worm’s slimy brood;
And circle in the goblet’s shape
  The drink of Gods, than reptile’s food.
Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
  In aid of others’ let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
  What nobler substitute than wine?

Quaff while thou canst: another race,
  When thou and thine, like me, are sped,
May rescue thee from earth’s embrace,
  And rhyme and revel with the dead.

Why not? since through life’s little day
  Our heads such sad effects produce;
Redeem’d from worms and wasting clay,
  This chance is theirs, to be of use.
« Amis et frères ! en présence de ce gouvernement infâme, négation de toute morale, obstacle à tout progrès social, en présence de ce gouvernement meurtrier du peuple, assassin de la République et violateur des lois, de ce gouvernement né de la force et qui doit périr par la force, de ce gouvernement élevé par le crime et qui doit être terrassé par le droit, le français digne du nom de citoyen ne sait pas, ne veut pas savoir s'il y a quelque part des semblants de scrutin, des comédies de suffrage universel et des parodies d'appel à la nation ; il ne s'informe pas s'il y a des hommes qui votent et des hommes qui font voter, s'il y a un troupeau qu'on appelle le sénat et qui délibère et un autre troupeau qu'on appelle le peuple et qui obéit ; il ne s'informe pas si le pape va sacrer au maître-autel de Notre-Dame l'homme qui - n'en doutez pas, ceci est l'avenir inévitable - sera ferré au poteau par le bourreau ; - en présence de M. Bonaparte et de son gouvernement, le citoyen digne de ce nom ne fait qu'une chose et n'a qu'une chose à faire : charger son fusil, et attendre l'heure.

Jersey, le 31 octobre 1852.


Déclaration des proscrits républicains de Jersey, à propos de l'empire, publiée par le Moniteur, signée pour copie conforme :

VICTOR HUGO, FAURE, FOMBERTAUX.


« Nous flétrissons de l'énergie la plus vigoureuse de notre âme les ignobles et coupables manifestes du Parti du Crime. »

(RIANCEY, JOURNAL L'UNION, 22 NOVEMBRE.)

« Le Parti du Crime relève la tête. »

(TOUS LES JOURNAUX ÉLYSÉENS EN CHOEUR.)



Ainsi ce gouvernant dont l'ongle est une griffe,
Ce masque impérial, Bonaparte apocryphe,
À coup sûr Beauharnais, peut-être Verhueil,
Qui, pour la mettre en croix, livra, sbire cruel,
Rome républicaine à Rome catholique,
Cet homme, l'assassin de la chose publique,
Ce parvenu, choisi par le destin sans yeux,
Ainsi, lui, ce glouton singeant l'ambitieux,
Cette altesse quelconque habile aux catastrophes,
Ce loup sur qui je lâche une meute de strophes,
Ainsi ce boucanier, ainsi ce chourineur
À fait d'un jour d'orgueil un jour de déshonneur,
Mis sur la gloire un crime et souillé la victoire
Il a volé, l'infâme, Austerlitz à l'histoire ;
Brigand, dans ce trophée il a pris un poignard ;
Il a broyé bourgeois, ouvrier, campagnard ;
Il a fait de corps morts une horrible étagère
Derrière les barreaux de la cité Bergère ;
Il s'est, le sabre en main, rué sur son serment ;
Il a tué les lois et le gouvernement,
La justice, l'honneur, tout, jusqu'à l'espérance
Il a rougi de sang, de ton sang pur, ô France,
Tous nos fleuves, depuis la Seine jusqu'au Var ;
Il a conquis le Louvre en méritant Clamar ;
Et maintenant il règne, appuyant, ô patrie,
Son vil talon fangeux sur ta bouche meurtrie
Voilà ce qu'il a fait ; je n'exagère rien ;
Et quand, nous indignant de ce galérien,
Et de tous les escrocs de cette dictature,
Croyant rêver devant cette affreuse aventure,
Nous disons, de dégoût et d'horreur soulevés :
- Citoyens, marchons ! Peuple, aux armes, aux pavés !
À bas ce sabre abject qui n'est pas même un glaive !
Que le jour reparaisse et que le droit se lève ! -
C'est nous, proscrits frappés par ces coquins hardis,
Nous, les assassinés, qui sommes les bandits !
Nous qui voulons le meurtre et les guerres civiles !
Nous qui mettons la torche aux quatre coins des villes !

Donc, trôner par la mort, fouler aux pieds le droit
Etre fourbe, impudent, cynique, atroce, adroit ;
Dire : je suis César, et n'être qu'un maroufle
Etouffer la pensée et la vie et le souffle ;
Forcer quatre-vingt-neuf qui marche à reculer ;
Supprimer lois, tribune et presse ; museler
La grande nation comme une bête fauve ;
Régner par la caserne et du fond d'une alcôve ;
Restaurer les abus au profit des félons
Livrer ce pauvre peuple aux voraces Troplongs,
Sous prétexte qu'il fut, **** des temps où nous sommes,
Dévoré par les rois et par les gentilshommes
Faire manger aux chiens ce reste des lions ;
Prendre gaîment pour soi palais et millions ;
S'afficher tout crûment satrape, et, sans sourdines,
Mener joyeuse vie avec des gourgandines
Torturer des héros dans le bagne exécré ;
Bannir quiconque est ferme et fier ; vivre entouré
De grecs, comme à Byzance autrefois le despote
Etre le bras qui tue et la main qui tripote
Ceci, c'est la justice, ô peuple, et la vertu !
Et confesser le droit par le meurtre abattu
Dans l'exil, à travers l'encens et les fumées,
Dire en face aux tyrans, dire en face aux armées
- Violence, injustice et force sont vos noms
Vous êtes les soldats, vous êtes les canons ;
La terre est sous vos pieds comme votre royaume
Vous êtes le colosse et nous sommes l'atome ;
Eh bien ! guerre ! et luttons, c'est notre volonté,
Vous, pour l'oppression, nous, pour la liberté ! -
Montrer les noirs pontons, montrer les catacombes,
Et s'écrier, debout sur la pierre des tombes.
- Français ! craignez d'avoir un jour pour repentirs
Les pleurs des innocents et les os des martyrs !
Brise l'homme sépulcre, ô France ! ressuscite !
Arrache de ton flanc ce Néron parasite !
Sors de terre sanglante et belle, et dresse-toi,
Dans une main le glaive et dans l'autre la loi ! -
Jeter ce cri du fond de son âme proscrite,
Attaquer le forban, démasquer l'hypocrite
Parce que l'honneur parle et parce qu'il le faut,
C'est le crime, cela ! - Tu l'entends, toi, là-haut !
Oui, voilà ce qu'on dit, mon Dieu, devant ta face !
Témoin toujours présent qu'aucune ombre n'efface,
Voilà ce qu'on étale à tes yeux éternels !

Quoi ! le sang fume aux mains de tous ces criminels !
Quoi ! les morts, vierge, enfant, vieillards et femmes grosses
Ont à peine eu le temps de pourrir dans leurs fosses !
Quoi ! Paris saigne encor ! quoi ! devant tous les yeux,
Son faux serment est là qui plane dans les cieux !
Et voilà comme parle un tas d'êtres immondes
Ô noir bouillonnement des colères profondes !

Et maint vivant, gavé, triomphant et vermeil,
Reprend : « Ce bruit qu'on fait dérange mon sommeil.
Tout va bien. Les marchands triplent leurs clientèles,
Et nos femmes ne sont que fleurs et que dentelles !
- De quoi donc se plaint-on ? crie un autre quidam ;
En flânant sur l'asphalte et sur le macadam,
Je gagne tous les jours trois cents francs à la Bourse.
L'argent coule aujourd'hui comme l'eau d'une source ;
Les ouvriers maçons ont trois livres dix sous,
C'est superbe ; Paris est sens dessus dessous.
Il paraît qu'on a mis dehors les démagogues.
Tant mieux. Moi j'applaudis les bals et les églogues
Du prince qu'autrefois à tort je reniais.
Que m'importe qu'on ait chassé quelques niais ?
Quant aux morts, ils sont morts. Paix à ces imbéciles !
Vivent les gens d'esprit ! vivent ces temps faciles
Où l'on peut à son choix prendre pour nourricier
Le crédit mobilier ou le crédit foncier !
La république rouge aboie en ses cavernes,
C'est affreux ! Liberté, droit, progrès, balivernes
Hier encor j'empochais une prime d'un franc ;
Et moi, je sens fort peu, j'en conviens, je suis franc,
Les déclamations m'étant indifférentes,
La baisse de l'honneur dans la hausse des rentes. »

Ô langage hideux ! on le tient, on l'entend !
Eh bien, sachez-le donc ; repus au cœur content,
Que nous vous le disions bien une fois pour toutes,
Oui, nous, les vagabonds dispersés sur les routes,
Errant sans passe-port, sans nom et sans foyer,
Nous autres, les proscrits qu'on ne fait pas ployer,
Nous qui n'acceptons point qu'un peuple s'abrutisse,
Qui d'ailleurs ne voulons, tout en voulant justice,
D'aucune représaille et d'aucun échafaud,
Nous, dis-je, les vaincus sur qui Mandrin prévaut,
Pour que la liberté revive, et que la honte
Meure, et qu'à tous les fronts l'honneur serein remonte,
Pour affranchir romains, lombards, germains, hongrois,
Pour faire rayonner, soleil de tous les droits,
La république mère au centre de l'Europe,
Pour réconcilier le palais et l'échoppe,
Pour faire refleurir la fleur Fraternité,
Pour fonder du travail le droit incontesté,
Pour tirer les martyrs de ces bagnes infâmes,
Pour rendre aux fils le père et les maris aux femmes,
Pour qu'enfin ce grand siècle et cette nation
Sortent du Bonaparte et de l'abjection,
Pour atteindre à ce but où notre âme s'élance,
Nous nous ceignons les reins dans l'ombre et le silence
Nous nous déclarons prêts, prêts, entendez-vous bien ?
- Le sacrifice est tout, la souffrance n'est rien, -
Prêts, quand Dieu fera signe, à donner notre vie
Car, à voir ce qui vit, la mort nous fait envie,
Car nous sommes tous mal sous ce drôle effronté,
Vivant, nous sans patrie, et vous sans liberté !

