The Avro Vulcan, a majestic big old iron bird, sublime,
was to do a flyby for just one memorable last time.
Maybe with a jet fighter or a Spitfire on each wing, who knew?…
Unthinkable to miss it… almost a crime.
Thousands turned up every year, always a great day out -
but this year would be special, there'd be no doubt.
The last flight of such a legendary plane made it essential…
So, after the flyers’ break for lunch, the crowd filled out.

The entry fee to occupy the field was heinous. 25 quid!
That was for adults - and a fiver for each kid.
So, many more than those that paid, sat happily outside pubs.
Others found shelter in the perimeter’s trees and... kinda hid.
Now, to see a Vulcan fly anytime, anywhere, was magic…
She was a Leviathan of the Cold War,
that held players in the planet’s power games in awe.
And this would be her last time doing the rounds on the air show circuit -
Seeing this locally was hard to ignore.

Mark (a nephew) was a window cleaner by trade.
A regular, down to earth, happy go lucky guy.
…Saturday comes and the kids all voted "McDonalds"…
“A Happy Meal!” they’d cry.
He said that was fine - they’d all go after he’d nipped over
to the airshow to watch the Vulcan fly.
No idea whatsoever, of course, that just by going to Shoreham
just 5 miles away, for half an hour or so… that he might die.

He told his fiancé he’d only be an hour or so…
be back in time to take the kids for a burger and, "NO!"...
He wouldn’t stay. He was the only one in the family
who was bothered anyway…so he wouldn’t ****** up their day.
So, in haste, because apparently Chicken Nuggets & Fries
was much better for the kids than a load of old planes,
he cranked the best out of his bike along the 27 and,
once at the lights by the Sussex Pad,
he pulled over to the kerb to watch from the bushes.
Good view? Well not bad!

Andy Hill was a flyer of many years. His weekday job,
flying for BA.Taking holiday makers, business folk, transatlantic in Seven Four Sevens...
A flight deck maestro, soaring up, just under the heavens.
He’d done Shoreham loads of times… it was exciting, exhilarating... almost sport, his game!
He was off the hook,  became an ace. It gave him that 15 minutes of fame!
Free to thrill - a hero! Standing out from the crowd with every daring step. His aim!

He wasn’t just a petrol head… this bloke had aviation fuel in his blood.
Adrenalin on tick-over. Nought to 60 in 2.7 seconds with 22,000 Horsepower under the hood.
He left Epping full of fuel, just 90 miles away, so in two ticks he was with us, fully loaded and, the weather? It was good.
First up after lunch at half past one… he streaked across the crowded field.
Over and out and up, up, up… Little did the spectators know that Andy had forgotten he was flying a Hunter…
He thought it was last year’s aborted routine in a Jet Provost… The one they'd stopped part way through being, too risky.

"He’s not gonna make it… I can’t look!" There was a hush… a nanosecond’s silence and then the rush,
the whoomph that said it all… that hush! The ground shook!
And the eleven - plus others injured - went up in Andy Hill’s very own fireball!
No, of course, Mark wasn’t the only one to die that day.
Ten other ‘innocents’ left us in pretty much the same way…
Maurice, Dylan, Tony, Matthew, Matt, Graham, Mark R, Daniele, Richard & Jacob.
Mark T, our Mark, had the distinction of having two funerals, not just the one…
More remains were discovered, analysed and found to be his!
Even after he’d…already well... ‘gone’.

The injustice that eleven spectators or just passers by should die
when the survivor, the off target driver, who sped too low from the sky, should, after a suitable pause in this ghoulish game, be exonerated and not take any blame.
Well it’s all sort of things… It's ridiculous, pathetic, obtuse, a joke… who do they think we are?

But the great and the good deliberated, scratched their heads and worked hard to make everything look ’right’…
Tolerance for the bereaved to grieve, platitudes, condescending attitudes, a memorial service.
Thanks - genuinely - to the emergency services… Not just a little buck-passing… But the public often judged them. Arsing about - to cover their corporate backside.
They can’t insult me (or us)… intelligent people have tried…

Andy Hill was judged to be not guilty of 11 counts of manslaughter by gross negligence.
But he claimed he blacked out in the air, having experienced ‘cognitive impairment’ brought on by hypoxia … possibly due to the effects of G-force…. Of course!
The 11 were either hit by the plane or roasted in a fireball caused when the jet flew too low and too slow. But if it wasn’t Andy’s fault then whose was it?

