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We, the voice of the most oppressed,
Work in the profession remaining the most humble,
Throughout histories, as slaves our lives still remain tumble,
With our strangled necks, we are deliberately suppressed

For the centuries, our voices remain unheard,
Like a weeping fish at the sea,
We are treated zombies at the rush of a blood,
Collecting by hand, the human society’s poops & pea

Things for us got intensely worse,
We work as a group with an isolated curse,
For our livelihood, go into manholes as bare-bodies
Mostly get out as dead-bodies

From pathology to oncology,
We are treated untouchables, even by the modern technology
We are the oxygen-offering trees that remain green
Hurting ourselves, collecting excreta making this world neat &clean

With our hand-cuffs we shout and fight,
Rulers remain drunken-deafs to our plight,
Hell with your knowledge, to those who go to college
And keep pushing us to the drainage,
We remain living dead and frustrated, to get our right

When asked about work, we remain dumb and blind,
Fearing the responses to our ***** revelations,
Because humans are unemphathetic and unkind
To get our life some elevations.

Our mind said us “Please think! Please Think!”
When we revolt not to work, societies stink,
We warn, Witness your locality *****,
To our sufferings, if you keep blank & empty.

We are a collective voice,
Representing inhuman humanity,
That keeps the society on a poise,
So raise your voice, with a clarity of choice
To get us work with the utmost dignity!
Manual scavengers is a decent term. People who collect human and animal excreta on bare hands are the manual scavengers. The quality of these people in the south-east Asian countries like India remain pathetic. Their voices are often neglected and ignored by the rulers. They remain struck in a state of vicious circle, where poverty and untouchability keeps chasing them continuously and push them towards this work. This poem is a pain of the masses that had been engaged in manual scavenging for centuries immemorial that continues unlikely, till the present day. Rulers don’t offer the mandatory occupational standards and technological support to the manual scavengers. The motive of this poem is to voice their concerns to help them work peacefully and offer them a dignified life. This poem is written in the style of a ballad.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
.i lied in doubly toasted rye bread and some larry tesler epitaphs... toasted rye bread... better with baltic sushi... raw herrings in a creamy sauce... perhaps a creamy sauce with dill... more like apples and pickles... toasted rye bread with baltic sushi... herrings... smoked salmon is luxury... just the basics will do... a smoked salmon can have its bagel... as long as the toasted rye gets its herrings.

some thigs just have to wait for no apparent "rightness"
of time - a corvus corax album from 2009 only arrived
into my ears late sunday evening -
mille anni passi sunt - and no... i do not know what sort
of radio station would play this sort of music...
nor anything from 13th cent. "pleb" music of the countryside
or "heretic" monks that do not fit the criteria
of "classical"... i.e. "worthwhile"...

two sips of ms. amber / well a decent double with
pepsi max will jolt the memory:
or at least that's the hope -
yesterday two decent doubles allowed the coils
to unwind - alas - no pen and paper -
but a witness - a cat sleeping in a chair:
i'm pretty the sure the world won't mind if:
another of my diatribe spews heads into two
directions: infinity and nothingness -
                              perhaps tonight i will pick up
the scraps from what i "ought" to have written
down...                well... this is hardly
going to be words penned to paper to be later
required oratory material...

i can't exactly call them thought experiments...
if i believed in thought experiments...
i'd be... an oyster... or a clam...
  basically an mollusk - not quiet a stone...
but a shell - how did the oyster get his shell?
and why didn't the stone get...
a cell of celluloid / cellulite brain?
              the mountain has muhammad:
of that i am certain...  thought experiments...
not when you're about to do some manual labour...

i've been asking for my neighbour to put
up her garden fence for 15 years...
if not me then someone else...
she's put up a 5th of the garden's length...
the rest would remain covered by the foliage
in my garden... one storm... nothing...
two storms... nothing... then something...
the 5th of the garden length would topple...
until a new 5th of the garden's length would
be put up...
roots... ****** roots...
well... i felt lucky... this year we saw 3 or 4 storms
batter these islands consecutively...
the guys that were going to put up
the fence came... i gave them 250quid to cut
all the shrubbery in my garden...
after all: i do have tools... but a chainsaw i don't
have...
the fence is up... but the garden is in part
barren...
the shurbs and trees are gone:
i'm thinking of planting some dwarf apple / pear
trees... the plum tree took to the earth a few
years back... the cherry tree (morello cheery):
i'll give her another year:
she bloomed last year but only bore 2 fruits...
maybe she's shy...
well great... the shrubbery is gone...
but... roots... those ****** roots...
       we are talking london, we are talking:
a city built on clay...
it doesn't take long... not even half a meter
of digging before you reach this playdough
fudge layer of the soil...
     even if it is a dwarf tree or a shrub...
a holly... as i learned... even with a fork and mini
fork... a proper ***** and a mini *****...
a blunt axe and a heavy hammer...
digging up the roots'-head with some of
the roots intact can take somewhere between
2 to 4 hours...

                yesterday i managed 3...
which took me... roughly 6 hours... while i
uncovered a 4th...
   manual labour... better than going to the gym...
i really didn't know i had this muscle
in my body... or this sort of cartilage...
this tendon... i think i stood before a whole class
of students of medicine and gave them
an arithemetic of my lower thoraic and almost
all of my lumbar muscles...
but that's the beauty: i guess...
once you get on your knees and work with
earth, with roots, trees, once you unearth
the earthworms and cut them in half as you're
digging: well... they have an in-built clone
regrowth... the only music came from the birds
celebrating: renovation! food!
i wished for a radio... but then i uttered
a word or two and meditated on it -
perhaps it was a word - perhaps it was a phrase...
later that day i made east european dumplings...
a filling of last sunday's poacked chicken
meat (which is always a problem -
what do you do with poacked chicken meat
after you made a decent clear soup from it?),
mushrooms - sauerkraut - spices - blah blah...
but... first i sniffed my hands...
imbued with all the scents of the earth...
the dirst and the clay and the wood merging...
that... for the sensual contrast of later working
with flour and water for the dumplings' dough!

yesterday i lay in bed on this ******* carousel
wheel of "narrative"...
what if i forget it... i'll wake up and write it down...
7am... write this sort of ******* down?
i don't think so... lucky for me yesterday ended
with heavy rain... i almost wanted to fall asleep
to the sound of rain... it wasn't loud enough...
for a long time: it's either with earphones in...
or no... no other alternative...
      most relationships probably failed because:
"i wasn't there"... when trying to find the la la land
of nox...

               when writing: even feel a senstation
in your feet... as if you feet are standing
on the ceiling? the whole body translates into
a mild sensation of up-side-down...
ever write and while writing: feel the insane barrel
of laughter from a sensation that your feet
are attached to the ceiling?
   never mind...

   my eyes shouldn't be staring at this glaring screen
this late anyway... i should be listening
to radio.fama.pl with the screen blacked-out...
perhaps a candle in the room...
but mostly the light coming from the cigarette
being dragged... nothing more...
today is an exception: superstitious in that:
if i don't write this today:
tommorow would be cindarella of this...
no memor: there's already barely any cohesion...

today i was lucky: i only dug up one root-head...
2 hours... given that i had to do so...
while at the same time not disturbing the fern...
even thought the roots of the head were
weaving themselves around the fern...
had to tie up the fern so she wouldn't get in the way...
what a pretty man-bun of hair...
hail shiva!     or any other long-haired deity
that does... boquetes of hair for a living...
the fern was spared...

   back in the garden... a literal swamp...
that jasmine and her labyrinth of roots...
not to mention an ancient copper plated tube
with a cable that i dug up... and the old fence posts...
these biggo concrete dollops with metal...
literally a swamp... if this isn't what Ypres looked
like on a good day: then i'd be swimming
in cow-**** shambo on a bad day...
and this London clay... it...
you don't even dig up half a meter into the earth
and... you get a puddle of water...
work... in these conditions?
do i look like i'm going to mud-wrestle?

what sort of thought experiment can you take
into manual labour of this sort...
the sort that isn't going to the gym...
thought experiment = entertain a hypothetical
x, y and z? the "what if"?
i need to take a phrase with me...
i overheard it somewhere...

man is a human: doing...
woman is a human: being...
so i took that...

along came descartes and kant...
      along came the word ontological:
misnomer - oncology -
with oncology came: the cancer within botany...
mistletoe... if you've ever seen it grow
in the wild... go to Poland...
Warsaw will do... 10 miles in either direction...
after all... Poland isn't England...
there's no Royal Society for the preservation
of trees... mistletoe in the wild...
botanical cancer... now if i am to have
cancer... unlikely... i'm more prone to alcoholism
related deaths and dementia -
i just think of mistletoe... botanical cancer...
and it's in the tradition to: kiss under it...
anyways and who...

                    cogito ergo sum...
is that an a priori statement...
                     or an a posteriori statement...
it's hardly a maxim -
   a maxim according to which you'd be able
to extract an imperative of sorts -
caterogical or impartial - imperative and
and adjective of your choice -
                        yes... where i come from...
certain things are given SHE-pronouns...
most things botanical... except the oak...
an oak is a male in botany...
where i come from... the sun is female...
the moon is male... unlike in english...
where the words do not give pronoun impressions
designating "***"... that comes later...
with pictures... borrowed...
     comes with the turf... emoji hieroglyphs:
h'america first...
                         well and second...
                i don't hear news from France about
"misgendering" someone...
given how french grammar has explicit masculine and
feminine terms...
so... on your own...

i hear the debate... but... i don't even have
a two cent's worth of an argument...
              the iron curtain is down...
i'm in england and i'm looking at the silicone veil
and i'm saying: there's no me on the moon...
and if i'd really want to escape...
antarctica or... afghanistan... among the pashtun
women...
problem with both... i don't play the ***-tar
so good as to remember all the radio i'd miss...
i once heard the most beautiful adhan and cried...
then again: what if the mu'azzin
sounds like a goat grabbed by the testicles about
to be castrated?! and not the mu'azzin
i heard recorded?
i once cried hearing...
                         vaughan williams - fantasia on
a theme by thomas tallis...
once again when hearing ola gjeilo's...
either o magnum mysterium or northern lights...
beauty is transcendental: a priori -
          true beauty is transcendental: a priori -
because these pieces of music i heard for the first
time... and rejoiced with tears...
crying and laughter - not antonyms...
                                           implicitly i.e.:
when you're crying you're laughing vice versa etc.,
it's hard to laugh at music...
one can laugh at one's ****** response
to the body... but not when the body has found
serenity... or anguish...
             of a burden of the heart...
the ears to listen with... and that the eyes would
be far better off... without sight...
as two agape holes of a cave through
which a stream flows and arrives as a cascade point
for a waterfall...