Oui, sachez-le, vous tous que l'air libre importune
Et qui dans ce fumier plantez votre fortune,
Nous ne laisserons pas le peuple s'assoupir ;
Oui, nous appellerons, jusqu'au dernier soupir,
Au secours de la France aux fers et presque éteinte,
Comme nos grands -aïeux, l'insurrection sainte
Nous convierons Dieu même à foudroyer ceci
Et c'est notre pensée et nous sommes ainsi,
Aimant mieux, dût le sort nous broyer sous sa roue,
Voir couler notre sang que croupir votre boue.

Jersey, le 28 janvier 1853.
I am a little world made cunningly
Of elements, and an angelic sprite;
But black sin hath betrayed to endless night
My worlds both parts, and (oh!) both parts must die.
You which beyond that heaven which was most high
Have found new spheres, and of new lands can write,
Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might
Drown my world with my weeping earnestly,
Or wash it if it must be drowned no more:
But oh it must be burnt! alas the fire
Of lust and envy have burnt it heretofore,
And made it fouler: Let their flames retire,
And burn me, O Lord, with a fiery zeal
Of Thee and Thy house, which doth in eating heal.
Joseph Childress Feb 2011
Socially suicidal
I say the wrong things
At the wrong times
To the wrong people
In all the wrong places
Face it
My face is the last thing
You want to see
On a day is as beautiful as this
Miss me with the *******!
I know you miss me
And the *******!
The scent is foul
But its fouler
TO have no senses at all
Since
Youve been gone
Ive been alone
WIth nothing
But a room full of family, friends,
Kinfolk, next of kin
Bad *******, X's,
Potential girlfriends
All in the whirlwind
Of indecision
....since you've been missing
Empty crowds
Full of people
I love
Sure enough
But what's love
Without you!?
Nothing much
I'm Nothingmore
Too much
Is not enough
Not a thing
Unless
Everything
Was the one thing
I gave you
Nonetheless
The lesson
Is none of this
Had to happen
It just happens
To be called
Fate
Rather fatal
****
Cupid'*****
Was supposed to nick
Not split
Me in half
I lost one side of me
ANd you
Replaced it
To make we whole again
And now
I have this hole again
You used to hold me
Now you *** me
As if I didn't
USed to be a ****
But "used to"
Doesnt do much
For this present
Feeling of being used
Too much
****
You used me up
Now Im left amongst
The bitter *******
That would bite a *******
For they let
The taste
Of Love
Eat them alive again
Im amongst the dead
No hopes to be revived
DOn't want to be alive
The pain
Isn't worth
The ability to feel
I gained less
Than what Ive attained
Since
They day I met you
I've haven't been
Myself ever since!

****,
I guess
The foul smell
Isnt worth
The Sense...
Kyle Kind Jul 2013
Whether it's the nicotine to cure the itch,
The scars on your wrist that hurt like a *****,
The food that has lost its taste long ago,
Or the love for someone that you cannot show.
"I swear to god this is my last cigarette,
Oh these scars are just from my friends cat.
I'm not over eating, I'm just really hungry you see.
We're just friends, but I'm in love, cant you see?"
Yet you buy another pack,
You mark your skin again,
You eat until you're about to burst,
You cry yourself to sleep because the love just ******* hurts.
Addiction is a demon much fouler than sin.
One who whispers sweetly, yet you must never give in.
You can fight the battle, you can win the war,
You can take an eye for an eye and settle the score.
Put down the cigarette, throw away the blade,
Ease up on the food, the love you can save.
There will come brighter days where the fighting will cease.
And finally, my friend, your life will be at peace.
Redshift Nov 2013
house your pain
in a birdcage
don't put it in a cement box
where it can concentrate
and get bigger,
fouler
let it breathe

and maybe someday
with enough air
that pain will go away
taken on a breeze
that had nothing to do with you counting scars

...good things happen
you told yourself so
this morning in the shower
good things are brand new baby girls
that don't know what a family they've been born into yet
soft, sweet-smelling darlings
who don't understand the politics of their birth

good things happen, red.
just not to us.
welcome, Jojo Grace. don't let your grandmother ruin your life like she did mine.
Sur un écueil battu par la vague plaintive,
Le nautonier de **** voit blanchir sur la rive
Un tombeau près du bord par les flots déposé ;
Le temps n'a pas encor bruni l'étroite pierre,
Et sous le vert tissu de la ronce et du lierre
On distingue... un sceptre brisé !

Ici gît... point de nom !... demandez à la terre !
Ce nom ? il est inscrit en sanglant caractère
Des bords du Tanaïs au sommet du Cédar,
Sur le bronze et le marbre, et sur le sein des braves,
Et jusque dans le cœur de ces troupeaux d'esclaves
Qu'il foulait tremblants sous son char.

Depuis ces deux grands noms qu'un siècle au siècle annonce,
Jamais nom qu'ici-bas toute langue prononce
Sur l'aile de la foudre aussi **** ne vola.
Jamais d'aucun mortel le pied qu'un souffle efface
N'imprima sur la terre une plus forte trace,
Et ce pied s'est arrêté là !...

Il est là !... sous trois pas un enfant le mesure !
Son ombre ne rend pas même un léger murmure !
Le pied d'un ennemi foule en paix son cercueil !
Sur ce front foudroyant le moucheron bourdonne,
Et son ombre n'entend que le bruit monotone
D'une vague contre un écueil !

Ne crains rien, cependant, ombre encore inquiète,
Que je vienne outrager ta majesté muette.
Non. La lyre aux tombeaux n'a jamais insulté.
La mort fut de tout temps l'asile de la gloire.
Rien ne doit jusqu'ici poursuivre une mémoire.
Rien !... excepté la vérité !

Ta tombe et ton berceau sont couverts d'un nuage,
Mais pareil à l'éclair tu sortis d'un orage !
Tu foudroyas le monde avant d'avoir un nom !
Tel ce Nil dont Memphis boit les vagues fécondes
Avant d'être nommé fait bouilloner ses ondes
Aux solitudes de Memnom.

Les dieux étaient tombés, les trônes étaient vides ;
La victoire te prit sur ses ailes rapides
D'un peuple de Brutus la gloire te fit roi !
Ce siècle, dont l'écume entraînait dans sa course
Les mœurs, les rois, les dieux... refoulé vers sa source,
Recula d'un pas devant toi !

Tu combattis l'erreur sans regarder le nombre ;
Pareil au fier Jacob tu luttas contre une ombre !
Le fantôme croula sous le poids d'un mortel !
Et, de tous ses grands noms profanateur sublime,
Tu jouas avec eux, comme la main du crime
Avec les vases de l'autel.

Ainsi, dans les accès d'un impuissant délire
Quand un siècle vieilli de ses mains se déchire
En jetant dans ses fers un cri de liberté,
Un héros tout à coup de la poudre s'élève,
Le frappe avec son sceptre... il s'éveille, et le rêve
Tombe devant la vérité !

Ah ! si rendant ce sceptre à ses mains légitimes,
Plaçant sur ton pavois de royales victimes,
Tes mains des saints bandeaux avaient lavé l'affront !
Soldat vengeur des rois, plus grand que ces rois même,
De quel divin parfum, de quel pur diadème
L'histoire aurait sacré ton front !

Gloire ! honneur! liberté ! ces mots que l'homme adore,
Retentissaient pour toi comme l'airain sonore
Dont un stupide écho répète au **** le son :
De cette langue en vain ton oreille frappée
Ne comprit ici-bas que le cri de l'épée,
Et le mâle accord du clairon !

Superbe, et dédaignant ce que la terre admire,
Tu ne demandais rien au monde, que l'empire !
Tu marchais !... tout obstacle était ton ennemi !
Ta volonté volait comme ce trait rapide
Qui va frapper le but où le regard le guide,
Même à travers un cœur ami !

Jamais, pour éclaircir ta royale tristesse,
La coupe des festins ne te versa l'ivresse ;
Tes yeux d'une autre pourpre aimaient à s'enivrer !
Comme un soldat debout qui veille sous les armes,
Tu vis de la beauté le sourire ou les larmes,
Sans sourire et sans soupirer !