Surely this can’t be the end of this travesty of justice!!

BUT, there IS a new memorial to the dead. And, trust this...it’s a good one too…  The best that money can buy - and that anyone can do.

But there's is also a very bitter taste, still today…
that somehow... just won’t go away!

In the meantime in the Áullos kósmos or Ultramundi, Wonthelimar after hearing the speeches and paragraphs of the speakers saw from paradise how Calypso Lepidoptera appeared, approaching in great magnitudes on the dry land on the banks of the blue and golden stones of Skalá. In torrents of rushing from the water-sky with wind-water, by geomorphological hydraulics of the collapse of the irresistible capacity to harass each other in the ears of Seleuco's dialogues, after they piled up in the sneaking curds of him on the island of his speech. Right there it settled from the koelum or sky of the Lepidoptera from the Orofí or ceiling, on the natural arches of aeolian erosion and its devastating plumage, appearing in the subaerial splendor of Chauvet and its gloomy darkness, changing the morphology of the bank of Skalá turned into enchanted turquoise light also with Calypso nuances. From here Wonthelimar obscures the circumflex arc or circumflexes, which pierced and eroded the surface, piling up the ex-generals of Alexander the Great, to skewer them on the stump that was languidly seen supporting them, after the tides of Lepidoptera that avalanche in destined per capita towards the destined underworld of Wonthelimar.

Wonthelimar was separated from everyone by the moat that was separated from the gods of the surface, but now where the supporters of Seleucus were predestined by imbibing themselves in the bilocated kingdom of Chauvet and its darkness, where they were put into agreements of suitability and clarity of words discursive for the eagerness to persuade his major general. But they all fell into the middle of a dark Ultraworld, judging themselves to be dying in stockpiles of biosystems where no one helped them and gave them some indication or diagnosis of being separated from the canopy that drained them from spectral affairs, speaking as vivid visions of benefits and sovereignties that escaped from themselves without contemplation or quietism of the human race, which procreates xenophobia to kings without throne or nation. Under the Attic, calendar were the months here were only eighth, Anthesterion, received them with the name directly of the main festival celebrated in this month, Anthesteria. In goods of name contests in the semester of Pyanepsia, Thargelia, and Skira where they were relatively significant, in some of the greatest celebrations in the life of a Polis, which is not recognized in the name of the month. Some sparkled in the sound of the Great Dionysia celebrated in Elaphebolion (ninth month), and the Panathenaia in which they are only indirectly recognized in Hekatombaion (month one), named after the hecatomb, of the sacrifice of "one hundred oxen" celebrated at night. End of the Panathenaia. This is where the suspicious fondness of both families of Seleucus and Alexander the Great differed in the accent that marks the written line of the infra Polis, where the leaders of Haides or Hades are lost, for the purposes of Aïdes, as not indivisible, but with the presence of Wonthelimar, who is invisible but epically static on his balustrade in all the rings that chorally wore them for each patronage of the diádocos generals, even so he had betrayed the Hellenic legacy, by a Hellenic-Orthodox one in the disappearance of Alexander the Great in Babylon without knowing that it had been rescued by Wonthelimar, surpassing the limits of the rings of stefánes ibix, or Aros de íbiz, as nano kvantikoí daktýlioi, quantum nano-ring that augured to sensitize the dermis of its carpal phalanges, from the eighth, Anthesterion to Elaphebolion (ninth month), minus the one hundred and twenty days of gestation in a month of the attic of imníbiz, that it was of wise advice to receive him in the new engend rivers of Wonthelimar in the depths and bundles of marrow with gestation forms of an Ibex goat, with their embedded bases of stalagmites, filing the meaning of each life that was lodged in the depths of the caves and its opacity. The Eygues of Valdaine was the Acheron, but with half the deceased who sat in rows and unleashed their laurels that possessed poor aids tormented by mandrake root hands.