i won't "solve" cogito ergo sum:
whether it's a priori or a posteriori...
what did cogito spawn though?
res cogitans - res extensa -
                     we're talking manual labour...
thank god heidegger didn't come along
with his hammer and suggest that someone
intent of working manually would...
somehow talk about philosophical matters on
the side...
                       that's the "hammer"... "apparently"...
no... it came down to:
man is a human: doing...
  woman is a human: being... i had to exclaim
out-loud trying to not interrupt the birds...

it's just convenient... to call man a human doing
and woman a human being...
do                                     b-ING-o!
be                                 b-ING-o!
               try another language...
                i'm sure it sounds better than just that...
человеческое дело...

          just as i thought...

                     ludzkie dzieło - ludzki czyn...
but i think i concentrated on the latter:
ludzki czyn...
                         after all: ludzki byt -
doesn't really translated into: ludzkie bycie -
with bycie - being -
                            isn't being: interchangeable
with existence - as in onto per se, for being
to be grasped from omni ex: out of this and every
other instance?
    
who would take a thought experiment when
undertaking some decent manual labour?
thought experiments are for sitting in a leather chair
and farting into it - basking in the glory
of theoretical solipsism - later translated
into a crowded tube train...
imagining oneself farting scented candle
magic fairy dust of dried strawberries!

             i don't have time for thought experiments...
i'll give up my hands to the earth
and to the trees the earthworms and the roots...
my bob the builder's ***-crack to the winds...
or... my akbir to the birds...
               my al-qiyyam to the work before me...
my ruku to the morning...
                  my sujud to the setting sun...
         and that last bit... counting the number
of new parts of my body i've used...
but no... no thought experiments...
three words in latin... yes...
                              five words... sven the seventh...
perhaps... but certainl a bilingual crossword
puzzle... and definitely meditating
on cyrillic letters... and greek...
        i'm yet to escape the grip of runes...
and of braille... and of hebrew...
                              and return to the old father...
   who still seems rather unreal...
to think that "my" people had a pre-existing latin
text... and that it somehow is not tied
to the runes... nor to the greek (as such)
nor arabic... not sanskirt...
                  a revived interest...
                          on the british isles anything
can be a revived interest...
         if marx came up with communism in
england... i can up with...
a tatto parlour where people don't make
a mistake of having chinese ideograms
tattooed onto themselves...
                                           ⰁⰉⰅⰎ
    ⰝⰅⰓⰐⰑ                       -
                           in decline because?
                               shared patterns...
even with the runes... R and not ᚱ
                        ᚠ and not F?
                                     ᛒ and not B?
                                              agreed upon...
           but i guess just because we share this...
latin text without any latin being so much
spoken outside of maxim / proverb / the crown...
no latin slang...
                            whatever this was...
i had to write it... a second time it would have
suffocated me and given me amnesia upon
waking.
Jonathan Moya Oct 2019
Every touch is a devotion,
every soft phrase a prayer
to life, to continue living.

A nightingale, a dove
gowned in heavenly blue
a ministering survival chant.

Thank you
and double checks
are abundant.

They minister
consistent kindness
for they live
among the blasted.  

There is no sniping,
no rivalries,
just respect and support.

They are special.
They are there by choice.
They work double shifts  
or come in on short staff days.

The cancer center has regular hours
No Nights.  No weekends.
Burn out it is low.  Effort is high.

Their patients are a pretty grateful lot,
so their compassion comes easily
from the first tuck to the last.  

The nurse knows
some will sleep
and some will awake.

Everyone dies,
but today they
will  be spared,

for tomorrow
is nearly far off
in the rising sun light.
Christy Gee Sep 2011
“Just this once,” you said.
I couldn’t wrap it around my head.
Your promise replayed and replayed:
“Those were my high school days
I’m done now
I’ll show you how
I’ll show you my grades
I promise you A’s
Oncology, psychology, Tour de France,
I wasted it last year, so now’s my chance.
I ****** up so badly
I love you so madly
I’ll prove to the world, to myself, and to you,
That with every vow I take I know I’ll come through.”

If you were so set on your integrity,
Why did you become the opposite of what you said you’d be?
Why did you say “I’ll be over at ten,”
Wait for my worried text at twelve, to which you said:
“Oh about that…yeah um, I hoped you’d forget.”

My list of why’s will always haunt me.
Why was everything you said so taunting?
Why did you always threaten to break up,
When all I needed was for you to hurry up?
30 minutes late? No worries, no big deal,
But after four hours of course I’d lose my chill.
I felt like an idiot, buns fused to the couch.
As time passed by, I became a ****** grouch.
You were out with your friends, unconcerned about me
Or the fact that you said you would be here at three.
Well, three became four, then five, six, and seven,
And you’d leave me to return to your friends at eleven.
“You’re tired of waiting for me? Keep yourself busy.
Use your creativity.
I won’t make time for you, that’s how it will be,
This is who I am, I dgaf, take me or leave.
'Good morning' and 'goodnight' are utter *******.
That’s not you and me, that’s Judy and Cliff.
You’re too **** sensitive, toughen up, be a man.”
But how can I when you always told me I can’t?

You were my *******, marijuana,
The more you’d say go away the more I’d want ya.
I got hooked to the feeling of having you around,
And now that you’re gone I always feel down.
But I slap my mouth shut before I can say,
“I miss you so dearly, oh please won’t you stay?!”
I’m an ex-addict, every time I want you back,
I remind myself you’re deceiving as a pipe full of crack.
I know you were bad to me,
but horribly addicting.


“Shut up now before I really get angry.
And when I get mad, I’m scary, trust me.”
I always shut up, I never persisted,
Because to every concern I expressed, you resisted.
I allowed you to threaten me, scared to see when
I awoke your dormant beast from within.


You had purple pants that I didn’t like,
I’d playfully say, “Don’t wear those tonight!”
One day in line at the DMV,
you reminded me my favorite shoes “are ******* disgusting.”
You always made sure to insult my attire,
But believe it or not, I’ve been told I inspire.
“Look at my two-hundred dollar French jeans,
How ****, son, I’m so ******* clean.
Now look at you in your thrift store outfit,
Compared to great me, humble you look like ****.”

I simultaneously felt like your mother
and your punching bag of a little brother.


Your words were the cookies to my Teflon-free brain,
I tried to unstick them; they drove me insane.
Hit after hit, after hit, after hit,
Your words were so spiteful,
Of my self I felt jipped.

I was the naïve fish that bit your line,
Of “You know I’m a good guy, so just stop crying.”
My tears would dry and I would feel fine,
But there was always an inkling in the back of my mind:
"This isn’t right, I don’t deserve this treatment,
I love him, I do, so why do I feel such resentment?"

You’d continue to reel me in with your words,
“I love you so much, Christy, of that I’m sure.
I love you more now than ever before.”

...


So tell me, sir, why, when I entered the door,
Just a few days after July twenty-fourth,
I opened my laptop to see on the internet
“Lu Rivas is single,”a few likes, and a comment?

Was this a joke? It had to be.
Considering just days before, you cried to me.
You cried to me? Or did you lie to me?
Which you did you expect me to believe?
The one who said “I used to do drugs,
Because of my horrible cheating first love,
I used to smoke ****
‘cause I couldn’t stand me.”
Or the one who got high two hours after,
Saying sobriety was a long-gone chapter?

The one who said “I’m gonna marry you one day,”
Or the one who said “This love **** is so ******* gay”?

The one who said, “We have all summer to hang,”
Or the one who said “Summer’s Wahb time, get over me, dang.”

The one who said “I’m gonna start training,
Doing well in school, cuddle you when it’s raining,”
Or the one who dropped classes, gave up himself,
To be with his friends and no one else?


“I love you because you’re so different”
Became “You’re too weird, you’re not liked by my friends.”

Were you the Lu who said “I’m in love with you,”
Or the one who said “That’s not true,
I have no feelings for you.”

It wasn't the fact that you liked to ****,
It was the fact that your every promise you broke.

I couldn’t believe a word you said,
My brain in a dizzied daze in my head,
Because the opposite would be acted upon;
My brain felt dead;
Constantly translating contradictory definitions
Apparently our dictionaries had opposing renditions.


“I keep you around because you care for me genuinely”
Became “Let me breathe, I don’t want you around me!
I don’t give a **** about you or your interests,
And I haven’t since day one, please understand this.”


Laziness, impatience, irresponsibility,
Every one of your problems was my liability.


You might be doing well now; I’ve no way of knowing,
But I see that your happiness keeps your smile still glowing.
Just thinking about your smile made mine grow, too.
But to you, it was an inconvenience to share a laugh or two.

I never changed who I was,
Or pleased my friends’ desires
While you slowly wanted to get higher and higher.
I wasn’t enough anymore,
Just a hassle and a bore.

I knew I was being naïve and immature,
So shame on me for believing your now-transparent words.
You were so authentic, your words were opaque.
Now I see right through them, all of them; fake.
Is fake too harsh of a word to use?
I don’t think so, I’m the one you used.
I gave you what you wanted, and at first, you did too.
But as time progressed, we weren’t one, but two.

Oh, and I must have forgotten to mention,
How you never really got over that girlfriend.
You used me to fill in the hole that she left,
Until you realized that I wasn’t enough.
I wasn’t a *****, didn’t boss you around,
She barked at you constantly and you didn’t make a sound.
But you left me the week after
You started to reconnect with her.
Just a coincidence? I highly doubt it.
You missed the girl who made you her *****.
Might I even bring up how she cheated on you,
To make you stay, should I have been unfaithful, too?