Tu n'aimais que le bruit du fer, le cri d'alarmes !
L'éclat resplendissant de l'aube sur tes armes !
Et ta main ne flattait que ton léger coursier,
Quand les flots ondoyants de sa pâle crinière
Sillonnaient comme un vent la sanglante poussière,
Et que ses pieds brisaient l'acier !

Tu grandis sans plaisir, tu tombas sans murmure !
Rien d'humain ne battait sous ton épaisse armure :
Sans haine et sans amour, tu vivais pour penser :
Comme l'aigle régnant dans un ciel solitaire,
Tu n'avais qu'un regard pour mesurer la terre,
Et des serres pour l'embrasser !

....................................................

........­............................................

...................­.................................

..............................­......................

S'élancer d'un seul bon au char de la victoire,
Foudroyer l'univers des splendeurs de sa gloire,
Fouler d'un même pied des tribuns et des rois ;
Forger un joug trempé dans l'amour et la haine,
Et faire frissonner sous le frein qui l'enchaîne
Un peuple échappé de ses lois !

Etre d'un siècle entier la pensée et la vie,
Emousser le poignard, décourager l'envie ;
Ebranler, raffermir l'univers incertain,
Aux sinistres clarté de ta foudre qui gronde
Vingt fois contre les dieux jouer le sort du monde,
Quel rêve ! et ce fut ton destin !...

Tu tombas cependant de ce sublime faîte !
Sur ce rocher désert jeté par la tempête,
Tu vis tes ennemis déchirer ton manteau !
Et le sort, ce seul dieu qu'adora ton audace,
Pour dernière faveur t'accorda cet espace
Entre le trône et le tombeau !

Oh ! qui m'aurait donné d'y sonder ta pensée,
Lorsque le souvenir de te grandeur passée
Venait, comme un remords, t'assaillir **** du bruit !
Et que, les bras croisés sur ta large poitrine,
Sur ton front chauve et nu, que la pensée incline,
L'horreur passait comme la nuit !

Tel qu'un pasteur debout sur la rive profonde
Voit son ombre de **** se prolonger sur l'onde
Et du fleuve orageux suivre en flottant le cours ;
Tel du sommet désert de ta grandeur suprême,
Dans l'ombre du passé te recherchant toi-même,
Tu rappelais tes anciens jours !

Ils passaient devant toi comme des flots sublimes
Dont l'oeil voit sur les mers étinceler les cimes,
Ton oreille écoutait leur bruit harmonieux !
Et, d'un reflet de gloire éclairant ton visage,
Chaque flot t'apportait une brillante image
Que tu suivais longtemps des yeux !

Là, sur un pont tremblant tu défiais la foudre !
Là, du désert sacré tu réveillais la poudre !
Ton coursier frissonnait dans les flots du Jourdain !
Là, tes pas abaissaient une cime escarpée !
Là, tu changeais en sceptre une invincible épée !
Ici... Mais quel effroi soudain ?

Pourquoi détournes-tu ta paupière éperdue ?
D'où vient cette pâleur sur ton front répandue ?
Qu'as-tu vu tout à coup dans l'horreur du passé ?
Est-ce d'une cité la ruine fumante ?
Ou du sang des humains quelque plaine écumante ?
Mais la gloire a tout effacé.

La gloire efface tout !... tout excepté le crime !
Mais son doigt me montrait le corps d'une victime ;
Un jeune homme! un héros, d'un sang pur inondé !
Le flot qui l'apportait, passait, passait, sans cesse ;
Et toujours en passant la vague vengeresse
Lui jetait le nom de Condé !...

Comme pour effacer une tache livide,
On voyait sur son front passer sa main rapide ;
Mais la trace du sang sous son doigt renaissait !
Et, comme un sceau frappé par une main suprême,
La goutte ineffaçable, ainsi qu'un diadème,
Le couronnait de son forfait !

C'est pour cela, tyran! que ta gloire ternie
Fera par ton forfait douter de ton génie !
Qu'une trace de sang suivra partout ton char !
Et que ton nom, jouet d'un éternel orage,
Sera par l'avenir ballotté d'âge en âge
Entre Marius et César !

....................................................

........­............................................

...................­.................................

Tu mourus cependant de la mort du vulgaire,
Ainsi qu'un moissonneur va chercher son salaire,
Et dort sur sa faucille avant d'être payé !
Tu ceignis en mourant ton glaive sur ta cuisse,
Et tu fus demander récompense ou justice
Au dieu qui t'avait envoyé !

On dit qu'aux derniers jours de sa longue agonie,
Devant l'éternité seul avec son génie,
Son regard vers le ciel parut se soulever !
Le signe rédempteur toucha son front farouche !...
Et même on entendit commencer sur sa bouche
Un nom !... qu'il n'osait achever !

Achève... C'est le dieu qui règne et qui couronne !
C'est le dieu qui punit ! c'est le dieu qui pardonne !
Pour les héros et nous il a des poids divers !
Parle-lui sans effroi ! lui seul peut te comprendre !
L'esclave et le tyran ont tous un compte à rendre,
L'un du sceptre, l'autre des fers !

....................................................

Son cercueil est fermé ! Dieu l'a jugé ! Silence !
Son crime et ses exploits pèsent dans la balance :
Que des faibles mortels la main n'y touche plus !
Qui peut sonder, Seigneur, ta clémence infinie ?
Et vous, fléaux de Dieu ! qui sait si le génie
N'est pas une de vos vertus ?...
Zachary Sep 2014
got hours
counting powers
of the super human cowards
the trousers
of our fouler
never soured feelings grown
im a kid
never did listen
now im feeling ******
eyes feeling drury
as my fingers typed flown
im grinning cuz im reminiscent of your moan
heads still spinning
whyd you have to break my home
texts to calls
forwards
rings stalled
trying to get back to what we had
im just **** faced and *** brown bagged
take some shrooms
just to get mad
they are the feeling to show
when i am dead
Joseph Childress Feb 2011
Socially suicidal
I say the wrong things
At the wrong times
To the wrong people
In all the wrong places
Face it
My face is the last thing
You want to see
On a day is as beautiful as this
Miss me with the *******!
I know you miss me
And the *******!
The scent is foul
But its fouler
To have no senses at all
Since
Youve been gone
Ive been alone
WIth nothing
But a room full of family, friends,
Kinfolk, next of kin
Bad *******, X's,
Potential girlfriends
All in the whirlwind
Of indecision
....since you've been missing
Empty crowds
Full of people
I love
Sure enough
But what's love
Without you!?
Nothing much
I'm Nothingmore
Too much
Is not enough
Not a thing
Unless
Everything
Was the one thing
I gave you
Nonetheless
The lesson
Is none of this
Had to happen
It just happens
To be called
Fate
Rather fatal
****
Cupid'*****
Was supposed to nick
Not split
Me in half
I lost one side of me
ANd you
Replaced it
To make we whole again
And now
I have this hole again
You used to hold me
Now you *** me
As if I didn't
USed to be a ****
But "used to"
Doesnt do much
For this present
Feeling of being used
Too much
****
You used me up
Now Im left amongst
The bitter *******
That would bite a *******
For they let
The taste
Of Love
Eat them alive again
Im amongst the dead
No hopes to be revived
DOn't want to be alive
The pain
Isn't worth
The ability to feel
I gained less
Than what Ive attained
Since
They day I met you
I've haven't been
Myself ever since!

****,
I guess
The foul smell
Isnt worth
The Sense...
Aaron E Aug 2019
Formed in a field of fire, I cry,

serving thorns of beleaguered triumph, I crawl

to a shorn little wreath of wiring, I stall

to enthrall all the force behind me, I crawl.

Crawl with a ghost's sobriety, in a  thought
I have wrought
what a world denied me, in a joke,
but its not,
it's assuming a piety
in deliverance from fouler hits
isn't a blinder for your civil bliss.

Wake the **** up.

Watch the flare, trace the wick.

Dodge the rain drops, cop's air and spit.

Hopped a train of thought for a ditch

Found a chain of White grapes and whips.

You intervene with glitter glue at the seams,
assume to placate flames below the root of your jeans,
assemble suitable frames amid a brutal disease,
accrue the nourishing famine, staying true to your leaves,
and seeing nothing.

_

capitulate to the critical conditioners , an oppressor
hypernormal in biblical proportions for your pleasure
find the border for brick mortar
pull lever, level threat, fine order,
don't. cross. this. line.
ever.
Never stop to observe the servile nature of your stature
levy thoughtless concern to herd the ******* in your factor
paper shredder for flame fodder, **** your water
crawling out with a name, and an aim to discolor your collar

I have no eyes to see son or daughter,
grass in the field, lacks appeal,
devoured countless when I was smaller

Eyes on the whole deal, now
coal fields, cold meals, thick prose, sick cows,
this thirst, it grows, it thrives, right now
it knows, it chose,
these throes are how these days will close when you aren't loud.