The underworld was a swamp that covered the heels of the diádocos in the immense blackness of the cavern that wounded them one and the other with its Kopis, by more than a hundred blows and slashes that covered them with mud and moans in their buried half bodies. That they had been intruded from linear entrances to the underworld of Wonthelimar. In the thick musts of the quagmire where objects with ornaments of fear and cavalier materiality lay, such mangrove deserts satiated with gloomy fibromyalgia and amnesia, refiguring in the wandering bones, that sinned in lights and destinies that were adopted in the sub-world with incorporeal needs., more than the exhaustion that tore the skeletal muscle of each one behind the meager compromise openings, in the strong ligaments of the host Wonthelimar that took them at forced steps towards paradises where there will never be consciousness from a Theseus typology, but from a sub taxonomy - Verthian mythological, for purposes and among others that unleash it by propelling self-infernos that are not those born by a Macedonian force or Satrap into puny kings turned into a servile, mute and decayed.

It is necessary, that solitude of all the entrances from the abyss into which they fell, was titanic and of ultraphobic acquiescent inspiration, and in the acid gestures of search of Persephone or Aerse that in random gestures fled from their persecutors, like females who ended fleeing from themselves falling into the back room where the end of souls is never exceeded or Psyché re emigrating from the punishments of a satire or a static that resulted in a ghostly wandering, or in tendentious spinners that tribulated in belated bundles of repentance. From primitive times, subjugations have been longed for in kings who would never think of leaving their cracks and washing their hands behind the backs of others who stood by, leaving the courage to lose themselves in the perversity of a body deposited in the Tartars, having to give them their prehistoric debts and meadows of carpeted debts and caged rooms.

The generals commanded by Seleucus walked barefoot along with the stump that wounded them in seams for their plantar areas, and in extreme distress, they did not dare to ask mercy from the cave host who transported them through the deep pit of perpetuity, where the frigid bullet of angina of Wothelimar, filled them with memories that protected their survival. In unworthy caprice and watery *****,… it ran frivolously down their legs, even after each impulse to recover the flashes of estimating being scared of oneself, after finding dead fruits subsisted halfway, feeling voices from the origin of the abyss that I quoted them.

Etréstles says: "Mashiach allow me to enter this grave, I do not know if I should go to rescue them, because I know what will happen..., I only ask that if I enter with courage, help me to find the same light of the exit, with the same memory of not to waste arrests, and not to lose myself in my entrustment by those who I know will not return”

Behind some Sabine poplars, it is seen how the elytra of the Lepidoptera were opened for those who crossed from the darkness without the appearance of their fruitful eyes that tickled praises of surrender, and not of ibid in the ibid that surrounded them, as if they were violated that heal at the moment when their faces departed from the miracle of privacy, and from the solitude decreed of non-existent company, companionship calming any dogmatic symptoms and hypoxia that the glimpse of the Eygues and the Acheron left them, further behind in which Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth, Reader and Petrobus to bring Etréstles back.

Saint John the Apostle says: “Vernarth go for your brother,… he wants to protect the souls of Seleucus and his comrades, go soon because there is little left to fill them with darkness which will even besiege in their reasoning and anti homelands that will not be from the din of the campanile, out of tune with joy that runs on the graces of the gift that frees you from the worst virus by not being anti-viral… ”.

Vernarth replies: “Etréstles is the slogan of Erebus, perhaps of Bumodos…, I have to stop him for his profession, since the comrades of Seleuco will not return, the effigies of Wonthelimar have made them of his children in Ultramundi, and what is Solstice of the underworld, it is only a small Sun that fits in the buttonhole of the orthogonal slot that confines it”.