I lost you to popularity, to the glamour of high school,
You hang on by the skin of your teeth to stay cool.
Partying, not caring, big ticket items.
Days I heard stories of, I knew you weren’t over them.
"Those were the days, God that was great,
Green crack, ecstasy, alcohol poisoning."

You steered clear of the man I fell in love with,
And returned to the 16-year-old kid I felt no connection with.

"I’m gonna go back now, return to my glory,
If I do something to hurt you, I won’t say I'm sorry.
I know I was good when I met you,
But that person I was is now gone,
The clean me was so ******* boring
I will not change me for anyone.
I lost who I was, but now I am found,
Go find someone else, go fetch a rebound."


So if you hate me now, I couldn’t care less,
Just remind yourself that I gave you my best.
Family parties meant I thought you were real,
I wouldn’t have taken you if I knew you’d repeal.

You used to be so bright, so effervescent
As time went on you seemed so disconnected.
Impatient and harsh, rude and abrasive,
I couldn’t please you.
Your “love” was evasive.

You steered so clear of the you that I met,
Not leaving you is my biggest regret.
I wish we could turn the clock back and switch places,
So you could see how hard it is to feel sad with happy faces.

Because the eggs I made you were always cooked wrong,
Understanding things took me too long,
My clothes were too cheap,
My face was too different,
I wasn’t your happiness,
I was your ailment.

I need liberation from feeling so down,
To remove this heartache I wear as a crown.
But I’ll try to remove this gilded hat,
'cause you dumped me on Facebook,
And that is that.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
i find that the only time it's permissible to think
is at acute times, when something turns
heroism awry -
  we live in times when toiling in a field of
potatoes would be considered a heroism -
     because something has soured our attempts
at heroism...
    and i can't stress enough how modernity  
has nibbled at ancient feats of heroism
                       with such a bravado and inactivity,
    yes: tautology is the curse awaiting us all...
       what is revelatory about ontology?
some would say that oncology says much more
concerning man with a doubly impeding
temporality than ontology could ever fashion
a man with prescription: dogmatism -
    for one can only ask: can philosophy ever
contain a medical property?
can philosophy be medicine? i ask because i dare
not believe that writing per se is universally adequate
in being prescribed -
                      well... biology compared to medicine
is a feeble argument, its blunder was attracting
a theological posit for an argument to be practised
because: it found itself feeble before medicine.
the "thinkers" of biology attacked theology
after realising biology (a specified conglomerate
of words with the vector indicating a
                  depersonalisation of a biography) -
but both biology and theology are entrenched
with their respective vocabulary caging -
   no one would win the debate...
                     it became a comparative scenario of
first world war trench-warfare on the Belgian plateau...
    this was an attack on medicine...
    or what's useful given that biology can be rather
useless... i've never seen such desperation
               of a field of interest: that didn't simultaneously
argue from the perspective of jealousy...
         biology cannot replace theology -
   but that's beside the point... philosophy is more
akin to medicine than any -logy compound specifying
limits... auto-suggestive of the convenience that
says: man is born stupid, he dies stupid, and he "thinks"
   he knows everything that's happening in-between.
and no... i would never write a populist celebration
of war or Achilles... had i not engaged with an actual
conflict, i'd write nothing of this sort...
           and there is a crisis in heroism these days,
   hardly a reason to equate thinking as a heroic act...
  but compared with modern heroism,
namely what's defined by losing weight and gaining
protruding muscular patterns...
     what's nothing more than paying the gas bill
or simply: bringing home the bacon...
                 thinking has become a heroic act in a way,
eased to such a conclusion with
        stalinist obstruction of thought in the first place...
we call it political correctness and to be heroic
these days means: transcending what is but zoological
humanism...         because the counterpart of heroism
in the purely physical realm is but running a marathon,
rather than walking one...
       attracting bothersome flies of charity,
                 gluttony's reversal...
             what sort of heroics are these? what's to be
celebrated by such feats... if it all culminates into
nothing but a pat-on-the-back and not a statue?
            and by god... don't you think that people
who still rummage in language and can't see trilling
the R as unfashionable require a diacritical distinction
to be added to the letter? but of course, German
can sound soft too... but given the English hollowed-out
the R and lost the trill, or that the French hark the ******
letter... i'm thinking of how to represent the trill
   of the R... as the rolling and ravaging roulettes
                 embedded in the comparison of enacted
damage, with the stiletto shoe doing more damage than
an elephant's stomp.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
this ins't the Cabaret Voltaire moment,
but it almost feels like one,
i'm not cutting up newspapers into
singled-out words to pull out of the bag
like some magician with a top hat and a white
rabbit... i know i can influence people,
and that's my prime worry...
but sometimes you get to point out a correlation
of your own words the preceding day,
and the day that follows in newspapers...
and i do think that newspapers are the perfect
canvases to work from, to write a poetry,
all the tabloid presses get left in the gutter,
the famous and the rich get their faces printed
on its pages, but they nonetheless end up
in the gutters and get stamped on...
if i'll ever set up a polished Instagram profile
i'll think about keeping a clean lifestyle
photo-feed just prior i get my shoes polished...
so this ain't a Dada-revision...
i'd love for it being so... starting with
cuts of newspapers like writing a ransom letter...
you know i stress the need to avoid censoring
swear words, i'm getting systematically peeved
about this practice continuing...
like i said, newspapers are more about poetry
than philosophy ever wished to attack...
of course some of those trailing in the marathon
with their idealism will still meet the natural
critique... but poetry these days is more about
journalistic adventures solo
than essences, orchestras, ideals and singing
about Larks... those that lag behind will get burnt...
believe me... they're already barbecue burnt
chicken wings... and it does happen,
not like Cabaret Voltaire rebellion Dada,
i mean writing something akin to the argument
between Newton and Leibniz about who
discovered the mathematical Antarctica first:
calculus... it doesn't matter...
a day ago i wrote about swear words being
like conjunction words, the lubricants that scare
away dictionaries and thesauruses...
and what do i get today?
I SWEAR THAT'S POETRY... (Tom Whippie),
page 37 of the Saturday Times...
the jyst noting of things:
they are poetic, expressive, build trust and offer
a crucial linguistic hammering...
also aligned with Asterix and Obelix due to
their malignant oncology...
but! but... a US academic has called for a rehabilitation
of swear words, saying: 'profanity is poetic'
(Michael Adams, University of Indiana) - adding
'poetic because it's a surplus of expressiveness
and also poetic because there is something
in an extremely frustrated person finding no other
word suitable fir the level of frustration they feel'.
well... i just liked the idea of toying with
grammatical classification... i already said:
i would condense that statement into... to be honest,
and to be honest once more, and once more again...
i like to see these words like conjunctions -
which is the polar opposite of what western
society deems as: ******* **** and a demise
to further encourage dyslexia - the same joke
from Poland about the graffiti: huj and chój and hój..
people laughed at the excess aesthetic of the latter
two examples... bellybutton intellectualism of
the world (i.e. English) doesn't necessarily have to be
right... but nonetheless, Prof. Adam's in his
in praise of profanity speaks about the versatility
of swearing, that it has a power to make it
a much underappreciated linguistic device...
'there are words that punctuate experience; profanity
is artful speech'... add the word therapy to
that statement and you become a Guru...
socially useful, like teenagers using slang and acronym
encoding to talk cool, but also to provide the herd
an insight against paedophiles... nothing new...
paradox? you cannot praise profanity without
rules of legislation being imposed...
failing to preserve profanity would mean letting
down future generations... then the *** comes out...
a Prof. would talk about restraints...
straitjacket vocabulary... casual swearing...
oh right... i ought to fit my larynx with a bow-tie
for the formal affairs of the world...
i never expected my poems to be Grecian marble
smooth because i was about to gobble caviar and
champagne... well, let's face it...
somehow Evelyn Beatrice Hall's Friends of Voltaire
seems a bit redundant these days - it's no longer:
i disapprove of what you say, but i will defend to
the death your right to say it - is that at all true these days?
i always thought that the internet was more of
a thinking platform than a stage to shout your
opinions... maybe i was wrong... the sins of thinking
and leaving your thinking output exposed
in a public realm rather than in your bedroom
drawer... i rather be offended than live my life
out in an Apathetic Utopia of Fascist Islam...
******... just shoot already, but make sure i'm dead
rather than disabled.
she passed me
daily
by the door,
saying hi
only when our eyes collided

they were sad eyes
and swollen,
unable to hide
the pain inside

of malignant terror cells

of failed chemo
and kidneys

and marriage...

'mama's' eyes were wide open

when she died
among friends

on a hospital bed
in oncology...