Eat the rich
Eat the poor
Eat the earth
Nevermore.
Wake the **** up.
(It's pretty long so... Sorry. Also sorry for the double negatives and cursing, in that order.)
Brandon Fox Jan 2017
Help

SOS
Somebody
come down here
and save me
immediately.
I am stranded
on an island
called “the rest of my life.”
Last night I went to sleep
as a child.
I was a beautiful boy named Brandon.
I loved myself.
I loved the world.
Every door
was waiting for me down the hall.
No passageway was locked.
I could go
anywhere
everywhere
but now
i’m here.
Help
Last night I went to sleep as a child
and this mid afternoon
I awoke
as someone
I never thought I would see.
I’m staring at a screen
with the faint glare of my
reflection
staring back at me.
Help
Oh my god
Help
Is this
hell?
To have every possibility
for-never-more?
I look a certain way
and whether I like it or not
that is what I will look like
for the rest of my life.
Even worse
this’ll be
the look of me at my peak
for only a couple more years
then it’s straight downhill from there (for me).
My chosen life
my chosen relationships
my chosen bed
is not the one I fell asleep in
last night as that
beautiful boy.
I was in a rocket ship
bed!
I could soar to the moon
and could shoot through the stars!
I woke up (this mid-afternoon)
and my blinds are all closed.
I opened them
with these
fully grown fingers
that I was oh so shocked to see (didn’t quite feel like me)
(the nails were all crusted
and wrinkles were starting to peek)
and beyond the blinds the sun
didn’t shine
for any reason
except to be able to see.
What’s the point of daylight
if the suns rays don’t
put a sparkle in your eye?
Is this what death feels like?
Are there no signs of sparkles
in eternal darkness?

I walk to the kitchen and open the fridge
no longer needing to put a chair in front to reach
the top shelf.
But it’s not
sweets i’m searching for this mid afternoon.
I take a bubbly
bottle
so much lesser than soda
and crack it open.
It reads
“Corona”
across the front.
Why am I drinking this?
The taste feels
fouler than fizz
but the lack of sparkle in my eye
becomes less prominent
as I sink down on my sofa
thinking things I don’t comprehend.

Strings of words like
“Why didn’t she ever call me back?”
and
“I AM normal”
float across my mind.
I don’t understand what either of them mean
but as I take my fifteenth sip
of this
“Corona”
I feel the urge to cry.
Yet for the first time in my
yesterday-eight-year-old-life
my sighs stop my cries
from ever coming out.
I feel them
become buried so deep down inside
that the tears turn to ice
but i’m already cold so I
never seem to mind.
More and more thoughts float around my mind,
I’m surrounded by screens
(so many screens
phone screen
computer screen
TV screen…
they’re all floating and scrolling nowhere
endlessly)
and my fake fizzy drink
as these thoughts I don’t understand float faster through my mind.

The room starts to spin
as I realize
bottles are all around me.
My head dips to rest on the sofa
as I see a faint glimmer
of sunlight
flitter through the crack of the blinds.
The sun goes down
and darkness surrounds me.
I have nothing
more to drink
but the thoughts still won’t cease.
“He’s just better than you,
you have no talent.”
and
“If they thought you were good enough
attractive enough
charismatic enough
and not so ******* weird
they would’ve emailed you
and given you the job.”
I don’t understand
what any of these thoughts mean
but a realization strikes me suddenly…
why am I not out to play!
It’s already dark out
and I haven’t  been in my sandbox
once today!

My eyelids
droop to a close
as the image of life
slips from my sight
wondering how many nights
I’ve fallen asleep on this couch.

Wondering how
I fell asleep among the stars
in my eight year old bed
(with my beautiful eight year head
resting snugly
on my pillow
with the last words I heard
before I went to sleep being
“I love you.”)
last night
and how so many years
feel as if they’ve flown by.
I wonder if i’ll ever go back to being in them.

Suddenly a light starts to shine
from behind the lid of my eyes
and I hear a familiar voice
beckon me awake.
My
mom
says
“Brandon! Wake up
it’s time for school.”

I bolt up
with a smile on my face
with the faintest feeling of a
very bad dream
lingering inside of me.

But I don’t remember it.

It’s today!

And what a beautiful day!

Time to play!

I hug my mom
meet my friends
and live my life
for what it’s meant to be
a sandbox
for everyone to play.

I’m not in my twenties
I don’t live on my own with roommates I don’t know
I didn’t drink Corona last night alone until I passed out on the sofas foam.
I don’t have my childhood behind me with cold in my heart and no direction forward.
I’m eight.
I’m eight years old
and my world still feels like home.
Mourir sans vider mon carquois !
Sans percer, sans fouler, sans pétrir dans leur fange
Ces bourreaux barbouilleurs de lois !...  
André Chénier, Lambes.


« Le vent chasse **** des campagnes
Le gland tombé des rameaux verts ;
Chêne, il le bat sur les montagnes ;
Esquif, il le bat sur les mers.
Jeune homme, ainsi le sort nous presse.
Ne joins pas, dans ta folle ivresse,
Les maux du monde à tes malheurs ;
Gardons, coupables et victimes,
Nos remords pour nos propres crimes,
Nos pleurs pour nos propres douleurs ! »

Quoi ! mes chants sont-ils téméraires ?  
Faut-il donc, en ces jours d'effroi,  
Rester sourd aux cris de ses frères ?  
Ne souffrir jamais que pour soi ?
Non, le poète sur la terre
Console, exilé volontaire,
Les tristes humains dans leurs fers ;
Parmi les peuples en délire,
Il s'élance, armé de sa lyre,
Comme Orphée au sein des enfers !

« Orphée aux peines éternelles
Vint un moment ravir les morts ;
Toi, sur les têtes criminelles,
Tu chantes l'hymne du remords.
Insensé ! quel orgueil t'entraîne ?
De quel droit viens-tu dans l'arène
Juger sans avoir combattu ?
Censeur échappé de l'enfance,
Laisse vieillir ton innocence,
Avant de croire à ta vertu ! »

Quand le crime, Python livide,
Brave, impuni, le frein des lois,
La Muse devient I'Euménide :
Apollon saisit son carquois !
Je cède au Dieu qui me rassure ;
J'ignore à ma vie encor pure
Quels maux le sort veut attacher ;
Je suis sans orgueil mon étoile ;
L'orage déchire la voile :
La voile sauve le nocher.

« Les hommes vont aux précipices !
Tes chants ne les sauveront pas.
Avec eux, **** des cieux propices,
Pourquoi donc égarer tes pas
Peux-tu, dès tes jeunes années,
Sans briser d'autres destinées,
Rompre la chaîne de tes jours ?
Épargne ta vie éphémère ;
Jeune homme, n'as-tu pas de mère ?
Poète, n'as-tu pas d'amours ? »

Eh bien ! à mes terrestres flammes,
Si je meurs, les cieux vont s'ouvrir.
L'amour chaste agrandit les âmes,
Et qui sait aimer sait mourir.
Le poète, en des temps de crime,
Fidèle aux justes qu'on opprime,
Célèbre, imite les héros ;
Il a, jaloux de leur martyre,
Pour les victimes une lyre,
Une tète pour les bourreaux !

« On dit que jadis le Poète,
Chantant des jours encor lointains,
Savait à la terre inquiète
Révéler ses futurs destins.
Mais toi, que peux-tu pour le monde
Tu partages sa nuit profonde :
Le ciel se voile et veut punir ;
Les lyres n'ont plus de prophète,
Et la Muse, aveugle et muette,
Ne sait plus rien de l'avenir ! »

Le mortel qu'un Dieu même anime
Marche à l'avenir, plein d'ardeur ;
C'est en s'élançant dans l'abîme
Qu'il en sonde la profondeur.
Il se prépare au sacrifice ;
Il sait que le bonheur du vice
Par l'innocent est expié ;
Prophète à son jour mortuaire,
La prison est son sanctuaire,
Et l'échafaud est son trépied !

« Que n'es-tu né sur les rivages
Des Abbas et des Cosroës,
Aux rayons d'un ciel sans nuages,
Parmi le myrte et l'aloës !
Là, sourd aux maux que tu déplores,
Le poète voit ses aurores
Se lever sans trouble et sans pleurs ;
Et la colombe, chère aux sages,
Porte aux vierges ses doux messages
Où l'amour parle avec des fleurs ! »

Qu'un autre au céleste martyre
Préfère un repos sans honneur !
La gloire est le but où j'aspire ;
On n'y va point par le bonheur.
L'alcyon, quand l'Océan gronde,
Craint que les vents ne troublent l'onde
Où se berce son doux sommeil ;
Mais pour l'aiglon, fils des orages,
Ce n'est qu'à travers les nuages
Qu'il prend son vol vers le soleil !

Mars 1821.
Au Luxembourg souvent, lorsque dans les allées
Gazouillaient des moineaux les joyeuses volées,
Qu'aux baisers d'un vent doux, sous les abîmes bleus
D'un ciel tiède et riant, les orangers frileux
Hasardaient leurs rameaux parfumés, et qu'en gerbes
Les fleurs pendaient du front des marronniers superbes,
Toute petite fille, elle allait du beau temps
À son aise jouir et folâtrer longtemps,
Longtemps, car elle aimait à l'ombre des feuillages
Fouler le sable d'or, chercher des coquillages,
Admirer du jet d'eau l'arc au reflet changeant
Et le poisson de pourpre, hôte d'une eau d'argent ;
Ou bien encor partir, folle et légère tête,
Et, trompant les regards de sa mère inquiète,
Au risque de brunir un teint frais et vermeil,
Livrer sa joue en fleur aux baisers du soleil !
Sonnet.