At that time Raeder paraded where he before they reached the omega of the gully pit, running swiftly over the eyelets of Wonthelimar, leaving both completely naked, to tear them away from the contrived spell and bring Etrestles back all the way together and running., but both stripped of lightness and acceleration escaped from the centripetal bodies. After the tortured walls of the pit, they no longer supported themselves in their Skotos or Erebo of Wothelimar in such a primordial deity of this theogonic and fantastic event in the bilocated cavern of Chauvet in Skalá. Here all the densities and units of physical genres, from above and below surrounded them in the thick sulfur atmosphere, Ananké in such a goddess of inevitability ran after all who tried to reverse the situation of the diádocos, for the purpose of consenting their paragraphs Hellenics and to save their lives, but the mother of the Moiras went behind Etréstles and Vernarth along with Rader and Petrobus who were basking in the glow of Persephone that imbued them as they stagnated drinking mead with the Canephores who followed him. From this cryptic moment or from the bombastic insignia of Crete, Kanti's trotting from his Cretan figure was felt united with the Lepidoptera Calypso, redeeming Demeter from her crying on the edge of some Bern olive trees, emptier now that the last gradients of the agonic and venous voices in the hilarious of some diádocos that were completely absorbed by the benevolent illusion of Wonthelimar, snowy in the harrowing tenuity of his gestures and of the great Iberian that took them towards the heights of the hillocks and towards the Ultramundi that It turned them into proles of the mountainous areas, and into super aquatic monsters with thousands of loose eyes in the arches of the generals bleating, which transposed ****** subjugations of primal deities, and philastics of phantasmagorical genres of Hellas that is plucked from the peritoneum of their stomachs, and that guttural eradicated them from the blue adrenaline of Apollo.

This odyssey dispelled the orthogonal lines of the poetic affliction of those who could see the sunset and the Spyché ***** that antagonized Ananké's numinous efforts to extubate them, and perhaps exile them to the Theban plains to graze Achaeans of the first degree alongside Shamash. Lamenting of young afternoons and of the abysmal with beautiful hair of the generous of effects, swampy and of feverish Hadesian or Hade's rounds that crippled their districts, they emanated from some Marie Curie junk and vapors radiating this Parapsychological Quantum to them from their own holy final body., for a virtuous and rout of the Ultramundis of Wonthelimar.

There are several approaches to climbing Everest.
Some are easier than some others, none are easy.
This mountain is littered with discarded equipment
and the evidence of loss and unforced errors.
The cold here, at the top of the world,
pierces through your clothes
Like a million acupuncture needles.
The air is so thin
That hypoxia is a constant danger.
There is exhilaration at the summit
For those who reach the top
They stand where Mallory and Irvine stood
before they suffered their fatal drop.
We climb mountains because we are men.
We are addicted to the adrenaline rush.
We climb Everest because it is there.
We climb Everest because we must.

And so it happened
Soul crushing
Like a weight of some kind was constantly loaded on you
Its asphixiating you
But relieving you
At the same time
And suddenly
It seems like youre inside an ocean
Thats frozen
And all you do
Is try so bad
To find a way
To escape this cage
of soul dismantling water
And at one point
You let go
You submerge deeper
Much deeper
And it feels
So light
Youre not trying to get out of that frozen ocean anymore
Youre just going to stay inside of it
And drown
With every ******
A deeper realm
Awaits you

I used to breathe in at the sight of you
Excitement, enticement
A gasp of joy, a flash of euphoria
But now I breathe out whenever I see you
A sigh of longing, a breath of regret
The ardent warmth from my lungs
Turned twisted frost in your arctic air

from behind my eye I glance at her and wonder with what shades she sees the world
and I think about how tightly she grabs her body,
as though her heart were falling out,

through her tissue skin I see that her blood is grey,
her brain is grey,
her grey guts spilling like inky oily sludge and flooding even the sun,

in april, living in an endless december, the weeds now soggy in her veins,

and as I peer into this rippled reflection I wonder how my little fish soul,
moving only with the pull of the stream,
lived in that lightless world of death

How would you take the news of my bitter insomnia?
Would you feel conflicted knowing that could I sleep,
I might not still want you? I know that you’re just a heap
Of atoms tied together, cells powered with mitochondria,
And without you I am just succumbing to hypoxia.
You are nothing to the universe, just an ignorant sheep,
And were my head unclouded, no illusions would I keep:
I’d know in lucidity it’s just my acute monophobia.
But you are there still, hiding under my thin skin,
And you’re not going away, and it’s driving me insane.
How could I discount your memory, your incredible smiles,
Your hands rough like heartbeats, your eyes glowing like sin?
You are a heap of molecules, mere bone and membrane:
And your soul is a fire, your ardor drives me for miles.