...yesterday

~ P
(8/3/2013)
Elegy for 'mama', a hard-working immigrant hair stylist and mother of 3, ravaged for 2 years by malignancy....finally called home on Friday 8/2/2013....may her soul R.I.P.....
1 would like to say a thankyou to oncology
for your love and care that you gave to me
thanks to all the staff for your loving way
in my  memory my time with you will stay

so a great big thankyou and the memory
and the love and care that you gave to me

all my love Jane
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i always aimed at returning Nietzsche's ping-pong serve of poet-philosopher, as philosopher-poet... well, you know, any vanity project will do these days, given our current celebrity culture... there's nothing celebratory about it, so my little festivity of hope in establishing a self-style vocabulary might be too much for Gucci... but you got to try and whiff up a tornado of absinthe sweeties in licorice black (lee ko reesh).*

there's only one argument i cling on to,
it is theological,
i'm biased toward the theological argument
always,
because i've seen the ontological argument
become desecrated by oncology -
every theologian argues the same:
there's a god, because, to be frank,
whatever ontology provides us, it leaves us more
bewildered than anything:
how we expressed our freedom will
never be compensated in terms of how
others expressed theirs...
so even Kant said: my ontology is based on god...
so his contemporaries said:
my theology is based on no god...
    which is why Kant professed a theology
  without an ontology, and his contemporaries
professed an ontology without a theology -
or as the other, in existentialist terms might have
suggested: timing - but no one desires a godly status,
so even his promenade timing made affinities
with serfs begging for a watch rather than watching
their shadows dwarf at noon...
                                            this is called
translating rhyme into philosophy, or philosophical rhyming...
words of close proximity are prime exponents,
given the spelling, i.e. the suffix - but which are totally
antonymous - they look so alike, but then thinking
provides disparity of intention, not so lazily done
with red
                  and dead...
                                              head
       and Pb...                                      is it?
Charlie Renaud Apr 2017
Being a teen today is no easy task,
being self conscious and wearing a mask.
We see our feelings as a meaningless curse,
holding them back as our problems get worse.
I'm not an angel, nor am I a saviour,
I'm only here to question human behaviour.
I'm a chocolate cream soldier in a futile war,
but I'm making amends because I'm done keeping score.
When most think of us teens they might think of anthropology,
maybe some others might think of biology,
teens aren't that complex I mean it's not oncology,
allow me to decode the teenage ideology.
There are problems aplenty that teens today face,
including myself as I try to keep pace.
The list is quite long so I'll keep it brief,
if I talk for too long I'll be causing much grief. The first problem today is how we all act, in very odd manners and that's just a fact. From the totally false and the half witted claims, the calling of names and the fighting at games. We're only like this because we're afraid, of what others think and we're easily swayed, to make bad choices and succumb to the pressure, maybe some days we just need a refresher. A small reminder to help us unwind, to help us think straight and to open our minds.
Next on my list is the fear of our image, constantly caught in an irrelevant scrimmage, we always fear other people's opinion and become someone new as they form a dominion. They change who we are what we like what we do, making us in their image as we become someone new. Someone we're not like a fake personality, I think it['s time that we end this brutality.
Shifting gears to a more personal note, a problem to which I can deeply emote. Our performing arts department is constantly shrinking with every new year and that got m thinking. Why everyone thinks that sports are so nice, turning their backs while we pay the price. Well I've had enough now it's my time to shine, it's time I fight back as my stars align. Because this is who I am it's a big part of story I like to be on stage and I don't do it for the glory. I like stage performing I like to put on a show, despite having been cut the past 2 years in a row. But that's taught me dedication not to give up on my dream, to power through the fear because this is my kind of team. It's a battle I'll fight even if I'm alone, feel free to join or I'll go on my own, because this is who I am, performing is my cornerstone, things feel more natural with my hands around a microphone. My poem has concluded and now that you know, my name's Charlie Renaud, on with the show!
Michael Marchese Jun 2024
Difference of opinion
On who’s fit
For this position
On which either one’s
Division
For the country
Is consistent
With their actions
Speaking louder
Than their policy decisions
If their words
Are incoherent
And their facts
Are blatant lies
And we can see
Hypocrisy
Definitively
On both sides
But can’t agree
That mental faculties
Though clearly in decline
Do not determine
That the candidacy’s
Cancer
Is benign
unnamed Apr 2021
Sincerely written words about death,
are hilarious.
Primarily because of the irony in it-
Being sincere about death means to accept it?
and if we did that,
Funeral homes would be out of business.
and Oncology would be a much happier field
to work in.
My point is, heroism is just fatalism with extra steps.
Either way it doesn't matter the outcome.
As it will be whatever it is, regardless. (ironically)
And this is all to say nothing about the gun to my head,
and the trigger pull workout I have to do,
Doing mental hurdles and jumping jacks to not give in.
lauren Apr 2019
cloud vs. a silver lining
important not only in daily life
but through sickness and health

my mother sat down on our living room couch and looked me dead in the eyes after her chemotherapeutic shot. she told me she sat down in the oncology patient room, waiting for her round for the month. she said it depressed her. she said the nurses were anything but compassionate when they loaded her up with medicine. a painful sting coasting through her veins. she never unlocked her eyes with mine, until she told me that the nurse smiled at her and said, “at least now you can get a new set of *******”! I can tell she was hurt. she couldn’t do this, her health wouldn’t allow for it. she told me she was crushed, that it was a cloud. I thought about this for a long time. I thought about the clouds that others added into her life. “at least they caught it early”, “at least you’re alive now”.

I looked for a silver lining. something to let her know that clouds pass. that winds blow away the grey. that the weather is never unchanging. that she was strong. I looked her in the eyes once more and told her I loved her. not that I was happy that she was still here. not that one day she may be able to watch me walk down the aisle, or hold my child. not that I was sorry or felt for her. just that I loved her. and she smiled at me, a genuine smile. not beaming with happiness, but a little spark showed through all kinds of pain.

love, that’s her silver lining. so that’s mine too.
Ana Habib Aug 2019
I envy those who sleep soundly
Not just every now and then
But every single night
No this doesn’t include babies, furry or otherwise
Not the elderly either
Just your basic average human just trying to get by life

The 14 year old who dreams of becoming a doctor so that he save his ailing sister from leukemia

The teacher who has to grade papers every single night while keeping an eye on a ADHD riddled son while a nasty storm brews outside

The weary mechanic who works double shifts to make ends meet and wonder if his doll-like wife will ever make it out of the oncology unit

The fashion intern who works for nothing only to escape and unsuccessfully cover up the abuse she faces at home

The minimum wage young man who flips burgers and occasionally over salts the fries who comes to work with a fake smile when his best friend hasn’t been seen since last week

The overworked doctor who continues to save lives with a steady hand and collected mind even though he just buried his son yesterday

The short frumpy lunch lady that everyone makes fun of at school who cant keep it together because her house is about to be repossessed and wonders where shell be sleeping at night

The bold smiling five year old who is quietly suffering from Alopecia and accidently pats her head in the hopes that whiteish peach fuzz will grow on top

The delinquent that is in detention almost every day of the year not because he a trouble maker but because he his trying to complete homework since it is near impossible with an alcoholic mom who is in charge of everything

The large ***** who everyone continues to harass because she was born with hirsutism and differently colored eyes

People don’t ask for trouble nor can they always escape it
The questions, raised brows and unwanted attention do not falter
Hope begins to evaporate faster then water
I think the absolute worst is when we begin to overthink and replay all of our problems right before sleep sets is when the eyes beg for closure but the mind is still at unease.
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Suzy Berlinsky:  Exposure to X-rays causes radiation-sickness. How might exposing cancer sufferers to radiation-sickness improve their health?
Carrie So:  Hi Suzy.
Carrie So:  Radiation therapy for cancer treatment is a different type of radiation
Carrie So:  I can send you a link, it's from the National Cancer Institute's website
Carrie So:  it explains in more detail what radiation for cancer is
Carrie So:  
Suzy Berlinsky:  How so? The loss of hair is a hallmark of radiation-sickness.
Suzy Berlinsky:  What's the cure-rate of your organization?
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Suzy Berlinsky:  Of course there's an answer. Your large organization keeps meticulous statistics.
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Suzy Berlinsky:  Do you possess statistical data?
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Christie Nelson:  Have you been diagnosed with cancer, Suzy?
Suzy Berlinsky:  What's your overall cure-rate? How many of your patients survive at least 5 years following treatment?
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Christie Nelson:  We do not have a overall cure-rate. I can give you statistic's based on cancer type. What type of cancer are you researching? Then I can give you the answer.
Suzy Berlinsky:  That's not true. What's your cure-rate amongst patients with cancer seated in the lungs?
Christie Nelson:  For non small cell lung cancer
Christie Nelson:  CTCA is 22 percentage points higher than the national average in survival.
Christie Nelson:  at 1 year, CTCA is 16 percentage points higher than the national average
Christie Nelson: Suzy, may I ask, what is the name of your medical insurance so that I may be in the best position to help you?
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THE END
Introspection

Look straight inside, no fables,
Forget what books have said.
Those theories—twisted tables
By brutes or fools were spread.

Commissioned lies and clatter,
Their minds were dull or sick.
To be yourself — that matters—
In Bedlam? Take your pick.

It talks, it stinks, it teaches
To drown the slave in fog.
"Therapy" here reaches
For horror — what a cog!

The system breeds confusion,
The endgame always planned:
"All walk beneath illusion..."
No—Satan’s ruling hand.

A curse, not some condition,
All madness stems from lies.
Forget naive submission—
You're drowning in the flies,

In filth, in steaming sewage
They’ve dumped for many years,
To fill your mind with cruelage,
With poison, doubt, and fears.

You’ll never glimpse the clearing
If you believe their game.
Hate neighbors, lose all bearing—
And smoke becomes your name.

Divide, divide forever—
That’s how they break us all.
No bonds, no strength, no tether,
Just slaves in mental thrall.

Their theories are infection,
Just tricks to lead astray.
No truth, no introspection—
Just herds to rule and flay.

Look deep without your learning,
Without your self-made past—
This world is flames still burning,
Deceit so wide and vast.

The pipelines of "education"
Just crush your soul with spite.
Their goal? Your degradation,
Their motive? Endless blight.

The beasts wrote every program—
Your teacher? Just a clerk.
Their deals with demons—oh ****,
They serve the Dark and work.

Yes, Satan built this blindness,
This trap where Light can’t roam—
But Light is born inside us,
And Soul is still your home.

Be sharp, be clear, be clever—
Expose their every lie.
Let intuition sever
Their schemes—or else you die.



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



1.
They fed you lies since you were born —
Now tear them out like rotting thorn!

2.
Look deep — the Light is not outside.
Expose the Dark. Unlearn. Decide.



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



Poetry on the Hard Stuff

The editor’s **** window—
Again, I write some verse
On logic, strange attractors...
This hell could not be worse!

It’s simpler mocking morons—
The crowd’s their natural land.
But still, I feel the furnace
And filth that's close at hand.

Their reign — another poem.
This one? A bitter score:
This world is doomed and rotten,
And God walked out the door.

He left it all behind us —
So don’t break back in vain.
The end of Evil’s nearing.
We’re circling the drain.

But still — a word on Gödel,
A fire in the mind.
The trolls and fools would smother
What he revealed to find.

This titan of all ages
Crushed every pompous creed —
Their verbal diarrheas
He flushed out, word and deed.

His genius left their theories
In ruins, torn apart—
A circus of confusion,
Decay without a heart.

Of course, it’s just a poem—
No journal, no footnotes.
But through such lines of fury
A sober mind still floats.