Il faut, dans ce bas monde, aimer beaucoup de choses,
Pour savoir, après tout, ce qu'on aime le mieux,
Les bonbons, l'Océan, le jeu, l'azur des cieux,
Les femmes, les chevaux, les lauriers et les roses.

Il faut fouler aux pieds des fleurs à peine écloses ;
Il faut beaucoup pleurer, dire beaucoup d'adieux.
Puis le coeur s'aperçoit qu'il est devenu vieux,
Et l'effet qui s'en va nous découvre les causes.

De ces biens passagers que l'on goûte à demi,
Le meilleur qui nous reste est un ancien ami.
On se brouille, on se fuit. Qu'un hasard nous rassemble,

On s'approche, on sourit, la main touche la main,
Et nous nous souvenons que nous marchions ensemble,
Que l'âme est immortelle, et qu'hier c'est demain.
woolgather Nov 2016
Unhinge the skin,
Negate the senses;
Cut out that grin;
Open your ears to the voices;
Make your pain akin,
Flood your mind with hearsays;
Oscillating, your head'll spin,
Ringing sounds'll follow you in all places;
Trapped without reasoning; discipline;
Apprehended by the past's corpses;
Blazing are the chances that's bore thin;
Losing all comprehensible choices;
Ending fouler than sheepskin.

Immobile are they, but still widespread like disease;
Nothing but the demons that play deaf to your pleas.

Close the doors that were open;
Open the doors once closed.
Mend the pieces once broken;
Find yourself occupied, yet bored.
Overcome the path of the demon once risen;
Reveal what truth there is discord.
Taper the pain with pun.
Unfinished business not looking forward to finish
Par les soirs bleus d'été, j'irai dans les sentiers,
Picoté par les blés, fouler l'herbe menue :
Rêveur, j'en sentirai la fraîcheur à mes pieds.
Je laisserai le vent baigner ma tête nue.

Je ne parlerai pas, je ne penserai rien :
Mais l'amour infini me montera dans l'âme,
Et j'irai ****, bien ****, comme un bohémien,
Par la Nature, - heureux comme avec une femme.
Si je pouvais voir, ô patrie,
Tes amandiers et tes lilas,
Et fouler ton herbe fleurie,
Hélas !

Si je pouvais, - mais, ô mon père,
O ma mère, je ne peux pas,
Prendre pour chevet votre pierre,
Hélas !

Dans le froid cercueil qui vous gêne,
Si je pouvais vous parler bas,
Mon frère Abel, mon frère Eugène,
Hélas !

Si je pouvais, ô ma colombe,
Et toi, mère, qui t'envolas,
M'agenouiller sur votre tombe,
Hélas !

Oh ! vers l'étoile solitaire,
Comme je lèverais les bras !
Comme je baiserais la terre,
Hélas !

**** de vous, ô morts que je pleure,
Des flots noirs j'écoute le glas ;
Je voudrais fuir, mais je demeure,
Hélas !

Pourtant le sort, caché dans l'ombre,
Se trompe si, comptant mes pas,
Il croit que le vieux marcheur sombre
Est las.
David Hilburn Feb 2024
Sour futures
A note to blindness:
Wealth of a gall, so curious
Red and blew, a nose of a guest...

Flower seizures
Quiet as peace can be...
Sallow with, holds in a hurry...
Had's the voice of anarchy...?

Slower figure's
Asking but a kiss, of beauty...
Misery is my mete, questions of the world
Best answered by the angel of a liberty...?

Fouler singer's
Have a wink, a trusted cacophony
Done, thinks a cruelty to linger...
The taste of unison, with sigh's so many?

Souler finger's
Resounding, the asking around about, now
Any and all, awe's surprised harbinger's?
With a truth, to swallow loves, how?

Failure's sin
Promises of a let problem, in sun's shine to live
And let live, the question again...
Is loves abuse, a harmony to wish wishes knew suicide like bliss?

Sailor's fin
When sincerity has a missing kiss...
Obligation is a run, to a thumb's kin
Wind or wishes, we have heaven or hell to insist...
Curious about naivete? ******'s...
Par les soirs bleus d'été, j'irai dans les sentiers,
Picoté par les blés, fouler l'herbe menue :
Rêveur, j'en sentirai la fraîcheur à mes pieds.
Je laisserai le vent baigner ma tête nue.

Je ne parlerai pas, je ne penserai rien :
Mais l'amour infini me montera dans l'âme,
Et j'irai ****, bien ****, comme un bohémien,
Par la Nature, - heureux comme avec une femme.
In the End...

A tale of horror is darker, crueler
Than what the dull crowd dares expect.
For in the end, the Beasts grow fouler,
And slaves grow dumber—more abject.

Beasts and slaves—no real exception,
Hope is scarce, the odds are grim.
Drowned in lies, they've lost redemption—
Honor's dead, so waste them all on a whim...



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



The Cosmos

Its base—deceit.
Its glue—fear’s binding.
The boss—unfit.
Our fate—dust, winding.



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



Truth and the Reign of Madness

"For truth, it is triumph enough to be accepted by the few who are worthy; to please the many is not its fate."
— Denis Diderot


Truth’s worth is never measured
By numbers in its wake.
The slaves adore false treasures,
Their minds consumed by fake.

Few dare to think—yet fewer,
Their voices fade to none.
Truth drowns in darkness, sewer—
The world is crude, undone.

CowID, war—it's showing,
The madness rules the stage.
A war on thought keeps growing,
A war of lies and rage.

Its end is near—Destruction,
The final storm is drawn.
Then comes the Reconstruction,
When filth is cast and gone.



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



Breaking Yet Another Bottom

To hit rock bottom? That’s no feat.
But reaching lower—there’s the test.
To sell new lies and not repeat—
That takes a master of the jest.

The Press of Darkness strains and rallies,
Bureaucrats all march in line.
Decay’s an art—they need pure malice,
A beast that’s truly one of a kind.

CowID has shown—no lack of vermin,
Nor slaves who serve the grand deceit.
The smaller press now weaves perversions,
To spice the greater flood of sleet.

Thus, deeper down the pit was shattered,
The stench from underneath arose.
And now we all will breathe this tatter,
As life in filth forever flows.

A global ***** is fast unfolding,
A prison ruled by code and screen.
If lies keep rising, all-consuming,
Its gates will open—sharp and clean.



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



Down...

The Church now serves the Devil’s throne,
The world is upside down.
The honest ones are crushed, dethroned—
Branded traitors, drowned.

One thing stays unshaken—
Shame will never cease.
Reason lies forsaken,
Slaughtered—rest in peace.

If a trace still lingers
In the minds of few,
It won’t change—just sink there,
Down to Hell’s own view!



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



Life’s Unyielding Dullness

Life is dull—no doubt, no question,
For it thrives on false impressions.
Since our childhood, Beasts betray us,
Swapping truth for murk to slay us.

Mind is fragile, quick to wither,
So the future’s looking bitter:
Trade pure steel for rotting timber—
All will crumble to a cinder.



--- Total 6 poems. ---
Delusions

If you dare not face the madness
That has nested in your core,
You'll be crushed in Hell’s own badness—
Where the mind exists no more.

We’re at threshold. Hell lies open.
Crowds are swarming, wild and loud—
**** all pushing, blindly hopin’
To be first among the crowd.

From our youth, the rot is growing—
Only few will stand and fight.
Most are wrong, and barely knowing—
That alone’s a bitter might.

“Education” means sedation—
Drills for cogs in slave-machine.
Madness passed through generations—
Is the finest cage they’ve seen.




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



The Rant of False History

They say history repeats —
Wouldn't progress do the same?
No — it crawls through wild deceits,
Spurred by madness, press, and shame.

Lies decay us, deeply rooted,
While "the past" becomes a tool —
Used by "scholars", dull, deluded,
To control and to befool.

“Less is worse,” they preach of chains —
Twisting truth to fit their schemes.
Tyrants' filth in old domains
Now gets sold as noble dreams.

Was there ever darker slavery
Than the one we now endure?
CowID proved, with grim bravery,
Just how deep the filth can lure.

It’s the same old madness spinning —
Nothing new beneath the sun.
Only sarcasm feels fitting
For this circus they call “run.”




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



Almost a Joke

Tricks bring pain —
Life’s a stunt.
Less you strain,
If you're blunt.

More of fight,
Less of noise.
Dare the light —
Not fate’s ploys.

Tricks are chains,
But you’re free
If you chase
Love’s path — see?

Walk, don’t juggle.
Truth is near.
Jokes may struggle,
But without them — disappear.




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



Rewards and Reliefs

A bagel's hole — your grand reward
For seeking truth and staying bold.
Oblivion is the just accord —
This mad world’s promise has run cold.

The past will peel, the “new” will fade,
For nothing new is ever real.
It’s all a weary, cheap charade —
Just wait for Death to sign the deal.