1.
it's a new year and you want to go hunting
so i peel off all my winter clothes
and consider the blessings
of mud on my feet and
you on my heels

2.
i pick all the first blooms of spring for you
and we swill them in scotch til summer
i'm shot through with bee-stings
but you're speaking with devils
and you've never been prettier

3.
i'm bearing revelation down the skin of my back
vertebrae like the tower, all down to bits
can't you see? our tongues don't fit
but i'm an altar of salt and water
beneath your stony weight

(4.
and in the shade of hypoxia
i am nothing, nothing but content)

We never thought in our lives that elders dying will be amongst our lives,
losing our loved ones is a heartache, but the virus you put out is a treacherous outbreak.
No compassion, sympathy or souls you have, because all Bill Gates has is a chip in hand.
The world was once sought to be a beautiful place, until a ****** was born out of place.
The corruption of this world isn't because of you or me, but the one who stands before us on the high chair of a governmental seat.
The serpents tongue slivers and shakes and the lies come out it's poisonous stake.
We need to come together as a whole, forget the fear because end is near, we must run with armed forces in our hands to the throne and temple at arms to cote and **** the snake with 7 heads, each and every one at once to destroy what' is coming to us.
Then hopefully we will survive, but we mustn't give up without a fight.    
How dare they force to vacc and chip us with their evil redemption of a cast pit plan, masking us to the point of a hypoxia death.
We the people need to make a stand, forget the rest and fight the Medusa head which lays amongst our earth.
We must banish, and forbid, to stretch away it's evil temptress of all for then once again we can live a life for all.

The scent
The sounds
The vibrant colour
The excited tones and syllables
It's Christmas
I can't stand it
It's two weeks til my 19th birthday
In my stomach; a dark pit, sickness, knots
In my head; panic, darkness, fear
In my heart; fear, sadness
I can't stand the word Christmas
I can't stand the smell of fruit mince pies, gingerbread houses, tinsel
I can't stand the lights and smiles and trees with baubles so bright and lights flashing
I can't stand the happiness, holding hands, singing families
It's Christmas and I'm holding your hand, singing for comfort, yours and mine
and you're dying
I'm smelling death
I'm hearing words like renal failure, hypoxia, cancer; and I'm scared out of my wits
It's Christmas time, I'm a kid and I'm sitting here waiting for you to die
It doesn't feel like Christmas at all.

I miss the hard breathing,
the gulping of frozen air,
the chunks of blood
spitting up from my dry lungs,
headaches & hypoxia,
the chronic lack of sleep,
& the holding of hands
with my mates
in the jet stream.

She lied there that day. All I now picture, is blood stains from unwanted needle work, and eyes redly diluted from sufferd pain.

She starved herself that day!
Not from food!
But Hypoxia. ❤❤

The waves
had brought me to you.
Do not be gentle to time.

Lower the songs
into a mass grave,
as the violence spreads.

This time-travel
will take you to panic attacks.
Blackness moves very fast.

Hypoxia.
Photons will take you
to fading sun.

Glitterati,
now hurts. You cannot
haul the gift of reeds.

The waves
had brought me to you.
Do not be gentle to time.

Lower the songs
into a mass grave,
as the violence spreads.

This time-travel
will take you to panic attacks.
Blackness moves very fast.

Hypoxia.
Photons will take you
to fading sun.

Glitterati,
now hurts. You cannot
haul the gift of reeds.

Living through illusions
Becoming disillusioned
Leading to exclusion
Delusions and confusion
Packaging hope into an infusion
Marketed as inclusion
Executed as intrusion
Running into seclusion
Transfusion, hypoxia to asphyxia
Left with no ideas except extrusion

Brothers in "Literature"
Will ensure culture’s sepulture:
If courage fades, then you will find,
It can't rise up, it’s left behind.



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



Hopeless idiots, and most of them...

Idiots, fooled by every trick,
They march ahead, both blind and quick.
For without a change in the beasts’ core,
They whisper, “Soon, all will be no more.”

An old tale, but now, it's grotesque,
As blood in veins grows cold, in distress.
The beasts’ blood runs, yet still we see
A protest born from nostalgia's plea.



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


The few are not in wold the freaks,
So we are Nature’s shame, it speaks:
Idiots, fools, and crazy minds,
In nonsense, years are left behind.



