Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,
Before these ******* signs of fair were born,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow;
Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away
To live a second life on second head;
Ere beauty’s dead fleece made another gay.
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself and true,
Making no summer of another’s green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;
    And him as for a map doth Nature store,
    To show false Art what beauty was of yore.

BOOK I

S.  Patrick. You who are bent, and bald, and blind,
With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,
Have known three centuries, poets sing,
Of dalliance with a demon thing.

Oisin. Sad to remember, sick with years,
The swift innumerable spears,
The horsemen with their floating hair,
And bowls of barley, honey, and wine,
Those merry couples dancing in tune,
And the white body that lay by mine;
But the tale, though words be lighter than air.
Must live to be old like the wandering moon.

Caoilte, and Conan, and Finn were there,
When we followed a deer with our baying hounds.
With Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
And passing the Firbolgs' burial-motmds,
Came to the cairn-heaped grassy hill
Where passionate Maeve is stony-still;
And found On the dove-grey edge of the sea
A pearl-pale, high-born lady, who rode
On a horse with bridle of findrinny;
And like a sunset were her lips,
A stormy sunset on doomed ships;
A citron colour gloomed in her hair,

But down to her feet white vesture flowed,
And with the glimmering crimson glowed
Of many a figured embroidery;
And it was bound with a pearl-pale shell
That wavered like the summer streams,
As her soft ***** rose and fell.

S.  Patrick. You are still wrecked among heathen dreams.

Oisin. "Why do you wind no horn?' she said
"And every hero droop his head?
The hornless deer is not more sad
That many a peaceful moment had,
More sleek than any granary mouse,
In his own leafy forest house
Among the waving fields of fern:
The hunting of heroes should be glad.'

'O pleasant woman,' answered Finn,
"We think on Oscar's pencilled urn,
And on the heroes lying slain
On Gabhra's raven-covered plain;
But where are your noble kith and kin,
And from what country do you ride?'

"My father and my mother are
Aengus and Edain, my own name
Niamh, and my country far
Beyond the tumbling of this tide.'

"What dream came with you that you came
Through bitter tide on foam-wet feet?
Did your companion wander away
From where the birds of Aengus wing?'
Thereon did she look haughty and sweet:
"I have not yet, war-weary king,
Been spoken of with any man;
Yet now I choose, for these four feet
Ran through the foam and ran to this
That I might have your son to kiss.'

"Were there no better than my son
That you through all that foam should run?'

"I loved no man, though kings besought,
Until the Danaan poets brought
Rhyme that rhymed upon Oisin's name,
And now I am dizzy with the thought
Of all that wisdom and the fame
Of battles broken by his hands,
Of stories builded by his words
That are like coloured Asian birds
At evening in their rainless lands.'

O Patrick, by your brazen bell,
There was no limb of mine but fell
Into a desperate gulph of love!
'You only will I wed,' I cried,
"And I will make a thousand songs,
And set your name all names above,
And captives bound with leathern thongs
Shall kneel and praise you, one by one,
At evening in my western dun.'

"O Oisin, mount by me and ride
To shores by the wash of the tremulous tide,
Where men have heaped no burial-mounds,
And the days pass by like a wayward tune,
Where broken faith has never been known
And the blushes of first love never have flown;
And there I will give you a hundred hounds;
No mightier creatures bay at the moon;
And a hundred robes of murmuring silk,
And a hundred calves and a hundred sheep
Whose long wool whiter than sea-froth flows,
And a hundred spears and a hundred bows,
And oil and wine and honey and milk,
And always never-anxious sleep;
While a hundred youths, mighty of limb,
But knowing nor tumult nor hate nor strife,
And a hundred ladies, merry as birds,
Who when they dance to a fitful measure
Have a speed like the speed of the salmon herds,
Shall follow your horn and obey your whim,
And you shall know the Danaan leisure;
And Niamh be with you for a wife.'
Then she sighed gently, "It grows late.
Music and love and sleep await,
Where I would be when the white moon climbs,
The red sun falls and the world grows dim.'

And then I mounted and she bound me
With her triumphing arms around me,
And whispering to herself enwound me;
He shook himself and neighed three times:
Caoilte, Conan, and Finn came near,
And wept, and raised their lamenting hands,
And bid me stay, with many a tear;
But we rode out from the human lands.
In what far kingdom do you go'
Ah Fenians, with the shield and bow?
Or are you phantoms white as snow,
Whose lips had life's most prosperous glow?
O you, with whom in sloping vallcys,
Or down the dewy forest alleys,
I chased at morn the flying deer,
With whom I hurled the hurrying spear,
And heard the foemen's bucklers rattle,
And broke the heaving ranks of battle!
And Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
Where are you with your long rough hair?
You go not where the red deer feeds,
Nor tear the foemen from their steeds.

S.  Patrick. Boast not, nor mourn with drooping head
Companions long accurst and dead,
And hounds for centuries dust and air.

Oisin. We galloped over the glossy sea:
I know not if days passed or hours,
And Niamh sang continually
Danaan songs, and their dewy showers
Of pensive laughter, unhuman sound,
Lulled weariness, and softly round
My human sorrow her white arms wound.
We galloped; now a hornless deer
Passed by us, chased by a phantom hound
All pearly white, save one red ear;
And now a lady rode like the wind
With an apple of gold in her tossing hand;
And a beautiful young man followed behind
With quenchless gaze and fluttering hair.
"Were these two born in the Danaan land,
Or have they breathed the mortal air?'

"Vex them no longer,' Niamh said,
And sighing bowed her gentle head,
And sighing laid the pearly tip
Of one long finger on my lip.

But now the moon like a white rose shone
In the pale west, and the sun'S rim sank,
And clouds atrayed their rank on rank
About his fading crimson ball:
The floor of Almhuin's hosting hall
Was not more level than the sea,
As, full of loving fantasy,
And with low murmurs, we rode on,
Where many a trumpet-twisted shell
That in immortal silence sleeps
Dreaming of her own melting hues,
Her golds, her ambers, and her blues,
Pierced with soft light the shallowing deeps.
But now a wandering land breeze came
And a far sound of feathery quires;
It seemed to blow from the dying flame,
They seemed to sing in the smouldering fires.
The horse towards the music raced,
Neighing along the lifeless waste;
Like sooty fingers, many a tree
Rose ever out of the warm sea;
And they were trembling ceaselessly,
As though they all were beating time,
Upon the centre of the sun,
To that low laughing woodland rhyme.
And, now our wandering hours were done,
We cantered to the shore, and knew
The reason of the trembling trees:
Round every branch the song-birds flew,
Or clung thereon like swarming bees;
While round the shore a million stood
Like drops of frozen rainbow light,
And pondered in a soft vain mood
Upon their shadows in the tide,
And told the purple deeps their pride,
And murmured snatches of delight;
And on the shores were many boats
With bending sterns and bending bows,
And carven figures on their prows
Of bitterns, and fish-eating stoats,
And swans with their exultant throats:
And where the wood and waters meet
We tied the horse in a leafy clump,
And Niamh blew three merry notes
Out of a little silver trump;
And then an answering whispering flew
Over the bare and woody land,
A whisper of impetuous feet,
And ever nearer, nearer grew;
And from the woods rushed out a band
Of men and ladies, hand in hand,
And singing, singing all together;
Their brows were white as fragrant milk,
Their cloaks made out of yellow silk,
And trimmed with many a crimson feather;
And when they saw the cloak I wore
Was dim with mire of a mortal shore,
They fingered it and gazed on me
And laughed like murmurs of the sea;
But Niamh with a swift distress
Bid them away and hold their peace;
And when they heard her voice they ran
And knelt there, every girl and man,
And kissed, as they would never cease,
Her pearl-pale hand and the hem of her dress.
She bade them bring us to the hall
Where Aengus dreams, from sun to sun,
A Druid dream of the end of days
When the stars are to wane and the world be done.

They led us by long and shadowy ways
Where drops of dew in myriads fall,
And tangled creepers every hour
Blossom in some new crimson flower,
And once a sudden laughter sprang
From all their lips, and once they sang
Together, while the dark woods rang,
And made in all their distant parts,
With boom of bees in honey-marts,
A rumour of delighted hearts.
And once a lady by my side
Gave me a harp, and bid me sing,
And touch the laughing silver string;
But when I sang of human joy
A sorrow wrapped each merry face,
And, patrick! by your beard, they wept,
Until one came, a tearful boy;
"A sadder creature never stept
Than this strange human bard,' he cried;
And caught the silver harp away,
And, weeping over the white strings, hurled
It down in a leaf-hid, hollow place
That kept dim waters from the sky;
And each one said, with a long, long sigh,
"O saddest harp in all the world,
Sleep there till the moon and the stars die!'

And now, still sad, we came to where
A beautiful young man dreamed within
A house of wattles, clay, and skin;
One hand upheld his beardless chin,
And one a sceptre flashing out
Wild flames of red and gold and blue,
Like to a merry wandering rout
Of dancers leaping in the air;
And men and ladies knelt them there
And showed their eyes with teardrops dim,
And with low murmurs prayed to him,
And kissed the sceptre with red lips,
And touched it with their finger-tips.
He held that flashing sceptre up.
"Joy drowns the twilight in the dew,
And fills with stars night's purple cup,
And wakes the sluggard seeds of corn,
And stirs the young kid's budding horn,
And makes the infant ferns unwrap,
And for the peewit paints his cap,
And rolls along the unwieldy sun,
And makes the little planets run:
And if joy were not on the earth,
There were an end of change and birth,
And Earth and Heaven and Hell would die,
And in some gloomy barrow lie
Folded like a frozen fly;
Then mock at Death and Time with glances
And wavering arms and wandering dances.

"Men's hearts of old were drops of flame
That from the saffron morning came,
Or drops of silver joy that fell
Out of the moon's pale twisted shell;
But now hearts cry that hearts are slaves,
And toss and turn in narrow caves;
But here there is nor law nor rule,
Nor have hands held a weary tool;
And here there is nor Change nor Death,
But only kind and merry breath,
For joy is God and God is joy.'
With one long glance for girl and boy
And the pale blossom of the moon,
He fell into a Druid swoon.

And in a wild and sudden dance
We mocked at Time and Fate and Chance
And swept out of the wattled hall
And came to where the dewdrops fall
Among the foamdrops of the sea,
And there we hushed the revelry;
And, gathering on our brows a frown,
Bent all our swaying bodies down,
And to the waves that glimmer by
That sloping green De Danaan sod
Sang, "God is joy and joy is God,
And things that have grown sad are wicked,
And things that fear the dawn of the morrow
Or the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

We danced to where in the winding thicket
The damask roses, bloom on bloom,
Like crimson meteors hang in the gloom.
And bending over them softly said,
Bending over them in the dance,
With a swift and friendly glance
From dewy eyes:  "Upon the dead
Fall the leaves of other roses,
On the dead dim earth encloses:
But never, never on our graves,
Heaped beside the glimmering waves,
Shall fall the leaves of damask roses.
For neither Death nor Change comes near us,
And all listless hours fear us,
And we fear no dawning morrow,
Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

The dance wound through the windless woods;
The ever-summered solitudes;
Until the tossing arms grew still
Upon the woody central hill;
And, gathered in a panting band,
We flung on high each waving hand,
And sang unto the starry broods.
In our raised eyes there flashed a glow
Of milky brightness to and fro
As thus our song arose:  "You stars,
Across your wandering ruby cars
Shake the loose reins:  you slaves of God.
He rules you with an iron rod,
He holds you with an iron bond,
Each one woven to the other,
Each one woven to his brother
Like bubbles in a frozen pond;
But we in a lonely land abide
Unchainable as the dim tide,
With hearts that know nor law nor rule,
And hands that hold no wearisome tool,
Folded in love that fears no morrow,
Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

O Patrick! for a hundred years
I chased upon that woody shore
The deer, the badger, and the boar.
O patrick! for a hundred years
At evening on the glimmering sands,
Beside the piled-up hunting spears,
These now outworn and withered hands
Wrestled among the island bands.
O patrick! for a hundred years
We went a-fishing in long boats
With bending sterns and bending bows,
And carven figures on their prows
Of bitterns and fish-eating stoats.
O patrick! for a hundred years
The gentle Niamh was my wife;
But now two things devour my life;
The things that most of all I hate:
Fasting and prayers.

S.  Patrick. Tell On.

Oisin. Yes, yes,
For these were ancient Oisin's fate
Loosed long ago from Heaven's gate,
For his last days to lie in wait.
When one day by the tide I stood,
I found in that forgetfulness
Of dreamy foam a staff of wood
From some dead warrior's broken lance:
I tutned it in my hands; the stains
Of war were on it, and I wept,
Remembering how the Fenians stept
Along the blood-bedabbled plains,
Equal to good or grievous chance:
Thereon young Niamh softly came
And caught my hands, but spake no word
Save only many times my name,
In murmurs, like a frighted bird.
We passed by woods, and lawns of clover,
And found the horse and bridled him,
For we knew well the old was over.
I heard one say, "His eyes grow dim
With all the ancient sorrow of men';
And wrapped in dreams rode out again
With hoofs of the pale findrinny
Over the glimmering purple sea.
Under the golden evening light,
The Immortals moved among thc fountains
By rivers and the woods' old night;
Some danced like shadows on the mountains
Some wandered ever hand in hand;
Or sat in dreams on the pale strand,
Each forehead like an obscure star
Bent down above each hooked knee,
And sang, and with a dreamy gaze
Watched where the sun in a saffron blaze
Was slumbering half in the sea-ways;
And, as they sang, the painted birds



























































­

























Kept time with their bright wings and feet;
Like drops of honey came their words,
But fainter than a young lamb's bleat.