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



A Hole for a Crown

A bagel’s hole — that’s all the prize
For poets, writers who won’t sell.
The ****** in suits, with glossy lies,
Are crawling everywhere like hell.

Add countless traitors to the game,
And all the weak who kiss the boot
Of thugs who rise through bluff and shame —
Their “honors” soon will just pollute.

But here’s the twist — in days now gone,
At least they read. Today? Not much.
Now in this century, the pawn
Is tested by a viral sludge:

A stream of memes and TikTok reels —
Their minds were flushed by viral feeds.
The truth? Replaced by shouting deals
From armies selling junk as creeds.




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



They sell you rot, then call it gold —
You speak the truth? You're bought and sold.
The prize is nothing, just a hole —
While lies devour the public soul.



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



The Future of the Global Madhouse

Three-fourths here don’t deserve to breathe —
These ******* feed the coming lash.
Because of them, the fiends beneath
Will grind us down — no joke, no flash.

CowID paused — a war on hold.
New plagues are planned by wicked swine,
For empty minds do as they're told,
Still drunk on fear and fed with lies.

This herd of fools, in full decay,
Will drag us into chains and hell.
The beasts are betting all will pay,
Since drooling mobs obey so well.

They’ll grind us down with false alarms —
Just feed the filth to vacant brains.
What lies ahead brings no calm charms,
Just storms, just pain, just choking chains.

Yet there's a joy — a final spark:
This madness will not last too long.
The madhouse burns — and in the dark,
The sun will rise to right the wrong.




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



Challenges in the Circles of Hell

Let challenge meet the challenge face to face —
Not by denial's sterile repetition,
But honor clashing clean, with no disgrace,
No fear, no doubt, no cowardly submission.

Hell's spirals twist, and trials there abound.
What once was wild, rebellious, blazing bright,
Seems tame the deeper down — where fools are crowned
For trading truth for comfort in the night.




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



False Time of the Luciferian System

Is it a test of time — or weight?
Time’s worse: it feeds the Dark's domain.
We call it "time", but what we hate
Is slow decay of soul and brain.

This "time" is rot — a masquerade,
A cloak for entropy and lies.
And still the Beast is served, obeyed —
Both then, and now, beneath dead skies.

It isn’t time — it’s time’s disguise.
Above time dwells a higher sphere,
But we, the spawn of sunken minds,
Have made it custom to adhere

To lies — from priests and pseudo-thought,
Who ******* Space and Time with rules.
They sell their souls, then sell what's taught —
A creed imposed by mindless ghouls.

Don’t trust. Go deep. The path is yours —
Within you dwells the light, the key.
Let intuition open doors,
But keep your mind alive and free.



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



The Union of Truth and Sludge

A mix of essence, filth, and grime —
That’s how verse crawls through modern time.
In worlds of ****** and creeping dread,
Our nerves burn out, the soul half-dead...




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



Expanding the Bounds of Knowing — Together, Without False Science

The self — a cycle stuck in place,
A dull routine we all embrace.
Critical thought? They chase it off —
No space to question, all is scoffed.

The “atom” world — a beast’s design,
Born from lies fed as “divine.”
More cheese to trap, more filthy lies,
A bait to blind collective eyes.

Together only Hell’s escaped,
But all asleep — world’s night draped.
Will dawn arise? There’s just one light:
That Dawn will burn the shame, the blight.




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



Information War

Tanks don’t fear the mud or grime.
But "divs" of leaks are primed to strike —
You must fight "divs" with cunning crimes,
Or lies will finish what they like.

Pour the sludge into the net,
Crush the dumb lies, no regret.
Bravery’s needed just the same,
Even if the pay’s so lame.

Fight as guerilla, free,
Anger’s fuel for victory.
All the fiends will get their due
When the world’s last hours are through.

(Note: “***” — a block element that marks a text fragment.)



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



Create!

Create — don’t rot or fake.
Strive — don’t dream or break.
Wither, die, if forced to lie—
Truth’s the only way to fly!

Oceans drown in lies and slime,
Sold-out fools in darkest time.
CowID’s cult, the fascist reign,
Praised by ****, a vile stain.

But harsh justice draws its line —
Everyone must pay in time.
They’ll burn the madhouse to the ground,
Build new Halls of Lies around.



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



The Purifying Fire

The Devil’s mark is branded here,
On all, it burns, sharp as a spear.
Fiends strike lies like scorching flame,
They scorch, they ****, they spread the shame.

They brand the souls with ruthless spite,
Bold, sly, they thrive in darkest night.
But now the game comes to an end —
A fire burns to cleanse and mend.

A different flame will purge the stain,
Bring joy to souls freed from their chain,
Destroying fiends in fiery sweep,
Awakening the pure to keep.




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



Fair Winds to Your Stern…

Fair winds beneath your keel, take flight —
Escape this Hell, abandon night!
This Shame will vanish, fade, and fall:
Each vile fiend will answer all!

They’ll pay — even those who cower,
Silent, trembling, lost their power.
Salvation lies in flight alone —
So leave this Shame, this Hell, this Throne!




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



Tales and Dances

Tales and dances, all rehearsed —
Wind-up fools, forever cursed,
Even old, the masks remain:
Puppeteers, the ****, the stain.

Clumsy lies the liar spits,
Only fools believe these bits.
Crude, absurd, a tyrant’s grin —
“Kind uncle” hides the sin.

Axes drawn ‘twixt good and ill,
Sew white threads to scare and ****.
Anything they’ll justify,
Pseudoscience to crucify.

CowID’s “science” fools the herd —
More such “wonders” will be heard.
This vile breed, a *****’s spawn,
Knocked at heaven — now it's gone…
Hell rejoices — demon’s dawn.




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



Like a "Dream Factory"

So many films on cops and law,
But art? Almost none you saw.
The cabal sets the scene that way —
Gloss on freaks to make them sway.

Then “four-eyes” or “geek” in frame
Looks like fool to madness’ game.
Sheepish, dumb, sold-out in suit —
Like Holmes or heroes in old route.

Work goes on to "normalize"
Those who lose their sanity’s prize.
A “normal” label stuck on queer —
Nonsense from that dream factory here.

Souls derailed, humanity drained,
Reason turned to babbling, insane.
Watch that stew — pure carelessness:
Leaves a bitter soul’s distress.




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



Lie and Finish Off...

Fuss and pointless strife,
Strife that’s never just —
Fuss feeds lies to life —
The end: a total bust.

Focus just on survival —
Kills the mind inside.
Lie and lie, revival?
The soul crushed by the tide.




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



Cramming, Zeal, and Discipline

Youth’s bright fire burns to ash,
In cramming dull, petty stuff,
And zeal misplaced, a crash —
Not thinking’s roughest bluff.

But copying vile false gods —
Made just to drag you down —
Such fate for many clods.
If bold, you’ll see the clown.

To **** talent’s no great feat —
Make "nothing" idolized,
Lie shamelessly, repeat,
And with discipline, despised.




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



Horseshoes for the Donkey

Jehovah’s just a horseshoe
For a two-legged ***,
He died — they forge anew
For all their worthless mass.

These donkeys—backs all cracked—
Drag pointless loads in vain.
A carrot dangled, sticks cracked,
Calm seas hide all the pain.

If you’re not a donkey,
They’ll hunt or cast you out.
These devils rule the money,
Slap horseshoes all about.

A real God is creation —
He needs no slaves or fools,
But died in witch’s nation,
Bound by their cruel rules.

For two-legged donkeys only,
Horseshoes hold such weight.
The normal ones walk freely—
Protected by their fate.



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



Fertilizing with Ash

Don’t waste your breath on fools —
They’re lost beyond repair.
Just kindling for their tools,
They’ll burn it all to air.

But after night, at dawn,
The world will bloom with ash.
Like children, hearts will spawn,
Not minds that only clash.

If heart and mind align —
Then balance lights the way.
But how to teach the blind?
They’ll never understand, no way!




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



System Corruption

Once you’re inside—the game is known;
No way to dodge decay.
Blind, mute, to speak is to lie shown—
Truth dies, replaced by sway.

Negative selection’s rule,
The system’s famed decay.
Once thieves were plain—now lies the tool,
Master deceit’s the way.

Each one’s bound tight with dirt and shame,
Control by blackmail’s grip.
Avoid it—every nation’s lame,
Fascism’s tightening whip.

We’re stuck so deep, no way to win—
The road ahead’s descent.




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



Mirages of Corrupt Stumps

Spin your tales, Emelya, not empty lies —
No use in this world where falsehood thrives.
All empty talkers lay soft disguise —
But falls hurt deep, where mirage lies.

Their falsehood’s weak, can’t cushion the blow,
Their goal’s just to push you down low.
Truth here is moss, old and slow —
You’re mossed yourself if you call it woe,

And value fools who sell cheap breath,
Spin or believe — you’ll save your skin’s death...
For now... but you’ll vanish, lost in the fray —

“The soul must toil,” or waste away.
No mere illusion is Hell’s decree:
It’s mirages from corrupt dead trees.




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



Failing...

The collective farm, "A Hundred Years No Yield" —
A metaphor for mind’s lost field.
The mind keeps failing, failing hard,
Soon all will vanish, leave no shard.