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


To craft a miniature with care —
A big achievement, if there's flair.
But if it births a ****** rhyme,
Erase it quick — don’t waste your time.



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


A man’s like a cheburek —
Juicy with filling, crisp and sleek.
But for a lifetime, they pack it tight
With nonsense, fear, and lies to fight.

Weigh the filling, break it down,
Into segments: fear and frown,
Fragments of joy — hold them fast,
For those are the truths that will last.



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



If only a trace
Of creativity’s grace,
Conquer fatigue,
Cast pity away,
Take the final leap—
And don't drift in dismay.



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



A mania of grandeur,
Through every guise it’s pure,
No strength to hide it now,
It merges with the soul somehow.



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



Journey to Nowhereville

Step by step to Nowhereville —
Every stride’s a clumsy spill.
What is Nowhere? Just exhaustion.
Hang in there — you’re near the crossing.

Nowhere’s not on any chart —
Just a dot in Fog-of-Heart.
Fired up, you made it matter —
Yet it’s hellish, false, and shattered.

There’s a way to break the trance:
Pause, and give your mind a glance.
Look around with eyes unclouded —
See the MADNESS all enshrouded.

On the Path, there is a guide —
Almost instinct deep inside.
Hold to reason, hold it tight.
Chase illusions with your light.

Cleanse your thoughts of haunted dreaming —
Find the Truth beneath false seeming.
You’ll arise, no more decaying —
SPIRIT’S MOTION — ever staying!



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



The Toady Folk

Toadies crave a fatter ration,
Crush the world with savage pride.
Luck is drawn to their vocation —
Satan's standing by their side.

Toadies rule as lords and leaders,
Every petty crook and boss.
Fools line up to serve as feeders,
Paying rent to Satan’s dross.

Rent in Hell is paid in spirit.
Sell your soul — ascend the stair!
Honor? Conscience? None will hear it —
Blabber rules the market there.

He’ll explain the "higher missions"
With a zeal that’s cold and grim —
Thrilled to earn his low position
In the cattle pens with him.



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



Puppet Politicians and the Sheepish World

Just a bunch of lifeless puppets
On the screen — while fascist muck
Chokes the world of sheepish comforts.
Such a sight — it deeply cuts.

During CowID they were preaching
Rotgut lies with poisoned teaching.
Now they've got a brand-new war —
Hear them wailing, craving gore.

Off they drive the fools to slaughter.
Nations? Gone. It doesn’t matter.
So the world, in grand despair,
Spills toward the devil’s lair.

Hell is near — a brand-new version.
This one needs a vile conversion:
Cleanse the land for beasts to nest —
This dark soil suits jail the best.



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



The Puppets

The puppets dance in sync, delighted —
Their strings pulled tight by hands unseen.
Between the acts, they gripe, short-sighted:
“No cash! No breaks! This life is mean!”

They’ve had enough of whips and lashes —
Now lies and gold take center stage.
Their minds reduced to tattered ashes —
The theater burns, and yet the rage

Is sold as “special stage effects.”
What sense can wooden fools express?
The beams are cracking — all’s a wreck.
Get out — or vanish with the mess!



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



The Death of Natural Farming

The earth bears fruit in freedom’s way —
But such a truth they can’t abide.
They flood the fields with waste and grey,
Industrial madness far and wide.

For sprouts of freedom dare to grow
When soil breathes clean, beneath the sun.
So poison’s mixed in warlike flow —
A global mess for everyone.

They’ve labeled toxins “pesticides,”
And “fertilizer” means pure ******.
They turn the farms to labor sites —
Like gulags masked as industries.



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



Mouse-Sized Happiness

A roof above one’s head often prevents people from growing.
— Stanisław Jerzy Lec

The burrow presses on your brain —
You see no light, you feel no pain.
To gather crumbs, the rats decree:
"Lie and praise our colony!"

"Tell the young it’s paradise.
Fear and faith — the combo’s nice.
Lack the zeal? Then face the blame.
Not from hate — it’s just the game."

For the rule is iron-tight:
March in step and squeak just right.
Hear the anthem, loud and shrill —
Propaganda, dressed to ****.