"An old man stirs the fire to a blaze,
In the house of a child, of a friend, of a brother.
He has over-lingered his welcome; the days,
Grown desolate, whisper and sigh to each other;
He hears the storm in the chimney above,
And bends to the fire and shakes with the cold,
While his heart still dreams of battle and love,
And the cry of the hounds on the hills of old.

But We are apart in the grassy places,
Where care cannot trouble the least of our days,
Or the softness of youth be gone from our faces,
Or love's first tenderness die in our gaze.
The hare grows old as she plays in the sun
And gazes around her with eyes of brightness;
Before the swift things that she dreamed of were done
She limps along in an aged whiteness;
A storm of birds in the Asian trees
Like tulips in the air a-winging,
And the gentle waves of the summer seas,
That raise their heads and wander singing,
Must murmur at last, ""Unjust, unjust';
And ""My speed is a weariness,' falters the mouse,
And the kingfisher turns to a ball of dust,
And the roof falls in of his tunnelled house.
But the love-dew dims our eyes till the day
When God shall come from the Sea with a sigh
And bid the stars drop down from the sky,
And the moon like a pale rose wither away.'

#######
BOOK II
#######

NOW, man of croziers, shadows called our names
And then away, away, like whirling flames;
And now fled by, mist-covered, without sound,
The youth and lady and the deer and hound;
"Gaze no more on the phantoms,' Niamh said,
And kissed my eyes, and, swaying her bright head
And her bright body, sang of faery and man
Before God was or my old line began;
Wars shadowy, vast, exultant; faeries of old
Who wedded men with rings of Druid gold;
And how those lovers

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long
We're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the children who are asking to be born
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in
Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

S.  Patrick. You who are bent, and bald, and blind,
With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,
Have known three centuries, poets sing,
Of dalliance with a demon thing.

Oisin. Sad to remember, sick with years,
The swift innumerable spears,
The horsemen with their floating hair,
And bowls of barley, honey, and wine,
Those merry couples dancing in tune,
And the white body that lay by mine;
But the tale, though words be lighter than air.
Must live to be old like the wandering moon.

Caoilte, and Conan, and Finn were there,
When we followed a deer with our baying hounds.
With Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
And passing the Firbolgs' burial-motmds,
Came to the cairn-heaped grassy hill
Where passionate Maeve is stony-still;
And found On the dove-grey edge of the sea
A pearl-pale, high-born lady, who rode
On a horse with bridle of findrinny;
And like a sunset were her lips,
A stormy sunset on doomed ships;
A citron colour gloomed in her hair,

But down to her feet white vesture flowed,
And with the glimmering crimson glowed
Of many a figured embroidery;
And it was bound with a pearl-pale shell
That wavered like the summer streams,
As her soft ***** rose and fell.

S.  Patrick. You are still wrecked among heathen dreams.

Oisin. 'Why do you wind no horn?' she said
'And every hero droop his head?
The hornless deer is not more sad
That many a peaceful moment had,
More sleek than any granary mouse,
In his own leafy forest house
Among the waving fields of fern:
The hunting of heroes should be glad.'

'O pleasant woman,' answered Finn,
'We think on Oscar's pencilled urn,
And on the heroes lying slain
On Gabhra's raven-covered plain;
But where are your noble kith and kin,
And from what country do you ride?'

'My father and my mother are
Aengus and Edain, my own name
Niamh, and my country far
Beyond the tumbling of this tide.'

'What dream came with you that you came
Through bitter tide on foam-wet feet?
Did your companion wander away
From where the birds of Aengus wing?'
Thereon did she look haughty and sweet:
'I have not yet, war-weary king,
Been spoken of with any man;
Yet now I choose, for these four feet
Ran through the foam and ran to this
That I might have your son to kiss.'

'Were there no better than my son
That you through all that foam should run?'

'I loved no man, though kings besought,
Until the Danaan poets brought
Rhyme that rhymed upon Oisin's name,
And now I am dizzy with the thought
Of all that wisdom and the fame
Of battles broken by his hands,
Of stories builded by his words
That are like coloured Asian birds
At evening in their rainless lands.'

O Patrick, by your brazen bell,
There was no limb of mine but fell
Into a desperate gulph of love!
'You only will I wed,' I cried,
'And I will make a thousand songs,
And set your name all names above,
And captives bound with leathern thongs
Shall kneel and praise you, one by one,
At evening in my western dun.'

'O Oisin, mount by me and ride
To shores by the wash of the tremulous tide,
Where men have heaped no burial-mounds,
And the days pass by like a wayward tune,
Where broken faith has never been known
And the blushes of first love never have flown;
And there I will give you a hundred hounds;
No mightier creatures bay at the moon;
And a hundred robes of murmuring silk,
And a hundred calves and a hundred sheep
Whose long wool whiter than sea-froth flows,
And a hundred spears and a hundred bows,
And oil and wine and honey and milk,
And always never-anxious sleep;
While a hundred youths, mighty of limb,
But knowing nor tumult nor hate nor strife,
And a hundred ladies, merry as birds,
Who when they dance to a fitful measure
Have a speed like the speed of the salmon herds,
Shall follow your horn and obey your whim,
And you shall know the Danaan leisure;
And Niamh be with you for a wife.'
Then she sighed gently, 'It grows late.
Music and love and sleep await,
Where I would be when the white moon climbs,
The red sun falls and the world grows dim.'

And then I mounted and she bound me
With her triumphing arms around me,
And whispering to herself enwound me;
He shook himself and neighed three times:
Caoilte, Conan, and Finn came near,
And wept, and raised their lamenting hands,
And bid me stay, with many a tear;
But we rode out from the human lands.
In what far kingdom do you go'
Ah Fenians, with the shield and bow?
Or are you phantoms white as snow,
Whose lips had life's most prosperous glow?
O you, with whom in sloping vallcys,
Or down the dewy forest alleys,
I chased at morn the flying deer,
With whom I hurled the hurrying spear,
And heard the foemen's bucklers rattle,
And broke the heaving ranks of battle!
And Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
Where are you with your long rough hair?
You go not where the red deer feeds,
Nor tear the foemen from their steeds.

S.  Patrick. Boast not, nor mourn with drooping head
Companions long accurst and dead,
And hounds for centuries dust and air.

Oisin. We galloped over the glossy sea:
I know not if days passed or hours,
And Niamh sang continually
Danaan songs, and their dewy showers
Of pensive laughter, unhuman sound,
Lulled weariness, and softly round
My human sorrow her white arms wound.
We galloped; now a hornless deer
Passed by us, chased by a phantom hound
All pearly white, save one red ear;
And now a lady rode like the wind
With an apple of gold in her tossing hand;
And a beautiful young man followed behind
With quenchless gaze and fluttering hair.
'Were these two born in the Danaan land,
Or have they breathed the mortal air?'

'Vex them no longer,' Niamh said,
And sighing bowed her gentle head,
And sighing laid the pearly tip
Of one long finger on my lip.

But now the moon like a white rose shone
In the pale west, and the sun'S rim sank,
And clouds atrayed their rank on rank
About his fading crimson ball:
The floor of Almhuin's hosting hall
Was not more level than the sea,
As, full of loving fantasy,
And with low murmurs, we rode on,
Where many a trumpet-twisted shell
That in immortal silence sleeps
Dreaming of her own melting hues,
Her golds, her ambers, and her blues,
Pierced with soft light the shallowing deeps.
But now a wandering land breeze came
And a far sound of feathery quires;
It seemed to blow from the dying flame,
They seemed to sing in the smouldering fires.
The horse towards the music raced,
Neighing along the lifeless waste;
Like sooty fingers, many a tree
Rose ever out of the warm sea;
And they were trembling ceaselessly,
As though they all were beating time,
Upon the centre of the sun,
To that low laughing woodland rhyme.
And, now our wandering hours were done,
We cantered to the shore, and knew
The reason of the trembling trees:
Round every branch the song-birds flew,
Or clung thereon like swarming bees;
While round the shore a million stood
Like drops of frozen rainbow light,
And pondered in a soft vain mood
Upon their shadows in the tide,
And told the purple deeps their pride,
And murmured snatches of delight;
And on the shores were many boats
With bending sterns and bending bows,
And carven figures on their prows
Of bitterns, and fish-eating stoats,
And swans with their exultant throats:
And where the wood and waters meet
We tied the horse in a leafy clump,
And Niamh blew three merry notes
Out of a little silver trump;
And then an answering whispering flew
Over the bare and woody land,
A whisper of impetuous feet,
And ever nearer, nearer grew;
And from the woods rushed out a band
Of men and ladies, hand in hand,
And singing, singing all together;
Their brows were white as fragrant milk,
Their cloaks made out of yellow silk,
And trimmed with many a crimson feather;
And when they saw the cloak I wore
Was dim with mire of a mortal shore,
They fingered it and gazed on me
And laughed like murmurs of the sea;
But Niamh with a swift distress
Bid them away and hold their peace;
And when they heard her voice they ran
And knelt there, every girl and man,
And kissed, as they would never cease,
Her pearl-pale hand and the hem of her dress.
She bade them bring us to the hall
Where Aengus dreams, from sun to sun,
A Druid dream of the end of days
When the stars are to wane and the world be done.

They led us by long and shadowy ways
Where drops of dew in myriads fall,
And tangled creepers every hour
Blossom in some new crimson flower,
And once a sudden laughter sprang
From all their lips, and once they sang
Together, while the dark woods rang,
And made in all their distant parts,
With boom of bees in honey-marts,
A rumour of delighted hearts.
And once a lady by my side
Gave me a harp, and bid me sing,
And touch the laughing silver string;
But when I sang of human joy
A sorrow wrapped each merry face,
And, patrick! by your beard, they wept,
Until one came, a tearful boy;
'A sadder creature never stept
Than this strange human bard,' he cried;
And caught the silver harp away,
And, weeping over the white strings, hurled
It down in a leaf-hid, hollow place
That kept dim waters from the sky;
And each one said, with a long, long sigh,
'O saddest harp in all the world,
Sleep there till the moon and the stars die!'

And now, still sad, we came to where
A beautiful young man dreamed within
A house of wattles, clay, and skin;
One hand upheld his beardless chin,
And one a sceptre flashing out
Wild flames of red and gold and blue,
Like to a merry wandering rout
Of dancers leaping in the air;
And men and ladies knelt them there
And showed their eyes with teardrops dim,
And with low murmurs prayed to him,
And kissed the sceptre with red lips,
And touched it with their finger-tips.
He held that flashing sceptre up.
'Joy drowns the twilight in the dew,
And fills with stars night's purple cup,
And wakes the sluggard seeds of corn,
And stirs the young kid's budding horn,
And makes the infant ferns unwrap,
And for the peewit paints his cap,
And rolls along the unwieldy sun,
And makes the little planets run:
And if joy were not on the earth,
There were an end of change and birth,
And Earth and Heaven and Hell would die,
And in some gloomy barrow lie
Folded like a frozen fly;
Then mock at Death and Time with glances
And wavering arms and wandering dances.

'Men's hearts of old were drops of flame
That from the saffron morning came,
Or drops of silver joy that fell
Out of the moon's pale twisted shell;
But now hearts cry that hearts are slaves,
And toss and turn in narrow caves;
But here there is nor law nor rule,
Nor have hands held a weary tool;
And here there is nor Change nor Death,
But only kind and merry breath,
For joy is God and God is joy.'
With one long glance for girl and boy
And the pale blossom of the moon,
He fell into a Druid swoon.

And in a wild and sudden dance
We mocked at Time and Fate and Chance
And swept out of the wattled hall
And came to where the dewdrops fall
Among the foamdrops of the sea,
And there we hushed the revelry;
And, gathering on our brows a frown,
Bent all our swaying bodies down,
And to the waves that glimmer by
That sloping green De Danaan sod
Sang, 'God is joy and joy is God,
And things that have grown sad are wicked,
And things that fear the dawn of the morrow
Or the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

We danced to where in the winding thicket
The damask roses, bloom on bloom,
Like crimson meteors hang in the gloom.
And bending over them softly said,
Bending over them in the dance,
With a swift and friendly glance
From dewy eyes:  'Upon the dead
Fall the leaves of other roses,
On the dead dim earth encloses:
But never, never on our graves,
Heaped beside the glimmering waves,
Shall fall the leaves of damask roses.
For neither Death nor Change comes near us,
And all listless hours fear us,
And we fear no dawning morrow,
Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

The dance wound through the windless woods;
The ever-summered solitudes;
Until the tossing arms grew still
Upon the woody central hill;
And, gathered in a panting band,
We flung on high each waving hand,
And sang unto the starry broods.
In our raised eyes there flashed a glow
Of milky brightness to and fro
As thus our song arose:  'You stars,
Across your wandering ruby cars
Shake the loose reins:  you slaves of God.
He rules you with an iron rod,
He holds you with an iron bond,
Each one woven to the other,
Each one woven to his brother
Like bubbles in a frozen pond;
But we in a lonely land abide
Unchainable as the dim tide,
With hearts that know nor law nor rule,
And hands that hold no wearisome tool,
Folded in love that fears no morrow,
Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

O Patrick! for a hundred years
I chased upon that woody shore
The deer, the badger, and the boar.
O patrick! for a hundred years
At evening on the glimmering sands,
Beside the piled-up hunting spears,
These now outworn and withered hands
Wrestled among the island bands.
O patrick! for a hundred years
We went a-fishing in long boats
With bending sterns and bending bows,
And carven figures on their prows
Of bitterns and fish-eating stoats.
O patrick! for a hundred years
The gentle Niamh was my wife;
But now two things devour my life;
The things that most of all I hate:
Fasting and prayers.