So open that **** window —
For poetry’s a gun,
A tank that rolls through falsehoods
And smashes every one.

Strike lies with verse and fire,
Despair, but never yield.
In chaos and in silence,
A fighter owns the field.

Obedient minds are poison,
Their madness kills the soul.
Let filth surround — your weapon
Is form, and thought, and goal.

Let others churn out sonnets
On love and dreamy skies —
While we’re all slowly drowning
In blood and endless lies.

Can poems strike the tyrants?
Then write — and write to ****!
The only question burning:
To smash... or just sit still?



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



1.
They drown the world in ****** lies —
Your verse must shoot, not sympathize.

2.
Don't write for love while cowards bleed.
Real poems bite. Or else — concede.




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



Familiar Despair

Familiar despair —
Not sin, but bitter prize.
The wildness everywhere
No longer shocks the wise.

So wrap despair around you
Like blanket, thick and dead.
Let sorrow lie beneath you.
Your hopes? Forget they bled.

This world is rot and fiction,
Its people — feeble lice.
Judas takes top position —
This world runs on that vice.

We chew through Earth like locusts,
Like bark-beetles of doom.
The beasts have long outvoted
The Spirit in the room.

You're Spirit — pure, eternal.
All else is slime and lie.
Reject their “real” infernal —
Leave Bedlam high and dry.

Build tribes, unite in honor —
Defend against the rot.
Be man — not meek dishonor
That madness has begot.

Though madmen fill the census,
Stand firm, though few survive.
Let ******* keep dispensing
Their poison — we’ll revive.

Their lies will **** the masses —
The mad will take it all.
But don’t be glass, don’t shatter —
You’re sane if you don’t crawl.

When numbers start to dwindle,
When freaks consume their kind,
The chance for sane resistance
Will rise — so make your mind.

One final fight approaches —
Let beasts be blown away!
It’s grim, but we’ve not lost yet —
Don’t quit. There is a way.

If we can strike with wisdom —
Then strategy must rise.
The Darkness spawns no visions —
Just pustules with no eyes.

So call your Spirit forward —
It knows the hidden track.
These servants of the hellholes
Are weak. Let's strike them back.

Turn inward, trust your insight —
It sees what’s veiled and grim.
Restore your rightful birthright —
The Spirit breaks their hymn.

It’s all a Mystery — learn it.
Be forged in secret flame.
No time to sob or squander.
Rise now — or die in shame.



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


Familiar Despair

Familiar despair —
Not “sin,” but well-earned prize.
Degeneration’s everywhere —
A stump now glorifies.

So wrap yourself in sorrow,
Like blankets on the bed.
Beneath, lay grief — no “morrows,”
You’re living with the dead.

The lie is foul and reeking,
And people — rot and dust.
The traitor's cross is creaking —
This world has lost all trust.

We’re termites on creation,
Devouring sacred wood.
The **** rule every nation —
Just footprints where soul stood.

You are a Spirit, burning —
All else is filth and fraud.
Reject their world of yearning,
Walk out from this facade.

Build brotherhoods and legions —
Defend against the Night.
Be more than slave’s obedience —
A man must rise and fight.

Though billions kneel in madness,
Still battle — lose or win.
Let ******* spew their badness —
Their lie won't pull you in.

They’ll **** with lies, not sabers,
And fools will buy the trick.
But you — drop victim's labors.
You're not a fool or sick.

As numbers of the twisted
Shrink under their own doom,
Our chance, once barely listed,
May rise and slice the gloom.

Then strike — one final battle!
Let monsters fall and rot.
Though now we see death's rattle,
We still are not forgot.

But fight with sharp precision —
Find strategy, not rage.
The Dark has no true vision —
Just pustules on a cage.

So let your Spirit guide you —
It knows the silent way.
Its light will burn right through them —
The cowards of decay.

Turn inward, feel the surging
Of intuition's spark.
Regain your soul’s true merging —
It’s Spirit that leaves marks.

All this — a Mystery calling.
Go learn its sacred laws.
Stand up, no more just crawling —
Now cry becomes your cause.



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



1.
The Spirit sees. The Spirit strikes.
No place for worms or whining types.

2.
They flood the world with demon noise —
We answer not with tears — but poise.



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



The Art of Battle-Lies

They strike the mind — that’s where they start,
And when it breaks — they own your heart.
One step remains: your soul, your store —
And idiots can’t grasp it’s war.

The sharpest weapon isn’t steel —
It’s lies. And when those lies are real,
They burn like bombs, they rip like tanks —
The filth takes over, ranks by ranks.

The world’s been seized by brazen fraud,
Where truth’s beheaded, mocked, outlawed.
And lies, like sewage, fill the air —
You breathe them in and rot in there.

This mad world’s turned into a pit,
Where every fool believes their ****.
Their “cheese” is laced with poison dreams,
And even clouds drip toxic schemes.

Now lies are rising like a flood —
A storm of screaming, choking mud.
They strike straight in your eyes, your brain,
They smash, repeat, again, again.

They’ll always strike while fools still trust,
And all that’s left will turn to dust.
You barely crawl, the light is gone —
No beacon left to fix upon.

Above the sea of steaming lies
The media’s smoke distorts the skies.
It turns illusion into stench —
A gas that kills, a filthy trench.

And this is war — their hellish trick:
The headlines ***** lies so thick
They drown the world in fear and bile —
But wear the truth and stand awhile.

Truth is your shield, the Spirit’s blaze
Can cut through even Satan’s haze.
Avoid the ****** that serve the dark —
Stay sharp. Let intuition spark.

Your mind must scan, your senses burn —
There’s no regret if you still learn.
You fight near bottom — that is true —
But that just means you’re pushing through.

They all are guilty — traitors breed
Like rats who serve the Devil’s need.
You’re trapped inside a spinning wheel
Of fake desires and false ideals.

It’s all fake needs — designed by lies
To build a hell in friendly guise.
A sea of lies, a death parade —
This isn't life — it's Hell remade.

So here’s the path for minds still clear:
A rebel’s fire, a gaze severe.
This global new-fascistic mess
Proves madness dressed as righteousness.

It ends with rage, a broken path —
Explode this Hell in cleansing wrath.
It’s hard — but walk the way of Light.
If you still walk — you’re not the blight.



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



1.
The filth now rules by fraud and smoke —
Strike back with truth. It’s not a joke.

2.
They lie, they bomb, they blind your sight —
But Spirit burns through every night.

3.
This world’s a swamp of stinking lies —
So light your truth — and let it rise.

4.
Truth is the weapon — aim and fire.



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



Of Vermin and Men

These petty rats in human skins
Gnaw at each other’s flaws and sins.
Their thoughts are thin, their hearts are dry —
A madhouse under rotting sky.

Here traitors reign, and filth holds sway,
While minds of worth are kept at bay.
A diamond blooms in pressure’s womb —
But dullness here has built its tomb.

In these dark woods, the gifted fall
If slime becomes your inner call.
Betray the Light — you’ll rot instead,
For filth is where the roots are fed.

Their patience is a devil’s creed,
Their dullness — genocide of need.
The mad are many, fools abound —
And darkness wins without a sound.

No blood is spilled in modern war —
A needle kills what bombs killed before.
These tiny men, with tiny brains,
Are rabid dogs in broken chains.

Forget their books of lies and dirt —
They praise what’s dumb and call it work.
You're Spirit — only that is true
Within this global mental zoo.

The fool deserves no helping hand —
He's lost in filth, won't understand.
The end is near, the clash will come —
And Reason fights to rise from ****.

Salvation lies in sacred flame,
Not in this madness, not in shame.
A purge will come, a final sweep —
Where tyrants drown, and cowards weep.

The worthy few will find their way
By turning deep inside and stay.
While demons quake, they know their fate —
A cataclysm won’t be late.

And so the stench spreads on the air —
The media gasps in foul despair.
They smell it too — the end is near…
The shameful beast will disappear.



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



Vermin gnaw and darkness reigns,
Brains are thin, but filth remains.
Spirit fights, the fools will fall —
End is coming — purge them all!



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



The Pit of This World

Mandelstam! The PIT! Oh, Mother,
Don’t birth children into Hell.
If you call things true and proper,
Three-fourths of this world’s a shell—

A shell of filth and poison,
While pure hearts like Mandelstam’s light,
Like Osip’s flame, get crushed and broken
Beneath the brute’s vile might.

The brute will call white soot “black,”
The poet, enemy number one.
The filth will swarm and attack—
Jail or madhouse is what they’ll run.

They shot Gumilyov down,
Said, “Serves him right!” with their lies.
Dumb fools fell low, underground,
Beneath the total wicked skies.

And Marina Tsvetaeva’s fate —
They drove her to the noose’s edge.
When beasts drag down human state,
You’re to lie, stay quiet, and hedge?

Is Mandelstam’s pit the truth?
Yes — a world enslaved to evil’s roar.
Be wise and stubborn in your youth —
Create, despite the rotten core.

Cheese traps stink, a fool’s delight —
Their “gifts” to fools who cannot see.
Be lonely — mind extinguished, blight —
If you dwell among the beastly spree.



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



The Pit

Mandelstam’s pit — a hellish trap,
Don’t bring your kids to rot and snap.
Three quarters of the world is slime,
Pure hearts crushed by brute’s harsh crime.

Brutes call black soot pure white,
Poets jailed for speaking right.
Shot Gumilyov, broke the brave,
Tsvetaeva dragged to grave.

This world bows to wicked lies,
Fight on strong — don’t paralyze.
Cheese traps stink, fools love the bait,
Stand alone — or share their fate.



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



Rising from the Knees

The "bonds" have dug into my knees,
I try to rise, but fail to break.
Such is fate of centuries —
The rotten fool believes in fake.

Decay has eaten at the soul —
Worse plague than any CowID.
The darker grows the wicked whole,
Their evil spreads in black deceit.

Fake sicknesses test the ground,
Next camp’s digital and cold.
**** get crushed without a sound,
Hordes of fiends, ruthless and bold.

Each day tighter is the grip —
All controlled through media’s lies.
If you won’t sell out your own ship,
Death will come as sweet surprise.