Play along — you’ll find your bliss
In some mousehole’s dark abyss.
Speak against it? You’ll be gone.
Best keep your tiny mouth shut, son.



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



The “Magic” of Propaganda

Unbewitched, you don't belong —
Propaganda rules the song.
Any movement out of line
Falls to rot — by foul design.

Rot is shaped through slick campaigns,
“Education” fans the flames.
Thus, officials form a crew —
Thugs in ties, corruption’s glue.

And the masses, led like sheep,
Turn to dullards, shallow, cheap —
The new mainstream prototype,
Built on slogans, fear, and hype.



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



In Their Service...

Not by noose, but fear they slay —
That’s the modern tyrant’s way.
Hard to stand and just be you
When the dogs all cower too.

Few remain with souls intact —
"Serve the Darkness!" — that’s the pact.
Lose your soul — and all you see
Melts to false reality.

Mirages drift to MADNESS' gate —
CowID showed the world that fate.
And the hounds bark loud and tight:
“Fetch!” — they’re fed for blind delight.



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



The Rule of Satanism

Chains of sorrow aren’t by chance —
Evil planned this grim advance.
This “amazing world,” you see,
Is ruled by goats — satanically.

Wars and crises, endless plagues —
All designed to raze and break.
Year by year, the kind and wise
Fade beneath the flood of lies.

Donkeys led by bold deceit,
While fake problems flood the street —
Easily “solved” with broken laws,
While freedom dies without a cause.

Then — much worse. The beast returns:
Hidden fascist fire burns.
Through collapse, they try to win
With the same old game and grin.

Prospects? None, when fools hold sway.
Dark and brutal years await.
But the sun will blaze its way —
Scorching all this rot and hate.



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



Slavery

The word “slavery” is banned —
Not by law, but by the mind.
That’s how tyrants took command,
Drowning truth in filth redefined.

Simple truths are left to rust.
A child might see them clear and plain —
But lies, injected from the crust
Of cradle days, infect the brain.

He'll call this madhouse “civil life,”
And slavery — “my right to choose.”
He picks his poisons with no strife,
Blind to how they’re meant to bruise

His health, his strength, his mind each day —
A question just of dosage rate.
But bit by bit, he'll waste away,
His “thoughts” reduced to spite and hate.

All worsened by the early blow
From school, the news, and TV trash.
No life — just filth in steady flow:
A slave, dumb-struck by fear and flash.



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



Choked by the Dark, or The Soul’s Last Stand

Seal the path that leads away —
To betrayal, fear, and lies.
Only trials fill the day
For the souls that still stay wise.

Facing doom like tanks of dread,
Armed with Words instead of bombs.
Better fall before the red
Sunlight touches Hell’s calm swamps.

In the light, the weak may choke,
Gasping where the brave would stand.
Call it hypoxia’s stroke —
When resolve slips from the hand.



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



Train to Hell

With Dante at the ticket stand,
The train to Hell is nearly boarding.
The Ninth Circle — high demand,
A traitor grabs his seat, self-lording.

The station roars: its name is "Home",
The crowd is tense, the timing brittle.
Departures roll in clouds of chrome,
The board still says, "To Our Saint’s Little."



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



To Hell

With Dante there to sell the ride,
The train to Hell is almost leaving.
The **** all scramble, eager-eyed —
The Ninth’s a deal, if you’re deceiving.

All seats are sold. All faith betrayed.
To spread their filth, they’re boldly surging.
Success of swine — the price we’ve paid:
Our moral core is slowly purging.

And Reason’s dead, or close enough —
Perhaps the devils might restore it?
Let’s rush to Hell! Full speed and rough!
Outsin the fiends — we’ll learn, ignore it.

The "Satan's icons" now are men,
Low creatures once from "Mother Russia".
The demons groan in lower den —
These sons outmatch them under pressure.

The war has shown what’s underneath —
Now ****** spins inside his casket.
This land has touched the floor beneath.
What’s lower? Hell. Lead on, you *******.



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



Woodworking

Freight trucks on the highways,
Lumber runs in byways —
Planks and logs, they haul them,
As if people — fallen.