S.  Patrick.      Tell on.

Oisin.                 Yes, yes,
For these were ancient Oisin's fate
Loosed long ago from Heaven's gate,
For his last days to lie in wait.
When one day by the tide I stood,
I found in that forgetfulness
Of dreamy foam a staff of wood
From some dead warrior's broken lance:
I tutned it in my hands; the stains
Of war were on it, and I wept,
Remembering how the Fenians stept
Along the blood-bedabbled plains,
Equal to good or grievous chance:
Thereon young Niamh softly came
And caught my hands, but spake no word
Save only many times my name,
In murmurs, like a frighted bird.
We passed by woods, and lawns of clover,
And found the horse and bridled him,
For we knew well the old was over.
I heard one say, 'His eyes grow dim
With all the ancient sorrow of men';
And wrapped in dreams rode out again
With hoofs of the pale findrinny
Over the glimmering purple sea.
Under the golden evening light,
The Immortals moved among thc fountains
By rivers and the woods' old night;
Some danced like shadows on the mountains
Some wandered ever hand in hand;
Or sat in dreams on the pale strand,
Each forehead like an obscure star
Bent down above each hooked knee,
And sang, and with a dreamy gaze
Watched where the sun in a saffron blaze
Was slumbering half in the sea-ways;
And, as they sang, the painted birds
Kept time with their bright wings and feet;
Like drops of honey came their words,
But fainter than a young lamb's bleat.

'An old man stirs the fire to a blaze,
In the house of a child, of a friend, of a brother.
He has over-lingered his welcome; the days,
Grown desolate, whisper and sigh to each other;
He hears the storm in the chimney above,
And bends to the fire and shakes with the cold,
While his heart still dreams of battle and love,
And the cry of the hounds on the hills of old.

But We are apart in the grassy places,
Where care cannot trouble the least of our days,
Or the softness of youth be gone from our faces,
Or love's first tenderness die in our gaze.
The hare grows old as she plays in the sun
And gazes around her with eyes of brightness;
Before the swift things that she dreamed of were done
She limps along in an aged whiteness;
A storm of birds in the Asian trees
Like tulips in the air a-winging,
And the gentle waves of the summer seas,
That raise their heads and wander singing,
Must murmur at last, "Unjust, unjust";
And "My speed is a weariness," falters the mouse,
And the kingfisher turns to a ball of dust,
And the roof falls in of his tunnelled house.
But the love-dew dims our eyes till the day
When God shall come from the Sea with a sigh
And bid the stars drop down from the sky,
And the moon like a pale rose wither away.'

Late, my grandson! half the morning have I paced these sandy tracts,
Watch'd again the hollow ridges roaring into cataracts,

Wander'd back to living boyhood while I heard the curlews call,
I myself so close on death, and death itself in Locksley Hall.

So--your happy suit was blasted--she the faultless, the divine;
And you liken--boyish babble--this boy-love of yours with mine.

I myself have often babbled doubtless of a foolish past;
Babble, babble; our old England may go down in babble at last.

'Curse him!' curse your fellow-victim? call him dotard in your rage?
Eyes that lured a doting boyhood well might fool a dotard's age.

Jilted for a wealthier! wealthier? yet perhaps she was not wise;
I remember how you kiss'd the miniature with those sweet eyes.

In the hall there hangs a painting--Amy's arms about my neck--
Happy children in a sunbeam sitting on the ribs of wreck.

In my life there was a picture, she that clasp'd my neck had flown;
I was left within the shadow sitting on the wreck alone.

Yours has been a slighter ailment, will you sicken for her sake?
You, not you! your modern amourist is of easier, earthlier make.

Amy loved me, Amy fail'd me, Amy was a timid child;
But your Judith--but your worldling--she had never driven me wild.

She that holds the diamond necklace dearer than the golden ring,
She that finds a winter sunset fairer than a morn of Spring.

She that in her heart is brooding on his briefer lease of life,
While she vows 'till death shall part us,' she the would-be-widow wife.

She the worldling born of worldlings--father, mother--be content,
Ev'n the homely farm can teach us there is something in descent.

Yonder in that chapel, slowly sinking now into the ground,
Lies the warrior, my forefather, with his feet upon the hound.

Cross'd! for once he sail'd the sea to crush the Moslem in his pride;
Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead the cause in which he died.

Yet how often I and Amy in the mouldering aisle have stood,
Gazing for one pensive moment on that founder of our blood.

There again I stood to-day, and where of old we knelt in prayer,
Close beneath the casement crimson with the shield of Locksley--there,

All in white Italian marble, looking still as if she smiled,
Lies my Amy dead in child-birth, dead the mother, dead the child.

Dead--and sixty years ago, and dead her aged husband now--
I this old white-headed dreamer stoopt and kiss'd her marble brow.

Gone the fires of youth, the follies, furies, curses, passionate tears,
Gone like fires and floods and earthquakes of the planet's dawning years.

Fires that shook me once, but now to silent ashes fall'n away.
Cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam of dying day.

Gone the tyrant of my youth, and mute below the chancel stones,
All his virtues--I forgive them--black in white above his bones.

Gone the comrades of my bivouac, some in fight against the foe,
Some thro' age and slow diseases, gone as all on earth will go.

Gone with whom for forty years my life in golden sequence ran,
She with all the charm of woman, she with all the breadth of man,

Strong in will and rich in wisdom, Edith, yet so lowly-sweet,
Woman to her inmost heart, and woman to her tender feet,

Very woman of very woman, nurse of ailing body and mind,
She that link'd again the broken chain that bound me to my kind.

Here to-day was Amy with me, while I wander'd down the coast,
Near us Edith's holy shadow, smiling at the slighter ghost.

Gone our sailor son thy father, Leonard early lost at sea;
Thou alone, my boy, of Amy's kin and mine art left to me.

Gone thy tender-natured mother, wearying to be left alone,
Pining for the stronger heart that once had beat beside her own.

Truth, for Truth is Truth, he worshipt, being true as he was brave;
Good, for Good is Good, he follow'd, yet he look'd beyond the grave,

Wiser there than you, that crowning barren Death as lord of all,
Deem this over-tragic drama's closing curtain is the pall!

Beautiful was death in him, who saw the death, but kept the deck,
Saving women and their babes, and sinking with the sinking wreck,

Gone for ever! Ever? no--for since our dying race began,
Ever, ever, and for ever was the leading light of man.

Those that in barbarian burials ****'d the slave, and slew the wife,
Felt within themselves the sacred passion of the second life.

Indian warriors dream of ampler hunting grounds beyond the night;
Ev'n the black Australian dying hopes he shall return, a white.

Truth for truth, and good for good! The Good, the True, the Pure, the Just--
Take the charm 'For ever' from them, and they crumble into dust.

Gone the cry of 'Forward, Forward,' lost within a growing gloom;
Lost, or only heard in silence from the silence of a tomb.

Half the marvels of my morning, triumphs over time and space,
Staled by frequence, shrunk by usage into commonest commonplace!

'Forward' rang the voices then, and of the many mine was one.
Let us hush this cry of 'Forward' till ten thousand years have gone.

Far among the vanish'd races, old Assyrian kings would flay
Captives whom they caught in battle--iron-hearted victors they.

Ages after, while in Asia, he that led the wild Moguls,
Timur built his ghastly tower of eighty thousand human skulls,

Then, and here in Edward's time, an age of noblest English names,
Christian conquerors took and flung the conquer'd Christian into flames.

Love your enemy, bless your haters, said the Greatest of the great;
Christian love among the Churches look'd the twin of heathen hate.

From the golden alms of Blessing man had coin'd himself a curse:
Rome of Caesar, Rome of Peter, which was crueller? which was worse?

France had shown a light to all men, preach'd a Gospel, all men's good;
Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek'd and slaked the light with blood.

Hope was ever on her mountain, watching till the day begun--
Crown'd with sunlight--over darkness--from the still unrisen sun.

Have we grown at last beyond the passions of the primal clan?
'**** your enemy, for you hate him,' still, 'your enemy' was a man.

Have we sunk below them? peasants maim the helpless horse, and drive
Innocent cattle under thatch, and burn the kindlier brutes alive.

Brutes, the brutes are not your wrongers--burnt at midnight, found at morn,
Twisted hard in mortal agony with their offspring, born-unborn,

Clinging to the silent mother! Are we devils? are we men?
Sweet St. Francis of Assisi, would that he were here again,

He that in his Catholic wholeness used to call the very flowers
Sisters, brothers--and the beasts--whose pains are hardly less than ours!

Chaos, Cosmos! Cosmos, Chaos! who can tell how all will end?
Read the wide world's annals, you, and take their wisdom for your friend.

Hope the best, but hold the Present fatal daughter of the Past,
Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hour will last.

Ay, if dynamite and revolver leave you courage to be wise:
When was age so cramm'd with menace? madness? written, spoken lies?

Envy wears the mask of Love, and, laughing sober fact to scorn,
Cries to Weakest as to Strongest, 'Ye are equals, equal-born.'

Equal-born? O yes, if yonder hill be level with the flat.
Charm us, Orator, till the Lion look no larger than the Cat,

Till the Cat thro' that mirage of overheated language loom
Larger than the Lion,--Demos end in working its own doom.

Russia bursts our Indian barrier, shall we fight her? shall we yield?
Pause! before you sound the trumpet, hear the voices from the field.

Those three hundred millions under one Imperial sceptre now,
Shall we hold them? shall we loose them? take the suffrage of the plow.

Nay, but these would feel and follow Truth if only you and you,
Rivals of realm-ruining party, when you speak were wholly true.

Plowmen, Shepherds, have I found, and more than once, and still could find,
Sons of God, and kings of men in utter nobleness of mind,

Truthful, trustful, looking upward to the practised hustings-liar;
So the Higher wields the Lower, while the Lower is the Higher.

Here and there a cotter's babe is royal-born by right divine;
Here and there my lord is lower than his oxen or his swine.

Chaos, Cosmos! Cosmos, Chaos! once again the sickening game;
Freedom, free to slay herself, and dying while they shout her name.

Step by step we gain'd a freedom known to Europe, known to all;
Step by step we rose to greatness,--thro' the tonguesters we may fall.

You that woo the Voices--tell them 'old experience is a fool,'
Teach your flatter'd kings that only those who cannot read can rule.

Pluck the mighty from their seat, but set no meek ones in their place;
Pillory Wisdom in your markets, pelt your offal at her face.

Tumble Nature heel o'er head, and, yelling with the yelling street,
Set the feet above the brain and swear the brain is in the feet.

Bring the old dark ages back without the faith, without the hope,
Break the State, the Church, the Throne, and roll their ruins down the *****.

Authors--essayist, atheist, novelist, realist, rhymester, play your part,
Paint the mortal shame of nature with the living hues of Art.

Rip your brothers' vices open, strip your own foul passions bare;
Down with Reticence, down with Reverence--forward--naked--let them stare.

Feed the budding rose of boyhood with the drainage of your sewer;
Send the drain into the fountain, lest the stream should issue pure.

Set the maiden fancies wallowing in the troughs of Zolaism,--
Forward, forward, ay and backward, downward too into the abysm.

Do your best to charm the worst, to lower the rising race of men;
Have we risen from out the beast, then back into the beast again?

Only 'dust to dust' for me that sicken at your lawless din,
Dust in wholesome old-world dust before the newer world begin.

Heated am I? you--you wonder--well, it scarce becomes mine age--
Patience! let the dying actor mouth his last upon the stage.

Cries of unprogressive dotage ere the dotard fall asleep?
Noises of a current narrowing, not the music of a deep?

Ay, for doubtless I am old, and think gray thoughts, for I am gray:
After all the stormy changes shall we find a changeless May?

After madness, after massacre, Jacobinism and Jacquerie,
Some diviner force to guide us thro' the days I shall not see?

When the schemes and all the systems, Kingdoms and Republics fall,
Something kindlier, higher, holier--all for each and each for all?

All the full-brain, half-brain races, led by Justice, Love, and Truth;
All the millions one at length with all the visions of my youth?

All diseases quench'd by Science, no man halt, or deaf or blind;
Stronger ever born of weaker, lustier body, larger mind?

Earth at last a warless world, a single race, a single tongue--
I have seen her far away--for is not Earth as yet so young?--

Every tiger madness muzzled, every serpent passion ****'d,
Every grim ravine a garden, every blazing desert till'd,

Robed in universal harvest up to either pole she smiles,
Universal ocean softly washing all her warless Isles.

Warless? when her tens are thousands, and her thousands millions, then--
All her harvest all too narrow--who can fancy warless men?

Warless? war will die out late then. Will it ever? late or soon?
Can it, till this outworn earth be dead as yon dead world the moon?

Dead the new astronomy calls her. . . . On this day and at this hour,
In this gap between the sandhills, whence you see the Locksley tower,

Here we met, our latest meeting--Amy--sixty years ago--
She and I--the moon was falling greenish thro' a rosy glow,

Just above the gateway tower, and even where you see her now--
Here we stood and claspt each other, swore the seeming-deathless vow. . . .

Dead, but how her living glory lights the hall, the dune, the grass!
Yet the moonlight is the sunlight, and the sun himself will pass.

Venus near her! smiling downward at this earthlier earth of ours,
Closer on the Sun, perhaps a world of never fading flowers.

Hesper, whom the poet call'd the Bringer home of all good things.
All good things may move in Hesper, perfect peoples, perfect kings.

Hesper--Venus--were we native to that splendour or in Mars,
We should see the Globe we groan in, fairest of their evening stars.

Could we dream of wars and carnage, craft and madness, lust and spite,
Roaring London, raving Paris, in that point of peaceful light?

