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. ---