Total lies and dumbness spread,
An "industry" of fools ahead.
To bear this filth is crime so grave,
Yet ages pass — the cursed wave.

So here we stand, the end’s in sight —
The farm’s a desert, dead of light.
Those who don’t fight, they’ve lost their fate —
The fiend will send them to death’s gate.

The fighters may fall, yet save their soul,
While foul disgrace consumes this whole.
World rotten, vile, ****** to rot —
Your time is done, your fate is shot.




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



The Core of the Chaos

The core of Chaos — deeper dread:
A world torn loose, by lies misled,
Where best among us falls and dies
Beneath deceit and dark disguise.

Lie bolder, sharper, full of spite,
Spread fear to choke out all the light.
Let fraud grow vile, more cruel still —
Corrupt the soul with poisoned will.




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



On the Farm

Today it’s you,
Tomorrow me —
The cattle wait,
The swine foresee
The hour of slaughter near.
The whole Earth’s like a farm, my dear.
If not a pest, then rise, awake —
Or die, **** it, for Heaven’s sake!




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



So-Called "Revolutions"

Leather jackets, flushed red faces —
Here come commissars to drown disgraces.
In wild hangovers, anger swells —
That commissar could never break his hell.

Stupidity rules here, all around,
And **** unites in packs, profound.
So all this madness drags and lasts,
The world’s a prison — no escape fast.

Red-faced mobs, obedient drones...
Are these humans, or just food on bones?
All "revolutions" lie and cheat,
Foam rising up from wombs deceit.

That shameful **** commands the froth —
Hidden deep, but leather croaks the sloth,
Peddling lies to slaughter’s gate.
Do slaves believe? Then that’s their fate!




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



Producing Chaff

To write a “kind” and gentle rhyme —
Is not a task for fools with time.
Be courteous, precise, controlled —
But not a fierce verse to be told.

Consider all the aims and schemes,
Conditioned by deceitful streams.
Falsehood rules through every age,
No mind alive to turn the page.

They’ll chew the chaff of “goodness” fed,
And shove it straight into their head.
Add poison, but the fool won’t know —
That’s just the way the idiots grow.

They swallow lies spun neat and slick,
Dressed as “truth” in every trick.
Not fools, but crooks behind the scenes,
Cooking lies in ***** means.

Enough? Shall we then strike the flame
With furious verse to end this game?!!




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



Cake of Filth

The more a banana republic rots,
The grander grows its symbol’s spots.
The duller crowds, the fouler breed—
The bigger grows the lies they feed.

This falsehood carries heavy weight,
Though threads of white still weave their fate.
A world of lies, a distant drama—
A glorious cake made out of karma.




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



Steadfastness

Unyielding truth — unshakable stand,
Or else you’re just a twisted man,
In filth and stench where **** have found
Their “salvation” in the lies around.

Corruption thrives in vile deceit,
They turn the best to worthless meat.
Unyielding truth means to resist—
Let **** be shaken by the fist!

The world decays in madness deep,
But not the sane are far and few.
Steadfastness is the secret code:
“Friend or foe?” — it guides the road.

Though all may fall, don’t bow, don’t break—
Your soul alone you’ve got to save.
Listen to it, or you’ll be lost,
Drowned in the lies that count the cost.




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



Psychiatry and Psychology: Adapting Small Madness to Grand Delirium

Adapting madness — small and blind —
To GRAND DELIRIUM defined.
Psychiatrists, dull and stark,
Escape the sting of biting sarcasm’s mark.

A tiny madman, just a *****
In a crazed machine askew,
If politics calls that “norm,”
No cause to question or reform.

Don’t believe their “treatment’s” success,
If money flows, no one’s left less.
All will march in ranks aligned
To futile toil and slaughter blind.

If the madman’s not unlucky,
That’s the “norm.” Just tip them—quickly!




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



******* of Poems

Publisher to self,
Critic and fan as well —
That’s the modern way.
Only write this way.

If you spread the sweetened lies,
You betray, no compromise.
That must be purged, no doubt —
No falsehood left about.

Self-accuser, fierce exposer —
This today’s poetic poser.
If the world’s foul fascism’s here,
Smash the lies, or poems veer

Downward fast — no chance to rise.
Keep too quiet — madness flies.
Enduring evil breaks the roof —
A sharp, relentless crisis proof.




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



The Foundation of Global Bedlam

The world outside is soaked in filth —
So boldly turn within, the wealth
Of answers lies inside your core,
While lies outside uphold the war.




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



The Barrel and the Dot

Roll out the barrel’s final charge,
Light up the fuse — be bold, enlarge.
So mark your life with one last shot,
If resistance is your plot.

Gunpowder may be in words —
Explosive verses, fierce as swords.
But if fools read it as mere noise,
It’s nonsense then, not truth’s voice.

What you alone call powder’s fire,
Is only yours — no one’s desire.
If you spin tales that aren’t real,
Yourself alone will not forgive, feel.

Roll out the barrel’s final part,
Along the way, gather heart:
More powder in the night to burn —
A sudden clash will twist and turn.

Will dawn arrive? Who really cares?
You won’t await it, weighed by fears.
If you stayed sharp, unbought, and true,
***** the beasts — their reign’s on you.




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



The Great Doubt

Dedicated to Tartang Tulku

Great Time, great Knowledge, vast expanse —
Tulku’s words described them well.
But worldwide **** decays to fascist dance,
A Tenth Wave of lies to sell.

It’s time to add a Great Doubt here,
To all these claims, long overdue.
The final debt to Reason clear:
Soon all will burn — cataclysm brews.




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



Modern Villainy and Deception

Villainy? Oh, yes—
A liar’s game, no less!
Lie to the crazed,
No need to be phased.

Lies are total,
Toxic, fatal,
Worth a dime,
But with a blast—prime.

Flawed? You’re mad,
A fool, a cad—
It’s just pure
Nuclear lure:

Deception’s bite,
A deadly blight—
Simple truth:
A venomous youth.




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



Old-School Vova and ChebuRashki

Uncle Vova’s flying in,
With his worn-out, rusty spin,
Shoving “Rusism” down our throats again.
This old tale’s not brand new—
Clumsy as it’s always been—
Only fascism here will reign.




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



Not the End?

No "normal world" remains —
Just one that's flying straight to hell.
Enough of free cheese chains,
Enough of all — the end will fell!

Enough of selling out so cheap,
No soul to buy or sell — it’s dead!
Enough of traitors, cold and steep,
Who sell their souls to hell instead?

Enough? These words are just for grabs —
The human filth stays quiet still.
That filth from fools, the universe
Feels deep shame for, and always will.

There are exceptions — but so few.
So all is speeding toward the end.
Yet propaganda shouts anew:
“It’s not the end!” — they still pretend.




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



The Zombie Box

I turn the zombie box and trust —
Its zombie mob commands my will.
I open doors to rashist dust,
Their “salvation” seeming still.

They'll save us all from CowID,
And lead us straight to war's grim pit...
The Kremlin slime speaks loud and free —
The fool absorbs the lying ****.




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



Brainwashing

Brainwashing’s law —
For fools, their final cause.
The end’s always the same:
Down the toilet goes their name.

This path’s a highway paved
With stupid lies enslaved,
Dragging all to hellish plains —
Blood-soaked slaughterhouses’ chains.

They showed us CowID’s game
And war’s relentless flame.
When mind is dead and split,
You do with fools what’s fit...




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



So-Called "The People"

Wake and repent?
But “the people” sleep —
A stupid mass, their intent,
Bound by fascist keep.

No consciousness, no crowd,
No spirit — just the rabble.
Few are sensitive, proud;
Without sense, you’re just a scrabble.

To feel the world’s deep damage,
Multiply by reason’s might —
To bear such evil’s carnage
Is simply not right.

But if they bow and trust those fiends,
They only earn their fate —
Fried in lies, their souls, it seems,
Devils feast on their hate.




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



Sympathy for the Inhuman

Disposal of the fools —
Success is thin and slight,
Though fascist forces rule
With fake diseases, wars to fight.

The paradox is clear —
Fools should be crushed and reined,
But lost in blank despair,
They’re weak, confused, detained.

Tasks fail, all goes awry,
Stupidity derails the plan.
The inhuman writhes and tries
Amidst the wars and lies that span.

All that’s left — to pity them —
A task that’s simply bleak,
When heartless strikes the feeling stem,
And rotten fools are deemed unique.

A layer of the wise remains,
A factor hard to forecast —
In chaos’ storm, an attractor gains,
A stubborn block that kills at last.




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



Ends and Messengers

The ends are breaking off —
Life’s no more, just one big trap.
Riders come? Or liars’ cough?
But Death’s the thought to map...

Death draws lines beneath us all —
Man, or just a lump of flesh?
Drive the ****, the vermin, crawl —
Cut the ends, ditch all the mesh.

Sharpen words with biting verse,
Or prose — it counts the same.
The madhouse round you, terse —
Is worthless, soon to flame.




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



Are Our Tanks Really Fast?

Those “in tanks” at break of dawn
Built their armor just for show.
That armor’s fake, a flimsy con —
They plaster nonsense high and low.

Movement’s stalled, no way to fight,
Only spew their vile disgrace.
That giant lie won’t take much might
To bring crashing down from base.