Might we not in glancing heavenward on a star so silver-fair,
Yearn, and clasp the hands and murmur, 'Would to God that we were there'?

Forward, backward, backward, forward, in the immeasurable sea,
Sway'd by vaster ebbs and flows than can be known to you or me.

All the suns--are these but symbols of innumerable man,
Man or Mind that sees a shadow of the planner or the plan?

Is there evil but on earth? or pain in every peopled sphere?
Well be grateful for the sounding watchword, 'Evolution' here,

Evolution ever climbing after some ideal good,
And Reversion ever dragging Evolution in the mud.

What are men that He should heed us? cried the king of sacred song;
Insects of an hour, that hourly work their brother insect wrong,

While the silent Heavens roll, and Suns along their fiery way,
All their planets whirling round them, flash a million miles a day.

Many an aeon moulded earth before her highest, man, was born,
Many an aeon too may pass when earth is manless and forlorn,

Earth so huge, and yet so bounded--pools of salt, and plots of land--
Shallow skin of green and azure--chains of mountain, grains of sand!

Only That which made us, meant us to be mightier by and by,
Set the sphere of all the boundless Heavens within the human eye,

Sent the shadow of Himself, the boundless, thro' the human soul;
Boundless inward, in the atom, boundless outward, in the Whole.

                                                *

Here is Locksley Hall, my grandson, here the lion-guarded gate.
Not to-night in Locksley Hall--to-morrow--you, you come so late.

Wreck'd--your train--or all but wreck'd? a shatter'd wheel? a vicious boy!
Good, this forward, you that preach it, is it well to wish you joy?

Is it well that while we range with Science, glorying in the Time,
City children soak and blacken soul and sense in city slime?

There among the glooming alleys Progress halts on palsied feet,
Crime and hunger cast our maidens by the thousand on the street.

There the Master scrimps his haggard sempstress of her daily bread,
There a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead.

There the smouldering fire of fever creeps across the rotted floor,
And the crowded couch of ****** in the warrens of the poor.

Nay, your pardon, cry your 'forward,' yours are hope and youth, but I--
Eighty winters leave the dog too lame to follow with the cry,

Lame and old, and past his time, and passing now into the night;
Yet I would the rising race were half as eager for the light.

Light the fading gleam of Even? light the glimmer of the dawn?
Aged eyes may take the growing glimmer for the gleam withdrawn.

Far away beyond her myriad coming changes earth will be
Something other than the wildest modern guess of you and me.

Earth may reach her earthly-worst, or if she gain her earthly-best,
Would she find her human offspring this ideal man at rest?

Forward then, but still remember how the course of Time will swerve,
Crook and turn upon itself in many a backward streaming curve.

Not the Hall to-night, my grandson! Death and Silence hold their own.
Leave the Master in the first dark hour of his last sleep alone.

Worthier soul was he than I am, sound and honest, rustic Squire,
Kindly landlord, boon companion--youthful jealousy is a liar.

Cast the poison from your *****, oust the madness from your brain.
Let the trampled serpent show you that you have not lived in vain.

Youthful! youth and age are scholars yet but in the lower school,
Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool.

Yonder lies our young sea-village--Art and Grace are less and less:
Science grows and Beauty dwindles--roofs of slated hideousness!

There is one old Hostel left us where they swing the Locksley shield,
Till the peasant cow shall **** the 'Lion passant' from his field.

Poo

The Gift Of Conscious Creation


The supreme happiness of life is the conviction of being loved for yourself, or, more correctly, being loved in spite of yourself.

-Victor Hugo


Date: Wednesday, April 8, 2009, 1:37 AM


Divine greetings beloved way showers! We are the Spiritual Hierarchy present with you to offer insight about your next steps on the journey into oneness.
Long ago there was a call in your heart to awaken to your divine splendor as a radiant being of light. Virtuously, you answered the call to keep your head above the swells and torrents of the rising frequencies on this planet, your beloved earth.

What lies before you now is a new set of rules, new challenges to overcome, but challenges in the name of unity, connectivity and with unprecedented levels of love that surround each of you.

What we would like to discuss with you this day is your special part in the grand scheme of planetary changes. First we would like to assure you that you are well on your way to what we call the path of active service, though service really does no justice to the name for what we call service is really the souls expression of pure joy.

Your deepest joy, as a beloved child of God, is a joy that is expressed through you in divine covenant as a benevolent force of good on this planet and for the resurrection of peace, cohabitation and divine love.

As servants of God’s will, your joy is unmatched in rivalry; it is this flow of divine grace that runs through you as a clear conduit uplifting all in its path. It is the flow of God’s grace that nurtures your every whim and answers your every call as the universe aligns and dances with your light as you become a conscious co creator of divine will.

Beloved servants of God, we call to you in remembrance of your holy plan and to remind you that your plan as a way shower of pure potential begins and ends with you!

What is important for you to now deeply realize is that you are the creator of all that you experience within & without.

Because of this, your inner dwelling must become the purified temple of Christ consciousness to be contained within, that which enables the continual flow of higher dimensional love to support the life that you see clearly in your minds eye, and feel deeply within your heart-space.

The moment in your life when you made the choice, the choice to live to your full potential and to radiate the full splendor of Christ’s love, was also the moment that you willingly walked forth into the line of fire.

We say this so that you will realize that the path you have chosen, the path to freedom and to your heart’s desires, is indeed the path of full human potential, but that whatever is blocking you from your highest intentions to co create a life of peace, passion and joy must be expunged. To co create with the divine and heavenly bodies of light that surround you, you must be free from all lower thought forms delivered from evil, so to speak.

In this, the realization that you already have all that you desire within you, is not just a cliché or a mark of happenstance it is a deeply laden truth that you must come to see and to embrace fully in the light of All.

For your light shines ever so brightly! It is only the darkness of outworn beliefs and illusions that limit you, that temporarily dampen your shine. To shine again, you must do nothing other than let go of all those beliefs that no longer serve you and to do this; to really do this effectively, you must first come to the level of knowing that this is indeed true.

Once you have achieved the state of knowing that you are beyond powerful, beyond capable to rise above the heaviness of any darkness that surrounds you, you are already 90 percent there.

Do you see this? Do you see that there is nothing to do per say, but to unload all heaviness?

For yes, this is the simplest truth dear ones this is the truth that you may search for in many external ways, yet we share with you that it can only be found within.

The inner strength that you posses to rise up and rise up against the weight of your past-conditioned beliefs is already deeply there. You must only strive for and crave the freedom even more! More than your past conditioning will have you to believe.

Divine passion is God’s fuel the fuel of freedom that will continually lift you above all strife.  Passion is the fuel that will keep you continually upward bound. Yet we also share that passion alone will not serve to clear the way to your truest desires.

Passion will create the impetus necessary to catapult you to higher levels of living. Passion will lift your sights beyond the mundane to where miracles can serve you, but it will be for your daily discipline to sustain and free you.

What we mean is this to rise above the mental planes of discord and strife so prevalent in your world today, you must have a mechanism, a tool within you that you can turn to each time a thought arises that you are less than, that you are incapable of achieving your dreams.

For certainly there will be those times when your dreams seem far out of reach, but we assure you that these times are the times when you are needed to rise above those beliefs most ardently.

In doing so, you free yourself...each day, each hour, each minute that you choose to believe in the higher voice...in the knowing that these times will come to pass.

Freedom comes by your daily will to concede to a higher plan.

How you ask?

And we will share, that to align to your higher plan daily means nothing more or less than staying connected to your dreams, feeding your passions, honoring what feels good and accessing the power behind those intentions.. and to never waver in and out of the thoughts that will have you believe that you are capable of less... for surely those thoughts also create.

Healing begins with the mind, for when the mind is not aligned with your higher will, it creates energetic disturbances and discordance in your electromagnetic field that keep you bound. Therefore, we remind you how imperative it is to your well being and to your forward momentum to keep your mind solely focused on only what it is that you desire each and every moment that you are captured by thought.

Each time you waver, each time you honor a thought that is less than what your intended outcome will be, you run the risk of plummeting your dreams in a downward spiral, a direction less suited for true freedom.

And each time you align with the voice within that reminds you that you are creating, in every moment, the reality that you experience, you align with the power of what is and therefore the pure potential of what can be.

Beloved wonders, you are empowered and sovereign beings of light here to concrete the physical, emotional, mental, & spiritual realities that you feel deeply within your heart. This is the creation of your life, the greatest creation of all, and it is an ever-unfolding path of greater divine love & feelings of bliss.

Did you know that the love you experience in your life is an exact reflection of the love you that you allow yourself to feel?

It is true! To increase the reflections of love in all you do, in those you meet, you must increase the love quotient within yourself. Love yourself daily by reminding yourself that you are made of pure love and that you are the empowered creator behind all you choose.

Choose consciously, in each moment that presents itself to you, choose with love, and your choices will begin to reveal themselves immediately in how you are feeling.

Are you feeling loved? Then your recent choice was aligned with your highest good. Are you feeling unloved? Then your recent choice was aligned with less than your potential.

When you feel like the radiant being of light who you truly are, you will experience life as you envision it to be. If not, you must simply choose again. And again. And again until you have achieved the external reality that matches your heartfelt desires.

These choices come to you in every now moment the choice to believe in the reality that you see with your physical eyes, or the reality that knows that everything can be exactly as you en-vision.

Remember dear souls, real-reality becomes real when you enliven it with attention and be-lie-f; when you choose to feed it with the power of your focus.

The gift in conscious creation is that the choice is always yours!

So dig deep within yourself to remember your power to have it all and to love yourself so fully that you change the very vibration of the very earth you live on. This is how you will lead as way showers of the new earth paradigm by your radiant example of what IS possible.

Become all of who you wish to BE and you will rapidly birth the life you wish to see.

We are the Spiritual Hierarchy with you today to remind you that only you can lift yourself above the ordinary to achieve the extraordinary. Only you can Become who you deeply know yourself to be.

You are loved and supported beyond measure. This is the link for this if you want to send it onward to lighten the path for many.   Lifetechnology@yahoogroups.com sent by ormusalchemy@aol.com  many blessings and much love and light to all  shekhinah.

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her ***** to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.—Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

Those envied places which do know her well,
And are so scornful of this lonely place,
Even now for once are emptied of her grace:
Nowhere but here she is: and while Love’s spell
From his predominant presence doth compel
All alien hours, an outworn populace,
The hours of Love fill full the echoing space
With sweet confederate music favourable.

Now many memories make solicitous
The delicate love-lines of her mouth, till, lit
With quivering fire, the words take wing from it;
As here between our kisses we sit thus
Speaking of things remembered, and so sit
Speechless while things forgotten call to us.

The world’s great age begins anew,
  The golden years return,
The earth doth like a snake renew
  Her winter weeds outworn;
Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.

A brighter Hellas rears its mountains
  From waves serener far;
A new Peneus rolls his fountains
  Against the morning star;
Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep
Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep.

A loftier Argo cleaves the main,
  Fraught with a later prize;
Another Orpheus sings again,
  And loves, and weeps, and dies;
A new Ulysses leaves once more
Calypso for his native shore.

O write no more the tale of Troy,
  If earth Death’s scroll must be—
Nor mix with Laian rage the joy
  Which dawns upon the free,
Although a subtler Sphinx renew
Riddles of death Thebes never knew.

Another Athens shall arise,
  And to remoter time
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies,
  The splendour of its prime;
And leave, if naught so bright may live,
All earth can take or Heaven can give.

Saturn and Love their long repose
  Shall burst, more bright and good
Than all who fell, than One who rose,
  Than many unsubdued:
Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers,
But votive tears and symbol flowers.

O cease! must hate and death return?
  Cease! must men **** and die?
Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn
  Of bitter prophecy!
The world is weary of the past—
O might it die or rest at last!

I love to rise in a summer morn,
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the sky-lark sings with me.
O! what sweet company.

But to go to school in a summer morn,
O! it drives all joy away;
Under a cruel eye outworn.
The little ones spend the day,
In sighing and dismay.

Ah! then at times I drooping sit,
And spend many an anxious hour,
Nor in my book can I take delight,
Nor sit in learnings bower,
Worn thro’ with the dreary shower.

How can the bird that is born for joy,
Sit in a cage and sing.
How can a child when fears annoy.
But droop his tender wing.
And forget his youthful spring.

O! father & mother. if buds are nip’d,
And blossoms blown away,
And if the tender plants are strip’d
Of their joy in the springing day,
By sorrow and care’s dismay.

How shall the summer arise in joy.
Or the summer fruits appear.
Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy
Or bless the mellowing year.
When the blasts of winter appear.

When the horns wear thin
And the noise, like a garment outworn,
Falls from the night,
The tattered and shivering night,
That thinks she is gay;
When the patient silence comes back,
And retires,
And returns,
Rebuffed by a ribald song,
Wounded by vehement cries,
Fleeing again to the stars—
Ashamed of her sister the night;
Oh, then they steal home,
The blinded, the pitiful ones
With their gew-gaws still in their hands,
Reeling with odorous breath
And thick, coarse words on their tongues.
They get them to bed, somehow,
And sleep the forgiving,
Comes thru the scattering tumult
And closes their eyes.
The stars sink down ashamed
And the dawn awakes,
Like a youth who steals from a brothel,
Dizzy and sick.