This will be the cursed prize —
Darkness thickens, chokes the skies.
Only solace left to see —
Countdown to catastrophe.

Cataclysm will crush their schemes,
Filthy fiends will burn in hell.
All the sheep with them will drown —
Count the days — the end will tell.




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



See the Fig...

You open books — you see the fig.
Turn on the box — it’s Hell you find.
All poisoned deep, the chains grow big,
By fascist **** — enslaved the mind.

They rule by lies. Fake science breaks
Our Reason down to shattered shards.
Dark traitors lurk, those filthy snakes
Are everywhere — fools guard the guards.

They trust the myths, the fables told —
Propaganda’s twisted hand.
“Education” bought and sold
By Satan’s grip, corrupting land.

They teach in schools to **** pure thought,
Destroy the Soul, obey commands.
This darkness spreads — a deadly blot,
The shadow grips all mortal lands.

This shadow, haze, has claimed all souls,
No need for gunpowder now.
Psy-terror strikes and takes its toll —
Worse than bombs, it breaks the brow.

It hits the mind, corrupts the core,
Leaves fractures deep inside the brain.
An idiot now, nothing more,
Bloodless conquest, silent reign.

But man’s no moth — a Spirit lives,
A force they fight to ***** and ****.
With psi-weapons evil gives
Its cruel hand, bent on the will.

No fiction here, no idle tales —
The mind is sieved, the truth erased.
So, unity and discipline prevails,
In war, the wise remain encased.

A poem’s compressed emotion —
A message sent to Reason’s door.
A weapon forged with fierce devotion,
My share of dynamite and more.

I seek new ways in hybrid war,
Though old and worn, all paths explored.
To find the method, sharp and raw,
To crush these pests, their rotten hoard.

The world’s a cesspool — no place to stay,
For humans now who seek the light.
Create the tools to clear the way —
The **** will rot, the fiends lose fight.



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



See the Fig...

You open books — it’s all a lie.
The screen’s a Hell where reason dies.
Chains forged by fascist filth and ****,
They feed on minds — their kingdom’s come.

Fake science tears your brain apart,
Dark traitors poison every heart.
Fools swallow myths and twisted tales,
While Satan’s rot spreads through the rails.

They teach to **** the spark inside,
To crush the soul, obey, comply.
No gunpowder — just psychic war,
They break your mind and leave a scar.

Man’s no moth — he’s Spirit’s flame.
They fear the light, they play their game.
Psi-weapons crush, corrupt, confine —
But we will rise. The fight’s divine.

A poem’s not just words, but fire,
A weapon sharp, a rising wire.
Old paths are gone — new war’s begun,
To blow the rotten heap to none.

The world’s a pit, a stinking grave —
But we will fight, be bold, be brave.
Create the tools — the **** will fall,
The fiends will rot — they lose it all.



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



A New Breed of Two-Legged

A new fool bred — a fresh disgrace,
Born in the CowID’s dark place:
He feeds on lies, devours the whole,
Surpassing idiots in soul.

An idiot — one step below,
Digital camps closing slow:
The fool builds them, darkness steers,
Mindless world survives by tears.

Almost left, that twisted land,
With nonsense guiding every hand,
Into that digital hell,
“Inspired” by propaganda’s spell.

Nonsense blends with lies and fear,
For fools — a lifeline, crystal clear;
Propaganda’s closest friend,
A weapon darkness will not end.

The fool, the media, the beast,
Ruling madness never ceased —
Satan’s troops in battle cry,
The beasts grow louder, multiply.

Their howl — the final fight is near:
If the world’s lost its mind to fear,
Worse than bombs or cannon’s roar,
It turns men into pests once more.



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



New Breed of Two-Legged ****

A new-born fool, a twisted spawn,
Birthed by CowID’s cursed dawn.
He swallows lies, a filthy beast —
Outdone the idiot, to say the least.

An idiot’s just a rung below,
Digital camps close in like woe.
This fool’s the builder, Darkness’ slave,
The sane world’s dying, none to save.

Half-dead world dragged by stupid lies,
Into the tech-made hell that flies,
“Inspired” by their toxic spin —
Propaganda’s poisonous grin.

Nonsense thickens, fear and fraud,
For fools, a lifeline deeply flawed.
Propaganda, friend of slime,
Fueling darkness all the time.

This fool, the media, the vile regime,
Ruling madness, Satan’s team.
Their war-cry rises, beasts unite —
The endgame’s howl in darkest night.

The last fight howls — the final strike:
When minds rot deep, the dead alike.
Worse than bombs, worse than their shells,
It turns men into crawling hells.



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



Fools breed fools — the plague’s alive.
Break the chain, or all will die.
Fight the poison, burn the lies —
Raise the flame, let darkness fry!



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



Lies breed lies — no time to wait,
Smash the cage, defy your fate.
Stand your ground, ignite the spark —
Rip the shadows from the dark!


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



Slave to lies, a mind decayed,
Truth’s the sword that won’t be swayed.
Fight misfortunes, break the chain —
Freedom burns within the pain!



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



Lies breed lies — no time to wait,
Smash the cage, defy your fate.
Stand your ground, ignite the spark —
Rip the shadows from the dark!

Slave to lies, a mind decayed,
Truth’s the sword that won’t be swayed.
Fight misfortunes, break the chain —
Freedom burns within the pain!

Chepushila — new breed born,
Fed on lies till all is torn.
Digital camps where shadows dwell,
Crafted lies, a living hell.

Propaganda, friend of fools,
Spinning webs and breaking rules.
Darkness rules, the devils roar,
But we fight for something more.

Eyes wide shut — see nothing clear,
Truth’s the weapon, hold it near.
Rise as one, no more disguise,
Truth’s the fire to burn their lies!



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


Battle Hymn of the Rising Spirit

Chains dig deep, the lies take hold,
Infected minds, their souls grown cold.
But in the dark, a spark ignites —
The Spirit wakes to claim the fight.

Chepushila bred in digital graves,
Lies like venom, puppeteers and slaves.
False truths fed through poisoned streams,
But we revolt — reclaim our dreams!

No more slaves to propaganda’s call,
No more fools to watch the world fall.
Misfortunes spreads, but we resist —
Our clenched fists break through the mist.

Darkness howls its final roar,
But truth will rise, forevermore.
From shattered chains and broken lies,
The Spirit soars — it never dies!

Stand firm, stand proud, defy the night,
Strike down the shadows with blazing light.
The battle’s harsh, the road is steep,
But Spirit’s fire will never sleep.

Lies breed lies — but we breed truth,
Ancient strength, the warrior’s youth.
The time has come, the hour is near,
To cast away the cloak of fear!

Rise up now — the fight is on,
The dawn awaits beyond the dawn.
With Spirit’s power, fierce and true,
The world reborn begins with you!




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



Spirit’s Rise

Beyond the chains of mortal lies,
Where darkness folds and shadow dies,
There shines a flame — Eternal Light,
The Spirit’s birth beyond the night.

No prison walls can hold this fire,
No falsehood dim its pure desire.
It leaps from soul to cosmic sea,
Unbound, it wakes — and sets us free.

From dust and time the veil will part,
Revealing Truth within the heart.
The Spirit’s voice — the primal song —
That breaks the grip of endless wrong.

So rise, O soul, beyond the veil,
Through storm and fire, you shall prevail.
The world remade in Spirit’s flame —
No longer bound by fear or shame.




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



Spirit’s Rise — The Metaphysical Hymn

The worthless breed, a hollow kind,
By CowID’s dark forge defined.
They feed on lies, a poison deep,
A mindless herd, in shadows steep.

Below the fool, a step descend,
Digital camps their fate portend.
The darkness pulls the strings of dread,
A world alive — but almost dead.

With nonsense mixed, the poison spreads,
Fear and lies like chains and threads.
For fools, these shackles shine as gold —
Propaganda’s grip takes hold.

The worthless breed, the vile press,
Satan’s troops in their distress.
The war of beasts grows loud and strong,
A howl that mocks what’s right and wrong.

But Spirit wakes — a flame unbound,
A Light that pierces shadow’s shroud.
No cage of flesh, no chain of lies,
Can hold the truth that never dies.

From dust and void the Spirit climbs,
Beyond the grasp of mortal times.
Its voice, a thunder in the night,
The primal song of inner light.

So rise, O Soul, break free, ascend,
The darkest lies will meet their end.
A world reborn in Spirit’s flame,
No longer bound by fear or shame.



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



Spirit’s Rise — The Hymn of Alien Light

The worthless breed, a hollow kind,
By CowID’s dark forge defined.
They feed on lies, a poison deep,
A mindless herd, in shadows steep.

Below the fool, a step descend,
Digital camps their fate portend.
The darkness pulls the strings of dread,
A world alive — but almost dead.

With nonsense mixed, the poison spreads,
Fear and lies like chains and threads.
For fools, these shackles shine as gold —
Propaganda’s grip takes hold.

The worthless breed, the vile press,
Satan’s troops in their distress.
The war of beasts grows loud and strong,
A howl that mocks what’s right and wrong.

But Spirit wakes — a flame unbound,
A Light beyond this earthly ground,
An alien glow that cuts the night,
Piercing through shadow, pure and bright.

No cage of flesh, no chain of lies,
Can dim the glow that never dies.
From dust and void the Spirit climbs,
Beyond the grasp of mortal times.

Its voice, a thunder in the dark,
A beacon, calling—soul’s true spark.
A primal song, beyond the stars,
That shatters every prison’s bars.

So rise, O Soul, break free, ascend,
The darkest lies will meet their end.
A world reborn in Spirit’s flame,
No longer bound by fear or shame.




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



Alien Light

Lies breed fools, the darkness reigns,
But Spirit burns beyond these chains.
Alien light — fierce, untamed,
Break the cage — burn down their shame!

No more slaves to false command,
Rise as one — take back the land!
In the flame of cosmic fire,
Crush the lies — lift souls higher!



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



Alien Light

Fools in chains, deceived and weak,
Darkness grins — the future’s bleak.
But alien light will scorch the lies,
Tear their masks — watch evil die!