Those “in tanks” bury their heads,
Like ostriches in the sand.
Those who broke free from their threads
Walk on light, they make a stand.

Few there are inside those tanks —
Most are caught within the cage.
Kursk’s curve? The clash that ranks —
All will lie in sand and rage.




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



Mafioso’s No Real Threat

Mafioso’s like a thorn?
In post-Soviet days —
Mafioso’s just a morn’
Mimosa’s childish phase.

And is the traitor better?
I’ve seen the mob and hacks,
Politicians, all fetter —
But writers strike the facts.

Among them, just a few
Deserve that kind of praise.
The rest like bugs, they stew
In lies and sticky haze.

By custom, fools will stay
In dumb, wild crowds they bind,
Only adding chains each day —
Few leave the lickspittle grind.




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



Global F#ckup

“A keen ear strains to catch a sound.”
But all in vain — just lies will rise.
While reason in deceit is drowned,
Worth nothing but a worthless prize.

And Nature shudders in her fear —
A monster sold to highest bid.
Soulless fools and mindless drear
Spew nonsense — babble, nothing hid.

Fascism’s filth is everywhere,
Genocide drags on for years.
For souls with spirit, shame and tears
Weigh heavy on their minds and fears.

Their ranks thin out — the beasts now swarm,
They fill the void, they rule the scene.
The end is near — the final storm —
This World’s ****** f#ckup, vile and mean.




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



Blow the Horn, Then *******

Swords to plowshares turned to noise,
Metal scraps to iron pipes.
Blow the horn — no other choice,
We don’t care — all’s lost types.

If the horn should break and fall,
Then we’ll ******* through it all.




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



Aladdin or the Djinn

Is Aladdin truly king,
Or the cunning Djinn who’s king?
No reason to trust fairy tales —
Darkness, lies, and endless wails.




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



Creation

God is creativity,
To merge — the only way.
False knowledge, lies, deformity
Won’t help the truth convey.

Inside — the world is one:
Macro, micro intertwined.
But lose your course, you’ll come undone,
When falsehood grips your mind.

Cling tight to lies — a towering mount,
A Everest of deceit.
Wake up from fog, break from the rout,
Escape the common cheat.

The herd feeds on the purest trash,
While breakthroughs come from few.
Creation breaks the chains that clash —
The lies the masses brew.




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



The Toilet

"The world has bent itself for you..."
— From some ancient TV pitch.


The world’s adjusted just for us,
But stinks and burns the nose.
The whole ****** world’s a cesspool now —
Where lies like poison flows.

And in our minds a total mess,
This falsehood drags us down.
No need for executioners —
The lies just multiply the drown.

They’ll march to slaughter, even sing,
Genocide’s their care.
The filthy CowID showed the way —
Deception everywhere.

The world’s adjusted just for us —
Dumb, cruel, and vile inside.
Our reason’s fading, crushed by lies —
By treacherous falsehood’s tide.




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



False Foundations of Pseudo-Science

So much trash accepted blind,
As base for falsehood’s art —
Pseudo-science, fog designed
To fool the trusting heart.

Rotten grounds and cheap charades,
Liars vicious, cold as ice.
They can **** with twisted shades —
Their lies cut sharp as knives.

Take the filth we call a “plague,”
Brewing fast, a toxic brew.
Old fools’ "pioneers" will fade,
Killed off like a mere taboo.

Promises? Just empty bait,
What they bring is only ****.
Monsters killing reason’s state —
False science, frozen counterfeit.

If you want to join their game,
“Pioneer,” then learn the lies —
Drown yourself inside the shame,
Where truth and logic dies.




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



Rot of Ideas

Rot of thoughts —
No tricks at all:
Devils’ madness calls —
Crush them all!

Plant the craze —
Lie even more:
Sheep, die slow
Under “Dawn”’s false roar!




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



On Fellow Travelers

Idiot—hang him high—
The deadliest of foes.
Through their attacks of evil,
Your strength just slips and goes.

Here’s a trick: in mind, draw loops,
Then step away, be free.
From fools, death’s cold breath is blowing—
Walk alone, silently.

If no wise and honest souls
Cross paths along your way—
Loud fools swarm in countless hordes,
Not comrades, but decay...




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



CowID’s Claymakers

An idiot’s a stick of TNT —
The fascist power’s crude device.
He killed the dark, made misery —
A model carved in sacrifice.

A reckless scumbag — mind destroyed,
The whole world reeks — disgrace and shame.




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



CowID Filth

CowID filth —
A shame, a blight.
The world’s dumped down
A sewer’s night.

Mind and Spirit
Rot inside,
Lies cut deep —
Now multiply.

Another CowID —
“Found” and slain,
You’ll be crushed,
Abused, in pain.




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



In Hell

No money left — just worthless notes,
No truth remains, lies choke the air.
Few humans here — just crawling motes;
If you believe the lies, beware.

Exceptions scarce, truth drowned in slime,
Generations dumbed and blind.
Downward spiral, fear and grime,
Darkness spreads inside the mind.

Degradation hits its peak —
No further fall, no depth to seek.
"Life" is empty, aimless, weak,
Monsters hold the power they seek.

The fiends must smoke away,
With slaves they bind and make their play.
Who wakes in this new hellish day?
Just few. That’s Hell — no other way.




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



The Citizen

A beastly mind built up in layers,
Where only lies from news prevail.
A nauseous citizen — no prayers,
Don’t touch him — or your words will fail.

Any sane thought is his foe,
He’ll see you as a threat, no less.
The Spirit’s yearnings? Slime and woe —
His skin alone commands respect.

No more than skin — no man remains,
A wretched shell that drags along,
His pitiful life dull and drained,
A weary, endless, pointless song.




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



Solar Apocalypse

The Sun’s bright flare, in just a span
Of two-thirds century, has grown—
It means swift death for mortal man,
A fate by fire, harshly shown.

The cause of heat is clear and one:
The Sun and Earth together burn
All spawn of evil, come undone,
Their shattered heads in fire churn.

But cows just ****, factories spew—
Yet fiends keep spouting lies and spin:
“The carbon trace!”—the tale they brew,
Blaming all for nature’s sin.

They’ll force herbivores to cease
Their natural gas release,
Claim to wipe the “footprint” clean—
But select few slip between.

Into underground domains,
With beasts enslaved, they’ll creep below.
This brazen nonsense feeds their gains,
Devouring truth in shadow’s glow.




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



Law-Abiding Citizen

A cloudy fool —
Brain like jelly.
Fear beneath,
Nonsense out.
Feed him well —
He’s blissed out!




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



Creative Race

A race? Thin ice —
Pain will tear.
If it’s sharp —
Salt in the tear.

The meaning’s core.
So race ahead!
If you chase the crap —
Then drown instead.




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



The Craft of Verse

Trust in verse — the base,
The craft’s true core.
A fool can’t grasp —
He’s just a bore!

Don’t fear — the first line
Will come one day.
If you’re not dumb,
The rest will sway.

The race is rhythm and meaning,
Rhyme leads the way.
If stuck on a line —
It’s fine, don’t sway.

Keep moving forward —
Onward, always!




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



So-called "Being"

To loosen skill —
Endure it like a gift.
But mind’s eclipse —
No lift, just drift.

What matters most —
To **** is trash.
"Earthly being" —
Souls’ decay and crash.




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



No Luck...

Greed, dullness, shameless vice,
Cowardice, and ruthless spice.
*******, rowing for their gain,
Loving only self’s domain.

Here’s the sellout, idiot’s part,
Traitor, snitch with poisoned heart.
Almost all the rabble’s bred —
Now that rabble’s soon outdead.

Sun blazes stronger, higher—
Marking end of days most dire.
No more sobs or saving lies,
No more falsehoods in disguise.

Rank by rank, for all the wrong,
To the New Hell they belong.
What has luck but evil served?
Just a few—none well preserved.




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



“Miracle”

A "miracle" will come — in frightful tales,
No story’s whole without such scales.
Clues lie scattered all around,
If deeper in the "woods" you’re bound.

Partisans grow thick and strong,
Old crones kinder all along.
More the toadstools will arise,
Water spirits bolder, wise.

This “miracle” will forge the beast,
The real badass, to say the least.
But traitor’s voice within the tale —
That badass means we’re doomed to fail.




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



Almost a Fairy Tale

Old crones wait upon the path,
Leading to the darkest woods.
Hold on tight, endure the wrath —
The oven’s set, the demon broods.

Take some salt, be sly, compliant,
Serve the **** with wicked grin.
Made for joy—your sad defiant,
Feeding rot, the foulest sin.

You’re their meal, the dumb and low,
Serving those who breed the blight.
But the rot will face the glow—
Flash of Light will end their night.




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



Freaks and Their Masters — The ****

**** can’t match the freaks who crawl
Into the filthy halls of power.
Those mad sellouts take it all —
They’ll be charged for every hour.

All accounts are subtraction —
What’s destroyed by wicked fiends?
Hell itself? The soul’s retraction?
Rot and ruin fill their scenes.

Into New Hell goes the ****,
But humans — their remains rise.
Humans are the ones who come
With clear minds and spirit’s prize.

— The End —