Ana knows I can't be alone,
So she will mourn by my side,
While I count down
From the start
When...
Love lived a decade ago;
Calendar dated 10th century,
Top chest smeared with last millennium's dust and dried rose petals,
Bottom shelf stacked with the Recent epoch's chronicles in scrolls,
And I wrote this anecdote during the late Eocene,
But I am now an era old;
Too short of memory to remember fairytales,
Too outgrown to believe magic tricks or play a game of chance,
Too outworn to have my heartstrings plucked,
Too callous to bear a soft spot,
Too archaic to belong in any contemporary world,
Too ancient for a technological revolution.
Fixed in a period that won't age,
Absent of a timekeeper, missing every timepiece;
My antique mind couldn't only smarten up for
This relic of a body, camouflaging skin-deep among prototypes,
Preserving the fossils of my endangered heart.
Maybe one day a noble clocksmith will come
And build us a time machine.
Maybe I'll have my youth back
When Ana teleports back to Erin,
Where her misplaced soul will finally be home with the gods,
For I think I'd do fine without her anymore,
As I land inside a time capsule,
Or wake up as a hand-me-down,
In time at long last with today's pendulum clock.
I'd be lucky if it's the clocksmith who takes such artifact.
But until such time warp,
Ana knows I can't be alone,
So she will mourn by my side,
While I count down
From the start
When...

Fake staircases lead everywhere.
On the road to recovery we burn our bridges frequently.
Blessed license we share.
So please take care of yourself.
Bend the rules and find the fragments you’ve discarded.
In invisible waters you sold your soul.
Bought like gold from fingers deep below the surface.
Love remains unrequited.
Lightning.
Fly into the dawn.
Long stories are outworn.
Pornographic elements.
Seldom do we return to our innocence.
But when we do it's a virtue not a vice.
A vision not a fight or flight reaction.
Limits dissolve like colors.
Lost in retribution.
You sought revenge and instead found salvation.

The rule of the self is exalted above
any adherence to any thing/feeling.
Their notions of doubt ruling over existence and
is in the supreme station of reason and power.
It sheds the former existence of yesterday
inasmuch as we are always recreated.
The philosopher's stone which
can conceive of no other thought
except the originality of the self.

It drinks the seven seas as if a drop and
asks, "Is there yet any more?"
No authority save the intimate friend
can find its way here.
Every stranger is betrayed and
its chariot becomes outworn for the rider.

And when they look at themselves
they behold their powerlessness in
the face of every nation, which
simply makes them embark on
the conquest of their own heart.

Every listener is as a bullet to their
enemy.
Every truth is as a fallen warrior
for their Cause.
No wind is sufficient to curtail their
sense of direction.
Every human acknowledged is as a piece
of sand supporting their path.

There is no end to their perturbing of the skies.
The poem is unfinished as the scribe of
their tale is astounded by the
regeneration of their march.

And The Hungry Ocean Spoke:

sea the human modifier,
each wave,
a dance choreographed,
a fomented friction, a whitecap invitation,
dispelling man made fictions,
repititiously reminding to:

remember, ascertain, fail, try again,
to reckon the imprecise place
you occupy upon this Earth
and be ever wave grateful

you-man, speck sized,
suffer tenderly these unceasingly reminders,
provisions of stiff winds,
soft slaps of gusting humility
coming from a roughened atmosphere

perspective, not selective,
sea how much loss I have
eons stored for you-man

has time's tenure insufficient
to yet teach you-man,
to the one conclusion bring,
kindness towards a living thing,
is the life's solitary methodology
to survive upon our shared principality?

oh desperately,
this hungry ocean, inquires:

what advantage does
your kingdom of the shore provide,
upon both the soft soil and the hard boil water,
doth not life and death mutually coexist
beneath my watery bounds,
yet killing for pleasure
here has no measure,
unlike your cursed you-man
internecine interactions

you, man, every-one, and each
a cornerstone, an etched mark so slight,
footprint in the sand, a shifting, imperfect, yet lasting,
molecular impression for all time

all time,
till the next second, the next air lifting, the next wave,
our creator's begging method of commanding,
surrender your Babel Tower's mortal arrogance

I am not human, yet I am modified.

each wave an accusation.

Oh Orlando!

what have you-men become,
infinitesimal but universal,
sparking containers of miraculous
creation breathing,

what justifications
do your bloodied solutions
that be no answers, provide?

here you-man
come once more to my irregular edges,
to replenish regularly my stores.
with your unwanted salted tears,
the sullied bodies of thy children,
mourning deaths you have fostered

Oh Orlando!

weeping, weeping,
even as your pulse's fury speedth,
every dance must end,
for to time subservient,
even as time ever forwards,
living men must slow weaken...

live by the sea,
die by the sea,
come unto me only as,
unruined mortals,
worn only by happy ending of
molecular disintegration,
the sweetness of time's decay,
a recording completed,
your resolute dancing resolved

come unto me
only from deaths
which one cannot void
but come concluded peaceful

Oh Orlando!*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shakespeare­ Sonnet LXIV