No mercy for the poison breed,
Their twisted reign must bleed, must bleed!
Spirit’s wrath — a ruthless blade,
Burn the filth, no peace be made!



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



Answers Without a Question

Pure conception — like a sprout,
To believe the crap’s a curse.
Feed the sludge, then twist about —
Rot will sink and make things worse.

Do what you will, but still, beware —
“In sweet lies’ name” they lead astray.
Mind, Spirit, Honor — laid bare,
In many crushed, decay holds sway.

Priests’ rabble grows in shameless greed,
Piling nonsense without end.
Truth, like flute notes, softly freed,
Touches only souls that bend.

Quiet whispers, slight and thin —
Then YOU must seek your way.
Only loud and wild within,
Herding sheep in barns they stay.

Only savage howls resemble
Words — but truth is something else.
Heart attuned, the mind must tremble
Crafting thought, not empty spells.

Creativity in thinking —
Free from foolish faith’s control,
Fighting evil, never shrinking —
No example owns that role.

All is INSIDE — why a broker?
Preachers only sell their lies.
Needed just for worldly poker,
Spreading falsehood’s vile disguise.

Intuition, critical sight —
These are answers. Questions—yours.
Forget the shadows, lose the blight,
And silence evil’s endless sores.



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



“Medicine,” They Say

“Medicine” of genocide—
Fanatic servant’s role.
CowID showed the bitter side:
Heal with them, you’re losing soul.

In the “red zones,” creatures knew—
Money bought a deadly game.
Masses sent where none withdrew,
Fast they marched to death and shame.

Oncology, their perfect guise—
Cancer cure? Just devil’s trick.
Secret deals, the silent lies,
Measures dark and merciless, thick.

Children crushed by vile “shots,”
Vaccines killing resistance—
Direct harm, the deadly plots,
Breaking life with cold persistence.

Managers of pills and trade,
**** that fuels this killing spree.
“Medicine” — a slow death made,
A creeping, torturous decree.

Genocide’s “medicine,”
Crafted by control’s command.
Helps the “doctor” filth within,
Drive the evil, DNA planned.



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



Boredom of False Life

Life’s dull boredom—truth severe,
The whole world’s fake, that’s clear.
Spirit’s realms hold all the keys—
Hints, not rules, no guarantees.

All commands, dark mandates,
Are marks of rot, cruel fates.
Heed them and your soul will die—
Death in life, no need to try.

Mind without Spirit—Satan’s claim,
That’s why fascism rules the game.
God’s spark traded off by fools
For wallets, bags, and other tools.

“Just normal!”—says the rude buffoon,
Normal now is dumbness’ tune.
Satan’s work well done, it seems,
Feeding cracks in human dreams.

Amidst the fools, no joy is found,
Fascist power grips the ground.
They’re many—draining all the strength,
A gray biomass at arm’s length.

Pushing crowds at checkout lines,
Elbows sharp, their paths define
The way to New Hell’s gate—
Close enough to seal their fate.

Grayness worse than Satan’s fire,
A path with fools—an endless mire.
Trust the soul, that’s all you can—
Lost among the dull and ******.



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



The Crown of Evil

War criminals — fascist breed,
Renegades from reason’s creed,
Soulless rot with no remorse,
On the battlefield—cowards’ course.

Civilians bear the blows instead,
“War art” shifts—a game of dread:
First, flee the city, then unload
On peaceful lives—a hellish code.

Send more innocents to graves—
Be a hero among the slaves.
Feasts you’ll hold with fools serene,
While your hands stay clean, unseen.

When you come disarmed, or lame,
Shoot the peaceful—feed the flame.
The threshold’s near, the dark abyss,
Where fiends won’t find a place in bliss.

Hell’s gates crowded, spots run thin—
Demons need their space to grin.
Meanwhile, all rot side by side,
In this dull world, death’s slow tide.

This is no life, but fascism’s grip,
A global chokehold, sanity’s slip.
Idiocy crowned the norm,
Betrayal like a common storm.

You’ll be devoured by hellish rift,
If madness takes you in its drift.
Submissive, sold—there’s most in line,
The “brave fool” marching toe to line.

Turned fascist, soul erased,
Darkness thickens, evil’s haste.
No mind left to counterstrike,
Fascism grows more venomous, alike.

Consciousness — the final wall
To fascism’s deadly fall.
Stronger when the soul is whole,
Logic kept beyond control.

Final spasms, dull and mute,
To New Hell, **** absolute.
Under fascism’s crushing sway,
The jackals prey, the weak decay.

Monsters reap what they deserve,
Stupid masses lose their nerve.
Fascism’s fall and decay—
History’s end, the price to pay.

Heaven’s purge will crown this fate,
The crown of evil, harsh and great.



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



Fascist States and Their Pocket Terror-****

Terror-**** — a tool of fools,
Slips in every ***** rule:
**** in fascists’ service hired—
Governments—forever mired.

Problems made to solve by chains,
Strengthen slavery’s cruel reigns.
We’ll all rot in camps, confined—
Trapped by lies, by design.

They blew up towers—C.I.A.,
Sovok ghosts to pave the way,
So the Yank could never rise,
Head bowed low beneath the skies.

No prospects left at all,
Foolishness became the law:
CowID revealed the lies
In these wild, twisted times.

**** grow brazen, vile each year,
Lawless reign feeds fear and sneer.
Fascism worse than ******’s days—
Shots replaced with needle’s haze.

New wars sparked by cruel design,
Chaos pushes world to decline.
Rule by terror, rule by fear,
Drags the world down—pit so near.




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

Upside Down

“They say my claims want to upend the world entire.
But how is that so bad, to flip a world already mired?”
— Giordano Bruno, 16th century.


The world’s been flipped for ages—
And “up” is just more crap.
Who speaks the truth like that
Gets fed to the fire’s gap.

Galileo, had he dared,
Would join the flames declared:
Half-men with smart-*** face
Spread heresy apace,

Killing minds, destroying sense.
Now lies grow—no defense!
Proof? CowID’s disgrace—
Science wiped without a trace.

Falsehood wiped the soul of thought,
Scholars lost, their minds caught
By endless webs of lies:
The media’s dark disguise.

If not a traitor foul,
The world’s false noise will howl.
It’ll swallow all—no more—
A global nonsense roar.

Down you’ll sink—hear the sound—
Where silence grips the ground.
Most will fade; just few survive.
The world’s turned upside down—alive.



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


The Art of Slavery’s Rise

"The art of slavery’s rise,"
Karl Marx once prophesized.
Each generation slips in pain,
Now Spirit’s lost, nearly slain.

This was shown in Ukraine’s war,
Paid **** fighting, nothing more.
At approval, blood runs cold—
Harbingers of doom unfold.

Not in Bible, but on screen—
Propaganda fools are seen.
This mad world will soon descend
To a New Hell without end—

Fit for **** and filth alike,
Where the darkness rides the spike.



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



Tests at School

Guesswork, not real knowing —
That’s the exam today.
Rot your kids’ minds, then showing
Fascism’s open way.

Dumb fools fuel fascism’s fire,
They’re the perfect raw supply.
Roots of Satan’s twisted choir
In fake faiths live and lie.

If you trust the false science —
Now a faith, a cruel snare,
To be just like the dogged silence,
Guesswork’s lies you must declare.

Propaganda piles on nonsense,
All in all, it’s sheer disgrace:
Soon the last sharp mind’s absence
Leaves a narrow, dumbed-out space.

Obedience drives to camps anew,
A global prison cell.
A red cross on a white flag’s hue —
For broken minds, a hell.

And CowID was just a warm-up,
A test for blind compliance.
Believe the *******, no hiccup—
Don’t listen, starve in silence.



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



School Tests — A Fascist Drill

Guesswork, not real knowledge —
That’s how they test today.
Rot your kids’ minds, pledge homage
To fascism’s cruel way.

Dumb sheep feed the fascist beast,
Perfect fools on tight supply.
Satan’s roots in lies unleashed —
Fake gods preaching you must die.

Trust the lies of fake science?
Now a dogma, blind and cold.
Want to be a soulless silence?
Guess the crap they’ve sold and told.

Propaganda shovels ****,
Total chaos, pure disgrace.
The last bright mind’s buried—hit—
A dumbed-down, dead-end place.

Obedience herds to camps,
Worldwide prisons in the plan.
Red crosses wave on flags — the stamps
Of broken heads and banned.

CowID’s just a warm-up game,
Blind faith’s cruel initiation.
Swallow *******, bear the shame —
Dissent means starvation.




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



School Tests — Fascism’s Drill

Guess, don’t think — that’s the game,
Kids’ brains rotted, minds enslaved.
Welcome fascism’s ****** flame,
Where all free thought is crushed and shaved.

Dumb fools fuel the fascist grind,
Perfect **** in endless rows.
Satan’s spawn in churches blind,
False gods preach while spirit goes.

Believe the lies of fake “science”?
A cruel cult now fully grown.
Want to join the soulless silence?
Swallow poison, choke on bone.

Propaganda ***** non-stop,
Chaos reigns, the mind’s demise.
Last free spark? They’ll make it drop,
Dumbing down the herd to lies.

Obedience leads straight to hell —
Worldwide camps, no end in sight.
Red crosses mark the death knell,
Broken bodies, stolen rights.

CowID was just warm-up pain —
Blind faith’s test, obey or starve.
Drink the poison, bear the chain —
Speak out? Get crushed, lose your nerve.



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



School Tests — Fascism’s Brilliant Plan

Guess, don’t think — that’s school’s bright goal,
Brains on sale, all minds on lease.
Fascism’s finest mind-control,
Where freedom’s locked and sold as grease.

Dumb fools? Perfect factory breed,
Fascism’s VIPs in line.
Satan’s lobby in God’s steed,
Preaching lies dressed up as “divine.”

Fake science? Oh, the sacred truth!
A cult for sheep who’ve lost their spine.
Want to join the soulless youth?
Swallow ******* — tastes like brine.

Propaganda’s endless drip,
Floods the mind with lies and fear.
The last spark dies — now watch them slip
Into the herd, dumb and clear.