Not a thought of reason,
Conscience out of season...
Thick-skinned, barely human —
Bark-like in delusion.

Oaks are processed roughly,
Raw and loud and gruffly.
Not for any filing —
That’s what they call schooling.

Then they send us, stunted,
To the jobs — undaunted.
“Do with us whatever —
Lie as much as ever.”

Bent like marionettes, we
Bear our fates regret-free.
Papa’s name is Boss-Man,
Mallets in his crosshands.

Beat us, lie with power —
Every single hour.
Promise us the keyhole —
Turn us into weasels.

Bribes and threats in measures,
Dreams and plastic treasures...
Heaven’s just a cinder —
Needs one match to hinder.

Will the flames defeat us?
Will the foe unseat us?
No — the fire's fated
For the ******, sedated!



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



Sheeplevirus

The Sheeplevirus hunts across the land,
It drills into the brain, it eats the mind.
There’s nowhere I can run from its command,
And soon you'll find there's nowhere left to hide.

The Sheeplevirus, Evil's cruel test—
A purge of fools in panic and alarm.
They’ll drive me out, like all the not-like-rest,
And soon you'll feel that same cold, closing harm.

The Sheeplevirus chokes out thought and grace,
It strangles honor, freedom, every spark.
To march with idiots is now the place—
A sea of dumb, a million-strong and dark.

The Sheeplevirus smells of fascist schemes,
Designed to break us, crush us into dust.
No “cool indifference” will redeem our dreams—
This evil won't be slain by passive trust.

There once was Koch, a wise and steady guide,
Who taught the world to trace what spreads and kills.
But now, it’s noise and fear that rules with pride—
They make their “gods” from hype and lab-made thrills.

The Sheeplevirus is a war of minds,
A cult of power dressed in SS gray.
What use is “matter” when the soul’s confined?
Even a void can steal your life away!

The question's simple—clear, and sharp as flame:
Will we resist, or bow and live in pain?
They’ll never stop unless we end the game—
So do we fight, or let them win again?




--- Total 22 poems. ---

How the fool turned the image into gold, Amazing Ambrosia, Emberrassing, love's thirsty ******* girl freeing our fingers. The church, yes, went to the companies held by Paul and the trees have a good friend? Bring your friend, drink alcohol, ****, hurt and commit forgery to Remember the change, change, change or think? Different types of American whites can win the series. Learn to hunt in America: I know about the public eye and the community. The furnace is especially for the children of the West and the West will be punished shortly after the adoption of the law in seven weeks. Today's enemy enemies, Japan and mother and mother get to eat, not to smoke water. Gender and homosexuality, specially in black and white in Switzerland, but citizens are white and white. Here are several useful names and pictures. Family members, family homes, brains, dioptals, high blood pressure and good communication are good communicators. This is a good and it is a mistake to release it in the Czech Republic, the United Kingdom and the United States. Is it four years? Over the last four million years, Americans have earned billions, billions, billions, and six minutes Finally, the son produces the Holy Spirit Winner World Cup is the most popular company in the world. Crystal Burns is available in the UK, USA, Canada and for many days. Is it four years?
In the first four years, more than 100 million books were held Duke and Raleigh, Stuttgart and Toto. Alcohol, your husband can have injuries and loss of help, win or win a series Learn to hunt in the United States: I know about the community and the organization of the company. She added that the West had caused her mother's mother and seven weeks to the west, specifically for children and law. Without mosque or my mother, mother and sea can feel and Japan Switzerland, white and white, mostly black and white people, *** and other evil things of war are very useful, names and pictures. Family and family have good relationships with budget, brain, diastase, high blood pressure and hypoxia. Pakistan and Greenland are everywhere and Republicans making a lot of mistakes in the Czech Republic, the United Kingdom and the United States. Is it four years? Over the last four years, the United States has made millions of dollars in six minutes. Castles condemned A few days later, he won the World Cup in Mexico, the Brazilian Crest, the world famous company, in the United States, Canada and Britain. Is it four years?
Dukakis and Raleigh ​​publishes more than 100 books
in the 21st century by Steggart Nicopodes;
Ambrosia, Ambrosia, Ambrosia, |||| love's thirsty
girl-on- girl freeing up our fingers.