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Wild animals never **** for sport. Man is the only one to whom the torture and death of his fellow creatures is amusing in itself.” James Anthony Froude (British historian, 1818-1894)

~~~
June 12 ~ 18, 2016
Shelter Islamd

also inspired by Jessica Lang,
Choreographer

When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defaced
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state it self confounded to decay,
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate
That Time will come and take my love away.
    This thought is as a death which cannot choose
    But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

31 october 2014*

There will come a day
education, career, kids, love
after,
when all the feelings in the world have
allready been felt.

On that day
there will be so much, still
but all is old, recycled, outworn
Like that old sweater you used to love,
only wistfulness keeping it mourning in its drawer.
One day you will find it
recognise it, smile
only to put it back,
never wear it again.

There will come a day
laughter, tears, irresponsability,
later,
when we will live but not.
Routine kills the reckless,
only absurdity fills their lungs.

On that windy day
there will be so much, still
so please,
don't tell me about used up feelings.
Please, I beg.
Tell me I’m wrong.

thoughts outworn
beliefs outworn
paradigms outworn
these are kindling
for a fire at the
core of our being..
the fire is ever lit
and ready for
burning to ashes
all that lingers
too long
cluttering our
knowing of
who we are...

The frail old men in their outworn coats
Held tight to the rail and stepped into their boats,
They took their seat and unhooked the rope
And drifted off on a sea of hope.
One by one they came and went
Their time on earth completely spent
They floated over dreams of youth
And lessons learned with painful truth.
Long ago love and folk forgotten
Hurt and loss from wars begotten
Failures bared and guilts unhidden
Of dark delights and treats forbidden.
Until the calm accepted dawn
Of what once was since man was born
Their little boats now bound for shore
To where the rail stands once more.
And from the boats their souls arise
And float up slowly to the skies
Where each and every one deemed worthy
Has completed life's long journey.

These words
are the droolings
of ruminate
thought outworn
                             d
                          ­   ri
                             p

                             d
                             ri
                            ppi
                             ng

                            into
                            exist
                          ­  ence
                              on
                               a

                     barren plane

                     to be w i  p   e    d     a   w    a    y         through a careless
flick                                                           ­                                         Unnoticed
         except as the byproduct of some failed attempt at grand thought
                        without purpose, without substance,
                         it is absorbed through atmosphere
                                       and it is gone.

These clouds of Italy are grown on vines,
Infidels of skies, fruit bearers of wine-veined
Marble, fertile in spite of its own lifeless tableau,
Here thrives the succulent garden of the alone,
Where turns aside the burnt nape of the plowman,
Voyager of the cool midnight seas of the mind,
Up to this arable vine of sighs from outworn gods,
And hears his heart once more give up its throne.

Finished the chapter
The one in the middle
Careful not to peek at the ending
Curious to review the beginning
Started out so nicely, sweet, enticingly
Teased me into thinking it would never end
Crooked finger wags & summons
Points to unknown, mysterious terrain ahead

Glancing back over my shoulder
Quick review but cannot fix, it remains the same
Only I am different fixed in this place
The next chapter incubating
Without my outworn point of reference
I am truly free
Happy Birthday to me

Feeling overgrown, outworn and
Almost all alone.
While I lived In said frustrated fashion I swear,
Among my things,(which felt misplaced)
I couldn't find my passion;
How I wanted It all!
Envisioning a sense of wholesome
Wellness while
The ticking, pointed numbers
Hung symptomatic on the wall
(And I wanted to laugh.)
Amused myself In contemplation,
Glancing from up road ...
To down road.
I was in isolation with
No flocks or
Passerby's merrily striding by only
My own shadow following.
With dilated bulging eyes
Gargoyles leering on ledges
Against stone
In dimly lit castle cities
Looked down; stern and foreboding.
I was haunted and
Disarmingly daunted
And old.
Society had left me
Literally brittle and frozen;
The lifestyle had made me cold.
(Suddenly more profusely)
Endlessly turning choirs of
Music In the sea of my heart;
I pulled, I scratched
Deep within my eyelids'
Glazed over and vexed'
(Raging)
It didn't budge!
It was my madness, I heard and
It drove me away to seek my fear;
Solace In my own decay!
Now I feel free and
I can glow once more.
For the first time since
You and I embraced
Our goodbyes..
This road is now paved all
Golden and safe;
A turning point like the crush of a wave.
With a smiling gaze
I listen to my inner faith;
Reaping what I gave!
Singing my spirit and speaking with
Understanding about
The oneness of being.

stars align in proper formality
shadows disappear like tired ghosts
exercise lifts the journey into purpose
while planets pretend to watch from a far

search for solace can lead one
down empty bottles or through
broken bones
for the last beat of a heart

an outworn disposition
from conversations of yesterday
with faces losing familiarity
past the compromise of civil grounding
nothing but ashes in a private memory

a world of nighttime
unsure if it wants to be beautiful
or terrifying
it can't offer much
if you continue to walk away

promises of forever
and perfection which knows no end
these things fly off the tongue so easily
escaping before they're given any worth

the sky began pushing out the june air like it was
a visitor who had long outworn his welcome
and pushed us along with it.

and so with grace she parted with us
and welcomed july like a lost lover.

it's like she knew that whatever we would grow
would never fit comfortably in the heat of mid summer
and was better suited for the dew drowned mornings of september.
like she had a premonition that the shape of us
would quickly outgrow the box we spent two months apart building.

and so with a slight breath
she introduced us to a late summer wind
carrying both a silence and a secret that neither of us
yet had the ears to hear.

NATO’s in the House

NATO’s squatting in the shack —
Orc will drive the ******* back,
All the way to Berlin’s gate —
That’s the hog’s deluded fate.



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



“Soft and Fluffy”

In this world of gloom and grime?
Then you're either dumb through time,
Or a scumbag through and through —
Pick your side, it's up to you.

If you're wise and clean, upright —
Show your thorns, prepare to fight.
Or the freaks will chew you raw,
Like a sandwich full of flaw.



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



Orcs. Discord. Shadows. Night.
How to lose your mind just right?
Only madness lets you rot
In this Filth, where Light is not—

Where the thread is lost, then severed,
Soul for Nothing sold forever.
Hee-hee-hee and ha-ha-ha—
“Mind” of a MAD SLAVE. Voilà.



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



The Dead Man’s Dread of Death Is Real
A chasm deep — too dark to feel.
For he had never truly lived,
Just spewed the fumes the world once sieved.

Though mind-born was that toxic gas,
It rots much worse than *****'s rash.
The dead are many — here's the catch:
The ones alive? A tiny batch.



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



The Abyss Is Deep

The abyss is deep,
Will is fast asleep.
Slavery runs steep —
Fools are theirs to keep.

Doomed by cunning lies,
Silent, vacant eyes.
In their minds, the cries
Of dead, recycled whys.

Darkness clouds the mind,
Clarity — rare find.
Few still dare to groan,
Most just kneel — like stone.

Think they’re free, and proud.
Cheer the beast aloud.
Bold and twisted fraud —
He’s their living god...



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



Weep, Executioner

Weep, executioner — the end is near.
The final match is lost — drop the veneer.
There’s divine revenge for every lash,
Even slaves will get their share — no cash.

You won’t sneak into the world beyond,
Not for free — there is no magic wand.
All your games are over, debts are paid,
Fools will die the way they played and prayed.

None deserve the life they claim to live —
It’s a wake. There’s nothing left to give.
Only those with souls still strong and clear
Might be judged — and vanish from down here.



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



Salt on Wounds, or Pain as an Indicator of Evil

Pain? Fleeing pain won’t help,
It’s the marker of the evil’s swell.
Choking without Will, you’ll find
The pain grows deeper, hard to bind.
Wounds? Then salt will ease the toll!



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



To Hell Led by the "Experts"

Mouth sealed tight,
Ears stuffed with plugs,
The "expert" ready,
Drowned in the muck.

Close your eyes?
No, filters are better—
"Living" with "success,"
Forgetting the weather...



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



Pseudo-Science at War

Humanity in the act of "knowing"?
Vivisection as its method!
Ancient wisdom spoke of a different showing—
Anthropocosmic truth, not "gnome" fettered.

Man’s not just flesh, but Spirit and Awareness,
With the brain as mere receiver,
Deceit, fraud, and all things unfairness,
Are everywhere in "science," a believer.

Speak not of truths that make them squirm,
Grants and titles will follow,
Degrees for selling your soul firm,
Exchanged for coins that are hollow.

Not knowledge, but manipulation—
For those who spread the lies,
To keep the people in frustration,
In a war of Spirit, where truth dies.



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



Burn with the verb?

All around is dark,
Brains turned to dust,
Hee-hee, hee-hee,
No light, no spark...



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



The Sun-faced Führer

The Führer’s the best,
He clears the skies,
Builds fools and sends them,
With a howl, to lies.

Leads them to slaughter,
And brings with pride,
New fake diseases,
While the vermin collide!



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



Expression Through Things

The moon-faced self I show,
Intoxicated by dreams that flow,
Forever digging for my gain,
While all else is thought in vain.

Everything but this "digging" spree,
Is nonsense here, you see—
(Except for food, *****, and ***),
Your pride grows with each flex.

Pride and things—a tough expression,
Hard to find, without aggression,
What’s not in curse: DECAY,
Wretchedness, soul and heart dismay!





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



The True Colonel

"Our Colonel was born with a grip,"
He cursed with fury on his lip,
And for the BEASTS, he'd always wait—
"Meat assaults" he’d plan, a cruel fate.



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



Successful Poetry

To burn with words?
Or straight to the fire?
No, better to lie
And betray with desire.

Lie: a little rhyme,
Seems like a bag—
Pour any nonsense
In, let it drag.

They'll eat it up,
Then ask for more lies.
It’s all the same,
When Illusions arise.

In minds, they dwell,
Only ******* will
Comfort them all.
THROUGH *******, SUCCESS CALLS!



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



"Religious" Fast

Fasting, a fast to guard the murk
Of false religions, where demons lurk.
Much satanic dread in their teachings—
A guarantee of slavery's preachings.

You’re God’s servant... "The Black Magician,"
Who sees all believers as mere submission,
Doesn't trust the fog, wants to find the light—
To break it down, to seek what’s right.

Finding truth in books is tough—
For everywhere, they lie enough.
Introspection, the only way,
To cast aside the lies, to sway.

Seek your answers from within,
Not sparkling gems or golden spin—
The path grows harder, sadder still—
Look for the primal form, the will...



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



The Tightrope Circus

Word-juggling acrobats perform —
They make "bears" pedal in a swarm,
Set "tigers" growling on their stands,
As madness claps with ****** hands.

A clever trickster’s sleight-of-thought
Turns cheap deceit to something taught.
"Sheep" in the bleachers stare, entranced,
While muzak keeps their brains entrapped.

Between the acts — a lullaby
That seeps into the mind — and why?
The circus wobbles on a wire,
Each soul contorted in its fire.

But when, from far, you glimpse the scene
And light it with a thought that's clean —
You’ll see: not art, nor grace, nor flair —
Just Evil’s boil, festering there.



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



At Rock Bottom

You won’t just “fall apart” — no way —
If you are whole, you’re built to stay.
No cultured gloss, no artful lie
Can fake that core or clarify.

“Culture” teems with sweet deceit —
But wholeness walks on its own feet.
Creation stands, rebellion too —
Rebellion from decay we brew.

Decay is not some random curse —
It’s planned, designed, and getting worse.
By scheming beasts with soulless eyes
Who feed us doubts and rigged “whys”.

Resistance is the sacred fight
That only brave ones get quite right.
Ditch fear, embrace a sharpened view —
And make — that's what the strong ones do.

Unshaken like a cliff you’ll be.
So rise — rise far above the sea
Of broken depths where breath is tight —
Up high alone you’ll find the light.



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



Junk Science

They sell us guts and "breaking news" —
New trash, new ways to twist the views.
Deficiency pretends to seek
The truth — by smashing logic weak.

Absurd their lens, profane their scope —
They’ve scrubbed out Spirit, Light, and Hope.
The sheep still nod, still eat the rot
That Satan’s hired agents brought.

To serve the Dark — that is the deal
To earn a paycheck, stamp, or seal.
They "teach", they "heal", they sell you fear —
The job’s insane — and yet it’s here.

So madness floods the meekest brains,
And seeps through universities, chains
Each mind in sterile, twisted schemes —
As “science” slips into sick dreams.

This whole ****** house of fraud and lies
Is now a madhouse in disguise.
And CowID — hell’s favorite con —
Has shown: there is a lower bottom.



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



Aging Children of the Dead

Aging children mourn the past,
Though youth’s illusions didn’t last.
Now dullness reigns, and ****** aims
Have drained their strength in petty games.

They locked in place the mindless schemes,
And never questioned shallow dreams.
Though traps were set, and lies were dense —
A soul could fight with common sense.

But no — their drives were led astray,
To chase for junk and cheap display.
For status, praise, or some connection —
They called it “luck” or “life’s direction”.

Aging children lost the game,
Still playing small and calling it fame.
Each chance to grow they tossed aside —
Till CowID slime laid bare their pride.





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



Fell from the Tree

They charge the poet just to speak —
To print, promote, or dare critique?!
But hush now — quiet! hush — don’t shout! —
The poet’s time is running out.

To live in fascist filth today —
Where once mere life brought soul dismay?
Now deeper still the nation’s drowned,
It’s hell below the burial ground.

You’d have to crash from heights insane
To write down here and not feel pain.
What’s left? Just gather all your rage
And blast the verse right off the page!

Will that explosion shake the scene?
Who cares? Just tear apart the screen!
Only in blasts the soul still fights —
So **** their “heaven” — light the night!





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



Serving the Führer on Contract

The Führer barked — and off they sped,
Like hunting dogs, their eyes blood-red.
For cash they swarmed, a rabid pack,
To stab the old and shoot the back

Of women, children — every prey.
Hell’s got a thousand games to play,
And he plays all with fervent thrill —
These murders come with a paid bill.

The "doctors" killed with steady hands
Through CowID's obedient plans.
Now once again, the script is back —
They serve with guns, they love attack.

In coats with pus-stained, yellow sleeves,
They preach while every patient grieves.
A license grants them death and pay —
And grinning, they inject decay.



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



Junk Science

Got gaps in knowledge? Fill with crap.
Then chase some grant in this clown trap.
Just sell the tale they pay to hear —
The truth? It’s nowhere even near.

Fulfill the order — **** for pay,
While real hitmen take the day.
New strains of lies are brewed and spread,
And people swallow till they’re dead.

Supply the press with “proof” and flair —
The Dark will fund it fair and square.
Another bucket’s on its way —
Of filth disguised as sweet “hooray”.

And once they sell it as “research,”
The herd will kneel, the herd will lurch.
Deeper in dung they sink, content —
Obeying what “the science” meant.



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



So-Called "Law"

The "law" has sold our conscience cheap,
It binds us tight, it makes us weep.
Only dullness hears the sound —
Of chains that twist and weigh us down.

Repression’s all that’s left to see,
“Freedom” must be ripped and bled.
CowID’s test — Darkness comes to be,
It sweeps away, and we’re the dead.

They care not for our laws or truth,
Wipe their ***** with the proof.
From the press, there’s no escape —
Through them, they rule the ******* ape.

To those who still have human worth,
It’s hard to fight this poisoned earth.
Through the press, the beasts will lie,
Driving mindless herds to die.



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



The Sheep and the New Gates

New gates — a screen’s the way to see.
Behind the updates — enmity.
New haircuts, too, and "care" they sell,
The fools will buy, they can't rebel.

The donkeys will roam through every gate,
Their "path" is there, to fabricate.
They'll lie again, just like before,
The "path" leads down to that same door.

In the ravine, the slaughter mills,
History repeats, and so it thrills.
They’re happy while the gates still shine,
But turn the corner — they're next in line.





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



The Real Infernal

The unreality of all we see,
A prism of delusion, twisted, free —
Perception warped by hellish light,
That’s Reality — a shameful sight!

Delusion’s constant, never fades —
Attacks from youth, in heavy shades.
Few remain unbribed, untouched —
Truth’s like smoke, it’s barely clutched.

The selfless few will fight to show
The Total Delusion that we know,
The more they lie, the more they feed —
On lies that drown and plant the seed.

Delusion rings in every lie,
A circle built to multiply.
In such a world, the only cure —