Obedience — the golden key
To camps worldwide, fresh and neat.
Red crosses mean “obedience, please,”
Where broken souls and bodies meet.

CowID — just a friendly test,
For blind faith’s ultimate thrill.
Drink the Kool-Aid, pass the quest,
Or starve — dissenters fit the bill.



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



Wake Up, Don’t Sing

Wake up, don’t sing —
They’ve robbed us blind.
Above you cling
The **** and liars, unrefined.

They breed their filth,
The same old trash.
We’re their batch,
And madness’ lash.

Always ready to obey,
To **** the soul inside,
And moan again the same old way,
In lies they proudly hide.

Don’t sing, just whine —
That’s the ****’s desire.
Their screams divine
Are just death’s choir.

Their lies will **** —
Wars and junk combined.
Nations shrill —
They get what they’re assigned,

If these vermin
All silently endure.
Their great success
Is poison pure.

Like food, they say:
“Eat up, shut your trap!”
Years will pass away —
And death will snap.

We’re building camps
With marching steps aligned,
Under Darkness’ reign,
Our souls confined.

But Judgment Day
Draws near for **** and slaves.
They’ll die who pray
And lick their graves,

Who trust, who lie,
Who bow and crawl,
Who are the fools
In stinking holes and all.

Out from those holes —
The court severe will call.
The executioners —
To Hell, the new pitfall.

Here Hell’s a joke —
Just infernal chains,
Ruled by the snake —
Mind’s fatal stains.

Only those will save
Who sold no honor cheap —
In work and fight,
Destroying pests that creep.



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



Wake Up — Don’t Sing Your Fool’s Song

Wake up, don’t croon —
They robbed you blind,
****’s been running the tune,
Lies they sell, unkind.

They spit their filth,
Just nasty breed.
We’re their garbage,
Madness’ seed.

Ready to obey —
Soul killers in line,
Whining fools who play
The same **** whine.

Don’t sing, just ***** —
That’s the ****’s desire.
Their howl’s a switch
To torture’s fire.

Their lies will **** —
Trash and wars combined.
Nations ****-****,
Fools get what they’re signed.

If vermin like these
You silently abide,
Congrats, you’ve seized
The plague’s high tide.

Like food they say:
“Shut up, just eat!”
Years tick away —
Death’s knocking, sweet.

We build camps now,
Marching in line,
Under darkness’ scowl,
Souls confined.

But Judgment’s near —
For slime and crooks.
They’ll burn, it’s clear,
Licking tyrants’ boots.

Who lie and bow,
***** for their gain,
Who dumbly kowtow
In their filthy stain.

Out from the pits —
The court will tear.
Executioners —
Hell’s new lair.

Here hell’s a joke —
Infernal chains,
Ruled by the snake,
Brains’ fatal stains.

Only those saved
Who kept their pride,
In fight and toil,
Cast filth aside.



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



Wake the Hell Up — Quit Your Stupid Song

Wake the hell up — stop your whining,
They robbed your ***, and keep on lying.
**** above you, dirt below,
They spew their filth — the endless show.

They’re nothing but a sewer’s spawn,
A madman’s cult that drags us on.
We’re just the dirt beneath their boots,
Feeding their rage, their twisted roots.

Always ready to obey,
**** the spirit, rot away.
Whining fools, a constant moan —
Suckers hooked on pain alone.

Don’t sing, you pathetic crybaby —
That’s the vermin’s sick decree.
Their lies like knives, their screams a noose,
Your damnation, their excuse.

Their ******* kills — wars and trash,
Nations crawling in the ash.
If you let these ******* win,
You’re dirt beneath their filthy skin.

Like chow to beasts — just eat and shut,
Ignore the fire, embrace the rut.
Years will pass — the noose will snap,
Your sorry neck beneath their trap.

We’re building camps in plain daylight,
Marching dumb under their blight.
Slaves to darkness, soul’s demise,
Doomed to watch the world’s demise.

But soon the hammer’s gonna fall,
On vermin crawling, slime and all.
They’ll burn the lickspittles down,
The **** who bow, the broken clown.

Who lie, who kneel, who sell their souls,
Who rot in their filthy holes.
Out from their pits — a brutal purge,
Executioners will face the scourge.

Hell here’s a joke — infernal crap,
Ruled by snakes with venom’s snap.
Brains fried, minds crushed, no hope inside,
Only those with honor ride.

The rest are filth, the ****, the slaves,
Doomed to drown in their own graves.
But those who fight, who stand, who dare,
Will cast these monsters into air.



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



Wake the **** Up — Shut Your ******* Mouth

Wake the **** up — stop your dumb-*** song,
They robbed you blind — you played along.
**** on top, lying snakes below,
They crap on you — and still you bow.

Filth-ridden *******, spawn of hell,
Dragging us down with their sick spell.
We’re cannon fodder, slave meat on trays,
Feeding their madness, rotting days.

Always ready to **** your soul,
Crush your spirit, swallow whole.
Whining cowards, crying fools —
Hooked on chains, dumb-*** tools.

Don’t sing, ***** — just whine and beg,
That’s the anthem of the legless leg.
Their lies slice deep, their screams choke tight,
You’re condemned to rot in their endless night.

******* kills — war’s filthy feast,
Nations crawling, humanity ceased.
If you let those monsters win the game,
You deserve every ounce of shame.

Eat your crap, shut your mouth tight,
Ignore the screams — embrace the night.
Years will burn, the noose will snap,
You’ll choke on your own coward’s trap.

Building camps — right under your nose,
Marching dumb through their deadly shows.
Slaves to darkness, mind erased,
A future lost, a world disgraced.

But soon the reckoning’s coming fast,
The vermin’s time will breathe its last.
They’ll burn the lickspittles alive,
The snake-tongued ******* who connive.

Those who bow, who lie, who crawl,
Rot in their stinking, filthy hole.
Out from the pits — a ruthless purge,
Executioners face the scourge.

Hell here’s a joke — a sick, fake show,
Ruled by snakes that poison blow.
Brains fried, minds smashed to dust,
Only fighters rise from the rust.

The rest are trash, ****, and slaves,
Doomed to drown in their shallow graves.
But warriors standing, hearts on fire,
Will burn this filth — raise hell higher.



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



Wake the **** Up — Shut the **** Up

Wake the **** up — quit your **** whining,
They robbed your guts while you’re reclining.
****-rats on top, liars all around,
******* on you while you kiss the ground.

Fascist filth, shitspawn elite,
Dragging us deep beneath their feet.
We’re cannon fodder, dogshit cheap,
Feeding their rage, buried deep.

Ready to **** your soul outright,
Crush your spark, ***** your light.
Crybabies bawling, dumb-*** slaves,
Chained to lies, dug their graves.

Don’t you sing — *****, just whimper,
That’s the song of the weak and limper.
Their lies cut like a butcher’s knife,
Welcome to Hell — this ******-up life.

******* breeds war — a ***** feast,
Nations crawl, their greatness ceased.
If you let these vermin reign,
You’re **** yourself — you own the pain.

Eat your ****, shut your hole tight,
Swallow the lies, embrace the night.
Years will burn, your rope will snap,
You’ll choke in your coward’s trap.

Camps rising right beneath your nose,
March like sheep to your own doze.
Slaves to darkness, minds erased,
Your future dead, your world disgraced.

But Judgment’s coming — fast and cold,
Vermin’s fate soon will unfold.
They’ll torch the lickspittles, rat-faced clowns,
The ***-kissers who wear the crowns.

Those who bow, who lie, who crawl,
Rot in filth, condemned to fall.
Out from the pits — a ruthless purge,
Executioners feel the surge.

Hell here’s a joke — a staged disgrace,
Ruled by snakes that spit in your face.
Brains fried, minds smashed to dust,
Only fighters rise from rust.

Trash and slaves — all doomed to die,
Drowning deep in their own lie.
But warriors burning, hearts ablaze,
Will raze this hell, end this craze.



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



Wake the **** Up — Shut the **** Up

Wake the **** up — stop your pitiful *******,
They’re robbing your soul while you’re drooling and twitching.
Scumbags on thrones, liars with venomous grins,
They ***** your life raw — you lick their sins.

Fascist shitspawn, vermin’s elite,
Dragging the world to its ******* defeat.
We’re cannon fodder, their human trash,
Fed to the grinder, ground to ash.

Soul killers, spirit murderers,
Crushing all hope, feeding disorders.
Crybaby slaves, whimpering fools,
Chained and brainwashed — puppets, tools.

Don’t sing your lies, whine like a *****,
That’s the anthem of cowards, a pathetic glitch.
Their venomous words slice sharper than knives,
Welcome to Hell — your cursed lives.

******* spawns war, a feast of the ******,
Nations enslaved by a psychotic hand.
Let these vermin reign, and you’re one of the breed,
A cesspool of filth, a festering seed.

Eat ****, shut the **** up, swallow the lies,
Drown in the darkness, starve your own cries.
Years will burn down your fragile facade,
Choke on your cowardice, ****-made god.

Camps rise like monuments to despair,
Marching blindfolded, choking on air.
Slaves to darkness, erased from the light,
Your future’s a corpse, buried tonight.

But Judgment’s coming, cold as a blade,
Vermin’s screams, their last masquerade.
They’ll burn the ***-kissers, lickspittles, drones,
The sycophants hiding behind brittle bones.

Those who bow, who lie, who crawl,
Rot in filth — awaiting their fall.
Out from the pits, the purge will ignite,
Executioners rise in fury and spite.

This hell is a joke, a staged nightmare,
Ruled by the ******* who don’t even care.
Brains fried, souls crushed in dust,
Only the strong rise, forged in disgust.

Trash and slaves — doomed and decayed,
Drowning in lies that they blindly obeyed.
But warriors with fire, hearts pure and loud,
Will raze this hellscape, shatter the shroud.

Wake the **** up — no more delay,
Burn the *******, torch the decay.
Rip off your chains, break the mold,
This is the reckoning — ruthless and cold.

No mercy given, no forgiveness earned,
Hell’s gates will open — their fate is burned.
Rise from the ashes, spit in their face,
Destroy the poison, reclaim your place.

— The End —