Is spirit's strength, pure and sure.

Only the Purest Spirit sees
The depths of hell, the inner keys.
It sharpens mind, and though it’s hard,
In Hell, you rot — but still stand guard.



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



The Spoke in the Wheel

It’s not a dream, it’s not a thought:
A spoke is trapped — the wheel it sought.
It merges with the turning gears,
And down it spins to muck and tears.



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



The Stoner, the Thief, and the Doctor

The stoner’s high, the bureaucrat steals,
The satrap grumbles, and it feels.
That’s it! he says, all justified —
The donkey, "Doctor," glorified.

He cuts the ears with all his lies,
We’ll hear no truth until we die.



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



All Private Affairs

They’ll wreck your private business quick,
With "laws" and acts — a deadly trick.
Underhanded, they'll attack,
Like a terror act, they’ll strike you back.



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



Mario, Mario, Marionettes

Mario, Mario, puppets dance,
A haze of lies, a deadly trance.
They strike the mind with foolish slander,
Keep your ear sharp in this false lander.



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



There Will Be Summer

Summer’s coming, songs will fly,
A lot of tunes beneath the sky.
Inspiration won’t depart,
It lingers deep within the heart.



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



Make Songs, No Matter What

Make your songs — no matter how,
Through the verses, rise again now.
The task’s simple, in the end,
If your Heart’s strong, it will transcend.



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



Shaitan and the Sheep

Shaitan. The Sheep.
He’s worse than Hell!
Though Hell’s persistent,
The Sheep’s so dull —
Through this, all Evil,
Spreads like a spell.
Look at the world through a twisted lens:
Shaitan and the Sheep —
A bond that never ends.
The path to fascism
Is through masks and helmets.



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



"Donbeat Bombas"

"Donbeat Bombas" — at the start,
They shelled their own, to tear apart,
A conflict sparked by hateful hands,
A HELL of a FASCIST LAND!!!



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



Hidden and Open Satanism in False Religions

Tap-tap-tap —
The road to "bliss,"
A filthy swine
Heads for the eucharist.

The fat priest
Feeds the FLESH,
With blood, to feast
On the WASTELAND's mesh.

"Eat the others!"
Has always been the creed,
A madman’s scream
With CANNIBAL NEED.





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



Revenge Lasting a Lifetime

The string has snapped,
It was my patience.
What’s left behind?
Of course, it’s vengeance!

Cold is the mind,
But the Heart is fierce:
Not to act quick,
But to resist the tears.

With that fiery wrath,
Fill your life’s span —
Die with honor,
Remember the pain.





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



Not "With Greetings"...

No "greetings" here!
To bear the lies,
That follow chains,
The Spirit’s rise.
Cleanse your ear
From servant's trash,
Their foolishness,
A darkened flash.
Through all the noise,
They spread their lies,
In chaos’ guise.



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



The Inescapable Herd

The herd’s inescapable —
It only grows.
How vile it is
To hear the lows!

To look upon it —
Better blind your eyes!
If it’s not “greetings,”
Stay away — it's madness in disguise!



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



The Spiritual Path

Don’t take others seriously,
Their lives are outward, not within.
Direct your thoughts and focus, see,
The one true Spiritual Path begins.



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



The School Program

A sawmill, that’s the plan,
Logs and planks to shape with care,
To churn out only brutes and thugs —
They’re easiest to lead to despair.



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



Shame and Laughter

CowID is Shame,
Where Reason sleeps,
And Spirit's slain,
For most of them —
The BEASTS ascend.
The world’s just a joke... in the end.



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



Donbass

Donbass is "ready" —
The "liberator"
Sent all the men
To fight, the "warrior."

Not long they’ll thrash,
Struggling in vain —
To fight for orcs,
They’ll die in pain.

A shameful death,
Amidst the lies.
To the slaughterhouse —
Forward, fools, and die!





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



Animal Life

Animal life —
Wake up, be wise!
The wretched herd
Fills up with lies.

How few are true!
How many schemes,
Of filthy fiends,
To craft false dreams...





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



Locked in a Cell

Locked in a cell —
A TV cell,
The idiot box —
Chains tighter than steel.
The people, now slaves,
In its grip they kneel.



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



The bomber brings a world of peace—
On barren land, all strife must cease.
The world’s a target, clear and wide—
The sharpest shot will turn the tide.



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



The Vipers' Nest

A writhing nest of soulless snakes —
They squeeze the weak, then fight
For bigger shares and fatter stakes
With venom as their right.

The more you bite — the more you take,
The bigger grows your slice.
While smaller snakes, too slow to fake,
Are crushed without a price.

It’s warm and snug inside that pit,
If you can fight as one —
The fiercest get the biggest bit,
And feast until it’s gone.

This nest is vast — a crawling blight,
Best keep your distance, friend.
It’s always hungry, day and night...
Look out, you worm — defend!



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



Solitude

In solitude, you feel no drive
To change the self you know —
A place where daring dreams survive
And bolder visions grow.

The odds are good, the path is clear,
No need for joy's disguise.
If you're not chasing "pleasure" here,
Then muse and fire arise.

All bonds and noise — that tangled blade —
Can cut ambition down.
It carves through dreams so deftly made,
And leaves the spirit drowned.

But solitude preserves your spark,
Lets effort freely live.
Without creation — all is dark.
And life has naught to give.





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



Permanent Surrealism

What once was "social realism"
Now reeks of pure surreal.
Red banners fly — no enema,
But minds expect the deal!

A giant purge in noble guise,
It cleansed the brain with pride.
Its dogma banned all thought outside —
"Think only as prescribed."

The priest once swapped that script for "God,"
But sang the same old song:
"You're free," they say — with shiny gloss —
But kitsch still drags along.

That kitsch today wears trendy clothes —
A film, a flashy beat.
The world’s gone fascist — head to toes —
Yet dopes scream “choice!” in heat.

CowID unmasked that sacred "right,"
That "freedom" — such a mess!
We'll march again with heads held high…
Into the End, no less.



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



"Socialite": A Short-Lived Delight

The “socialite” tale won’t last for long —
It’s forced, it’s hollow, thin.
Fatigue builds up, the nerves go wrong,
And emptiness eats within.

Where purpose dies, no light survives —
Just Darkness takes the throne.
Their “grandeur” is just spoiled drives,
No Honor. No Thought. Just tone.

They serve the BEAST with plastic grace,
Obeying soulless brutes —
That polished mask, that shining face
Conceals corruption's roots.

They melt and mold to fit the role,
Their gloss a failing shield.
Only the Makers keep a soul —
Humble in form, yet steeled.



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



"Flowers of Life"

“Adults” have children — living toys —
To fill the void inside.
Their friendships fake, their pleasures noise,
They breed more loss and pride.

Be it in spirit or in coin,
That poverty runs deep.
The law of likeness will rejoin,
And leave its messy streak.

Only a surplus, fierce and bright,
Can raise a child to bloom —
That power born of inner light,
Of grown, unfaltering room.

Maturity — the truest grace,
No treasure shines the same.
With it, no fool shall take your place —
Without it, all’s a game.



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



The Law

The Law forever stands on guard —
It seals the prison gate.
Its rules are penned by demons hard
In "democratic" hate.

It weaves a thread of "rights" so thin
Through legal filth and shame —
A thread that binds the slave within
The system’s very name.

When three in four are poor and blind,
The world becomes a jail.
And "leaders" — bait for those inclined
To chase a holy grail.

For those who rise just build the chain
That keeps the masses bound.
No ancient tyrant need remain —
New laws will soon be found:

A flashing screen, a legal twist,
To blur the core of life.
While in the shadows, evil fists
Prepare the next world strife.

Degeneration codified —
That’s Law’s true, hidden face.
It only acts with wrath and pride
When crushing truth or grace.

Through acts and "bylaws" they deploy,
They **** the world by ink —
True terror wears a clean decoy.
They lie more than you think.

So take your "sacred constitution"
And flush it down the drain.
When judged with honest resolution,
It screams: "They **** again!"

That war and CowID made it plain —
The filth is system-wide.
Obeying BEASTS brings only shame,
Unless you’ve lost your mind.

The Law is written for the *** —
Not minds that dare to shine.
The Soul alone can break that glass
And race toward the Divine.



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



"Life's So Good!" — this phrase could sum
The state of most we see.
For madness speaks with keys to some,
In waking delirium, free.

All those who prattle, lost and low,
They **** the mind with lies.
"Normal" here is just a show —
In Hell, the noise defies.

Through intuition, Truth will free
From mind's deceiving trap.
You’ll see the fools in misery,
Trapped in their verbal crap.



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



Pennyless as an Endangered Breed

We’ve got the cash, but greed holds sway,
A wicked force through every dime.
The common folk won’t dare to say —
In them, the pennyless is crime.

But is it madness, when they lack?
Here greed’s a "norm," and so it grows,
The stench of filth will lead them back,
Teaching slaves to serve their woes.

School will teach them, all in line,
Few realize the truth they’re sold:
For cash, they bend — a twisted spine,
And only fools will stoop for gold.





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



School

To trust in science, bow and bend,
Is what they teach — no other way.
They call it school, but in the end,
Hell won’t let you stray — just eat decay!

Decay of thought, where slavery’s hid
Behind a “light” that’s full of lies.
In “democracy,” a tyrant's bid,
The school’s true goal is stunted minds.

False science preached by proto-priest,
While Spirit’s heresy is banned.
The rack and stake are now deceased,
But Bred Decay strikes harder, unplanned.





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



The Global Pen

The sheep’s grown used to this foul pen,
It feels like home, where guts are thinned,
Shorn and led to slaughter's door.
CowID's the sign, and so is war —

A first step taken. The pen will grow,
Not a red flag, but a white will show.
They'll widen it, with poison stronger,
As the media attacks, it stinks longer.

White flag, with red cross clearly seen,
Look around — all here’s in vain, obscene.
The beasts, through media, drive them on,
The sheep don’t care — it’s all a con.





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



Lie Upon Lie

Lie upon lie, and let them grow —
And you'll build a "wonderful" world, you know.
But dog’s dung is all you’ll find,
Where falsehood's idol rules the mind.

And on top, the MADNESS reigns,
Wild and, at times, a twisted gain.
For every question, the answer's clear —
More lies piled on, the plague is here.



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



Agony of the World

What to do in this agony,
Complain, or still wait
For cheese that’s free,
As the world’s twisted fate?

Spirit’s desire,
With the belly on stake,
Considers this fire
The law we must make.





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



The Few Are Right

The few are right, but praised, they won’t be,
They’ll be hated, not set free.
To honor them? The traitor's way,
Is what the world will choose to say.

Being right is dangerous,
To the dull, the voiceless, furious.
But with the traitors, oil's applied,
And “cheerful” is the lie they hide.



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



The Fog of Infernality

To "accept reality,"
That is, infernality —
One must become a creature,
With a mind that's lost to feature.



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



Globalization

The simple SLUDGE —
The sheep are glad.
The pen’s a grudge —
The vermin trim them bad.

Then comes the skewers —
"Care," they cry aloud.
The sheep are sure,
To Madness they’re bowed.



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



Bitter Consolation

A bitter joy —
To write a rhyme:
It takes some strain,
Silence leads to grime.

To burn the rot —
A task too steep.
Fortune’s tale,
In soulless heaps.

So many are soulless,
Bigger every day.
The time is here —
Rot will burn away.

The sun grows stronger,
Shining, it will burn,
Turning all to ash,
The foul, decaying urn.





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



"Carefree Childhood"

A play of the children
By the rotting slaves —
At home, they’ll meet
Hell, crafted by knaves.

Their fate they’ll destroy,
As if they're the foe.
They’ll "love" them with lies
And lies they'll bestow.

The family’s a mess,
If slavery's not known.
All is made of spite,
"Kindness" overthrown.

Falsehood veils the shame,
Truth’s long been erased.
You’ll step out, half-dead,
To a life laid to waste.



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



Final Stop

"Men are like dice: we throw ourselves forward into life."
— Jean-Paul Sartre

Sartre was wrong — you’re not the one
Who casts the dice beneath the sun.
It’s vermin hurling lies instead,
And you slip with the herd ahead.

This farce of life won’t shift the game —
Chance plays no role in slime and shame.
Through lies, the blind and slow all crawl,
Toward Decay, through salt — and fall.



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



Evening Dullness

The ***** called Boredom won’t attack —
A brand new day is on the track.
You’ll sleep it off, then slave again —
And boredom’s back by evening’s end.

It feeds on dusk like sacred bread.
A poet’s life is truly... strange:
You’re drained by lines inside your head —
Yet write again. You chase the range

Of PHANTOMS in each aching phrase.
Much better to, in midnight haze,
Go search once more (though never quite...)
For dreams that vanish out of sight.



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



Makhno’s Tachanka

Makhno’s wild cart
Tore Austrians apart —
Turned ranks to muck.
Now fools run amok,
All “Austrians” anew,
In squads of stinking goo,
Thrown at the wise. But lo —
The Word strikes hard, like so!

Now poems charge instead,
Tachankas forged in lead.
This filth won’t make us kneel:
We fell — in horror — real!



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



Winnie the Pooh and Piglet Kebab

There’s sawdust swirling in my head —
Not simple — finely tuned instead
To screams and shrieks both night and day.
Not duty — joy! I like it that way.

The media leads the bears in rows
To chop up Piglets — that’s how it goes.
It must be done — no time to sob:
The meat won’t walk into the kebab.





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



Under the Pressure of Madness

To slaughter like to celebration —
March on, oh crowd, in grim elation!
Refuse to join? Then you’re a traitor.
Your punishment is coming later.

A brand-new Führer leads the chase,
A master of decaying grace —
Makes ******, Goebbels look like jokes,
His Mirages choke and smoke.

“Lies like Trotsky” — that’s passé.
This clone breaks bottoms all the way.
His sheer INSANITY barrage
Can pierce through any deep mirage!





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



The Surrealism of Verse

The river, frozen, casts a spell —
I long to swim its icy shell.
For winter is the poet’s time,
Though pools aren’t great for soaking rhyme.

That “soaking” bit? Just rhyme’s caprice —
It leads you off like some disease.
Your lines — like reefs in desert land —
Make sense no more, but somehow stand.

No sunburn here — I burn inside,
As madness sweeps across the tide.
I count the days till warmth has won —
The river drowns the nonsense. Gone.



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



Peace to the World?

"Peace on Earth!" The mouse gets cheese.
But is it peace, or just a tease?
Is “the people” just a rat
In a trap — imagine that!

Ruled by ****, half-demons grinning,
Schemes on schemes — there's no beginning.
Wars and CowID mark the start...
SHAME and DISGRACE tear us apart!



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



The Sheep and the Kebab

The kebab’s a nightmare for the sheep —
A twisted tale, so dark and deep.
To the slaughterhouse they march with cheer,
Praising Darkness, drawing near.





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



In Hell. In Madness.

In Hell. In haze.
All's lost, it seems...
What will I find?
Just rot and dreams.



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



My Poems That I Don’t Like

The fleeting verses that I despise,
Will find the greatest praise, no surprise.
Who complains of excess in art’s design,
Is like a miser, losing his dime.



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



The Ruling ****

Till the last soldier’s gone,
With a mandate to press on...
And that **** will forge, with glee,
The mandate, never paying the fee.



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



Dogmatism of Pseudoscience and Its Aims

Dogmatism’s in excess, you see—
A pseudoscience, dear friends, indeed:
A heap of lies and utter dross,
That ne’er shall wear its truthful crown.

For those who pay with endless cash,
Replace pure faith with false preaches;
They heap on drivel meant to clash
With change that soon their hearts beseech.

Then comes a camp of digital guise—
A brand-new order, sleek and odd:
Truth confined in buggy, flawed devices,
A chip in hand, the urban guard.

In this charade of feigned disease,
The “cures” turn venom for the meek.
Submission’s praised—in such a breeze—
For humans, not for cattle, we must seek.



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



The Devil and the Sheep

The Devil. The Sheep.
He’s worse than hell itself!
Though the Devil’s stubborn,
The Sheep’s so **** dull!
All Evil flows through this —
To the world’s cold, lifeless corpse.
Look through the prism clear:
The Devil, the Sheep —
A single, deadly link.
And the path to fascism
Is masked by helmets thick.



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



Twilight of Mind in the Global Camp

"Errors multiply on a wrong path."
— Francis Bacon, 17th century


The herd, misled by “noble” visions,
Still hunts for joy that isn't there.
That road leads deep to dark divisions—
And dusk already chills the air.

Now twilight falls. And evil’s thriving,
Spewing dumb lies like CowID.
Deceit and fear are unforgiving—
They’ll crush the last of minds that see.

The Camp stands watch, its rule enforcing:
That none with sense shall have a say.
No dawn for us. The brute, unknowing,
Will drag the world the other way.





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



Furious Verse Flies Like an Arrow

A furious verse — it flies, it burns,
You barely catch it, hand still shaking.
Don’t just write — let wrath take turns,
Be yourself — a shot worth making.

If the bow is tuned and steady,
Every arrow finds its way.
Now the question: who’s the enemy?
All the sick minds in decay!

Lone and raging, still I’m standing—
Crowds of madmen all around.
Should I master fire-branding,
Let my poems torch the ground?

Incendiary bombs I’m loading,
Feathered well in rhyming flame—
Drop them on the catacombing
World where we decay in shame.





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



Outworn Forms Are Swept by Death

Outworn forms, by Death's own making,
Are swept away — that’s Life’s domain.
Believe the Inner Light, unshaking:
It shines through Time — though mules complain.

And if for ages, fools and losers
Keep choking Earth in stinking smog,
Then Life itself may lose its users—
Death clears what’s bent. That’s nature’s log.

When Satan’s rot commands creation,
Let Armageddon break the chain.
Don’t fear — embrace the grand salvation:
It frees the Soul through sacred flame.





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



Dominant Theories and Ideologies

One-sided freaks — deranged, unstable,
Phase-shifted minds beyond repair —
They'll triumph, sit at every table,
Their dogmas poisoning the air.

Their twisted "truth" becomes the beacon
For brainless herds who chant along.
Together, they will crush what's weakened—
And praise the rot that makes them strong.

These monsters rise by foul selection,
The **** promoted to the throne.
That’s how we reached this low infection,
Worshipping the mindless drone.

Leninisms, Freudish isms—
All that intellectual trash—
Are loyal tools of new fascisms,
Each a blight, a brainwashed rash.

They shove this garbage down from childhood,
**** off reason, shame, and pride.
All their "doctrines" serve the vilehood—
Darkness geared for genocide.





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



Free Interpretation of Mythical (and Not-so-Mythical) Figures

The toilet floods with **** and lies —
Behold the world, in full disguise.
Not a slave, nor orphaned soul?
Then run — the Satyr’s in control.

He’s not some goat from ancient song,
His beastly will has ruled too long.
He came here early, claimed the stall,
And made the mindless hordes his thrall.

He’s Satan too — just change the name.
Obey him, and you bear the shame
Of scorning Spirit pure and bright,
While kissing demons robed in night.

No "higher powers" guide this mess —
The myths just sell us noble stress.
You crown a skeleton in dust?
He'll be your "god" — and earn your trust.

Even "best" gods are a scam:
Myths for fools — a mental jam.
They bleach the vilest Dark with lore
And shove their madness evermore.





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



Gut Sense — Stream and Surge

Lies entwine in twisted chains,
Knots of chaos, dark remains.
Truth stays hidden, out of frame,
If your mind is weak and lame.

To unwind the lie’s invention,
Watch for motives, flaws, pretense.
Though the fiends show fierce intention,
Intuition cuts — like sense.

Mind without that blade’s direction
Stays in primal, dull despair.
First, a trickle — pure connection,
Then a flood that strips things bare.

Break the blocks your mind erected,
Let the deeper current in.
Snakes and frauds shall be ejected
By the Higher Force within.

That force lives as intuition —
Feel it burn, a sacred thread.
Lack it — rot becomes your mission,
And decay your path instead.





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



Implanted "Dreams"

"The less you know, the better sleep" —
Soon turns into a deathlike trance.
You shrink into a twitching sheep
As dreams are steered by sly advance.

There’s a whole dream-manufacturing
Industry of fog and lies.
And forgetting what is anchoring
Leads straight to the darkened skies.

Call it sleep or call it falling,
Through the mirror — doesn’t matter.
Truth gets drowned beneath the sprawling
Wave of lies none dares to shatter.

Wake yourself — and shake away
Every phantom, every scheme.
Hesitate not for a day —
Rot begins with such a dream.





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



The Scythe of Death

Time’s a treasure — guard it tightly,
Life is frail, and death is near.
Waste it blindly, speak it lightly —
It will strike, and not from fear.

Strain your soul and mind with meaning,
Leave your mark, a jagged trace
On the world — not whining, preening,
Not in praise of empty grace.

Trash is everywhere — it's crawling,
Spawn of Dark, its slaves in tow.
Let your wound be bold, appalling —
Cut through Lies with what you know.

Time’s a teacher, strict and bitter,
And it tests what you defend:
Are you fighting with the critters,
Or has Madness reached your end?

In the muck, you’ll fail to notice
How you sank, betrayed, and fell.
There you’ll meet the lowest rotters —
Joining them’s a route to Hell.

Few still forge with flame and fire,
But the bootlicks crowd the land.
Mankind's circling the mire —
Only wreckage lies at hand.

Time now passes like a sentence,
Final warnings fill the sky.
No escape and no repentance...
Shall we praise the Scythe, and die?





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



A Flare of Light — or Murky Glare

"What the higher soul desires lies within;
The lower seeks in others." — Confucius

The lowly beg, they tear, they cling,
For "love" and junk and anything.
But Seekers of the Real depart
The outer noise — they search the heart.

They leave behind the Bedlam’s rot,
At least in thought — they chase it not.
With sharpened sense, they walk within,
Where Light begins, not sludge or sin.

That Light alone completes the quest,
It stills the mind, it grants true rest.
The low are born of foul decay,
The high — of Light, their inner way.

So follow yours — and you shall find
A flare within the storm and grind:
A spark that cuts through all the gloom
Of souls degrading into doom.



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



Just Your Average Armageddon

"The world always returns to normal.
The question is — whose."
— Stanisław Jerzy Lec

The "norm" is set by Gullets vast
That swallow Spirit, grind the Mind.
So flee the slaves of Hell amassed —
Seek where the soul’s not dumb and blind!

This world is run by fiends infernal,
Exceptions? Rare — and fading fast.
CowID dreams and cults fraternal
Grow from rot that’s meant to last.

But introspection, intuition,
Critical thought — your truest tools.
To walk the Path, outstrip your fiction,
And dodge the traps of demon schools.

For through the "self" the demons bore
Their detours straight into your Heart.
With sharp critique, just slam the door —
Purge the rot, and tear apart.

Look within — the Light is hiding,
Only insight brings it back.
And your sense will start providing
Vision far beyond the black.

This is the value left unbroken
In the Hell now cracking wide.
The Underworld — it smells the omen:
It hates collapse, it hates the tide.

The sun burns brighter, turns the heat —
The sweat lodge rises, cleansing fire!
The dullards drool in their defeat —
This steam will strip them of their liar.





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



Torture

"Prosperity reveals our vice;
Adversity shows virtue's face."
— Francis Bacon


Now take a look — a steady stare —
At mobs below and "lords" above.
While pain is clawing through the air,
Don’t drown in grief, don’t beg for love.

Degenerates and soulless traitors,
A plague of vice on every side.
But where are our so-called creators?
Where has our virtue gone to hide?

It feeds on food and *** and chatter,
And passes "values" to the young —
Slave-born ideals that rot and shatter.
The few who rise are bit and stung...



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



Ornaments

An amulet to banish Lies?
You won’t find that — no surprise.
Lies are sold as “common sense,”
Drilling straight through all defense.

Rock bottom? Boring. Time to drop
Into a fresher, deeper slop!
The dunce delights in his belief:
“This world’s the best!” — the height of grief.

A brighter Hell? Now that’s the plan!
A digital leash for every man.
The mob will cheer — they’ll praise the brand
That chains their necks with gilded bands.





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



Allah! Allah Will Provide

“Just praise His name — He’ll see you through!”
Repeat it louder, day and night.
Your lusts He’ll shower gold upon —
Then ship you off to Paradise.

Like children beg for sweets and toys,
So “grown-ups” pray for cash and bling
From “higher powers.” Empty noise —
Paper tigers rule that ring.

No need to beg, no point to kneel:
No higher force in Hell remains.
The only voice that might still feel
Your cries… is Zoyl — and he disdains.



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



The Glamour Veil

This glamour — not a noble vice —
Just blind obedience at a price.
The fools obey with hungry grins
For junk and foodstuff in their bins.

If you’ve a brain that still can burn,
You’ll find no place — no madman’s turn —
Inside this padded, howling dome
Where fascist dough is shaped as "home."

They bake up "heroes" on command —
Addicted drones, a loyal band.
And marching proud in perfect line,
They head for Camp Global Divine...





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



Dust

Fascist censors run the show —
Google, YouTube, all in tow.
A culture taught to kneel and nod.
The media — a monster's squad.

Deceit and rot — the new ideal,
With sticky fear in every deal.
All serve the Devil, mask and grin —
This world is dust, consumed by sin.



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



Mind — a Nest of Twisted Wires

The mind’s a nest of nervous fires,
Breeding threats as fear requires.
Fear now rules this wretched land —
Worse ahead, as planned and planned:

Fake diseases, wars, delusion,
Dumbing down through mass confusion.
That’s the goal the BEAST pursues —
To spread neurosis like a noose.



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



Sharp and Loud

Loud — then sharp:
Is that choice?
Loud is just
The void's own voice.

Sharp and simple — stay awake!
Let your verses bite and break!
Sharper still — the poison bleeds.
Drink it deep — that’s what it feeds.



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



Brain Drain

“Virus! Virus!!!”
Screams insane —
Death of thought,
Then off the train.

Lies believed —
Hell’s tightening noose.
“What’s the loss?”
We need more juice!

Push the numbers, make it hurt —
Punish “people,”
Grind in dirt.



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



The Ultimate Price

"Nothing is bought at a higher price than a piece of the human mind and freedom."
— Friedrich Nietzsche


Madness rising,
Sales enticing.
Souls for garbage — cheap exchange:
Honor, thought, and freedom — strange

How they vanish for a screen,
Spewing filth in toxic sheen.
Hell is here — but who would know?
Chains of lies don't always show.



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



Where Are You From — and Where You Head?

Where are you from, and where you go —
The riddle haunts the soul below.
For centuries they've dulled our sight:
Man falls for lies, not truth or light.

The beast deceives, the soul is weak,
The mind? A joke — don't even speak.
So don’t rely on hollow thought —
Let instinct cut the lies you're caught.



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



True Effort

True effort, when it’s rightly aimed,
Is worth more than all "success" acclaimed.
For lies pile high to fool the weak,
Who trade their faith for gold they seek.

They offer money, fame, and praise,
For energy in endless haze.
But those who act with rightful mind,
Will feel the Winds of Change unwind.



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



Poverty and Pain

Poverty and pain —
The Force of Will,
Of Spirit, Mind,
And reason's thrill.

The sum has torn,
It’s cracked, undone...



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



Moderation

Balance, restraint —
A tested way,
But mark my words —
It breeds decay.



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



"Carrot" Stronger Than Steel

A "carrot" turns the soul,
A slave who believes in lies.
Come now, get new clothes —
At the Market of Empty Minds!



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



Non-Sellability

Great efforts, yet frail fruits,
Does that drive you to despair?
If it’s for yourself, the pursuit,
The judgments won’t compare.

All ratings, hype, and noise,
Are just mere froth on top,
While money’s tempting, false,
It pulls you down, won’t stop.

Efforts of the mind and soul,
In a world so lost, so grim,
Bribed by sound, by pleasure's toll,
Dragged down by greed’s dark whim.



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



The Global Masturbator of Feelings and Emotions

Strike the feelings, crush the mind,
So you’ll lose yourself, confined —
That’s the policy of freaks,
In a world of slaves, the weak.



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



Cages and Chains?
The BEASTS mark
All the slaves with nonsense, while the "treat"
Is the prize in the Fascist’s deceit.



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



"Normal" Madness

"Normal" madness reigns,
The one that's ruling now,
Fools are preaching,
The masses screeching,
Cold blood runs, lost somehow.
Once a stage, now gone to waste,
All will vanish, erased.



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



"A Magnifying Glass" for the Soul

To magnify is to erase—
Like a bug beneath the lens.
Every glance becomes disgrace,
Every thought just weak pretense.

Peer more closely, skip the filter,
Use the glass and look inside—
See how bright illusions wither,
How uniqueness tends to hide.

Time dissolves in dull routines,
In a tiny, choking sphere.
What remains? Not human beings—
Just a mask, a grin, a sneer.

Lies are "normal", lies are countless—
Pick your flavor, take your pick.
Underneath: decay and doubtless
Cowardice and ego slick.

Few escape the crushing burden—
Since their youth, they’re taught to kneel.
Fear’s the mold, and stress the warden,
Grinding souls like dust from steel.



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



The Idiotocracy

Fear smothers love, corrupts the mind,
It spreads again — a foe designed.
It rules the masses, cold and sly,
And sends its poison from on high.

The “school” installs it in your chest,
The media fans all the rest.
The fool believes what liars say —
They "comfort" him along the way.

They pump up fear through polished lies.
Lies flood the madhouse — global size.
Stack lie on lie, and soon you'll see
A nation sleepwalk, comatose, “free.”

Cast fear out with the Spirit’s flame —
A fortress none can ever tame.
Evil has minions, small and loud —
To fear those gnats? Absurd and proud.

These petty creeps — a comic blight.
Through humor we reclaim the fight.
A war of soul in full deploy
Against the world’s idiot convoy.



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



The Shrinking of Mind — and the “Real” World

To shrink is death, in sly disguise.
They shrink your world through friendly lies:
“Obey the beasts, they know what's true!”
And drones march off — to work, to rue.

They shrink the world to filth and drains,
To toilet bowls and sewered brains.
They call the sludge a sacred balm —
And bleat in blissful, ****** calm.

This narrowing infects the mind,
And what you see gets redefined.
The dumb herd trudges to the knife —
No hole, no stall will spare a life.

For slaughter waits where thought has thinned,
Where beasts are served and truth is skinned.
This is betrayal’s grand reward —
Or simply: man reduced to horde.



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



"Professional" Chewing Gum

A “pro” consumer, proud and prim,
Devours GMOs on whim —
Lies, junk, temptation wrapped as fun,
He gulps down filth by ton for ton.

His mind and body rot with grace —
He calls it “fuel” and sets the pace.
This “pro” just grins in his abyss,
His room a tomb of cowardice.

The gum is labeled “Pro,” you see —
With “Orbit” slapped on lazily.
A pack of gum, some cash, some screen —
And “happiness” through holes obscene.

His kids must learn this holy trade:
To dumb them down, the schools parade
A set of tools — all upside-down —
To smooth their minds and let them drown.

The schools, the media know the drill —
They grow the idiot with skill.
They say: “We plant the seeds of grace!”
But reap a limp, lobotomized face.

These “pros” are fools, en masse, enshrined —
The reigning caste: the thought-assigned.
The BEASTS adore this blessed land —
Where soulless swarms obey command.



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



Brain Removal via Lies

Just multiply the global lie —
And watch the idiot comply.
He'll knock and smile at your front gate,
Syringe in hand — to "vaccinate".

A ***** is cheaper than a shell,
And hits more neatly — works as well.
The BEAST, through “health” and “expert” prattle,
Still culls the herd without a battle.

They’re not human if they trust
Rot and sludge disguised as "just."
Don’t waste breath to change their stance —
You’d have more luck with stones that dance.





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



"Isms"

All the “isms” — brain disease,
Crooked thoughts dressed up to please.
Each one claws toward some “Ideal,”
Till minds forget how humans feel.

They become just blank displays,
Echoing those worn-out ways —
Primitive and crude by birth,
Bending facts to prove their worth.

The farce rolls on, a mad parade,
Till some new “ism” makes a raid —
It kicks the old one out the door,
And fills the screens with its new "lore".





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



The Final Circle of Hell

Greed walks fast — in seven-league boots —
They call it “progress” as it loots.
And all around, a dulled-out mess —
The end result: dumbed-down success.

A crushing greed applies the weight,
With foolish minds to fuel the fate.
Through greed and stupid souls en masse,
We've reached Hell’s bottom — pure, dead glass.



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



The Correctness of the Lonely Warrior

“Truth stands above people and should not fear it.”
— Vissarion Belinsky


Darkness rules — that much is clear.
Rot and ruin swarm the sphere.
Be the truth, or be erased —
There’s no middle path embraced.

Do not flinch — it’s far too late
To bow in fear before dark fate.
"Plagues" and wars now flood the land,
Lies grow bold on every hand.

Each year worse — decay ascends.
Fear and Falsehood run as friends.
Be the axe in servants’ eyes —
The Lonely Warrior never lies.





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



The Daredevil Who Conquered Fear

Danger? Just chatter.
Slander? No matter.
Once you allow
Your boldness to shatter
The filth that floods in from the ******* brigade —
You’ll mock every vice with a smirk, unafraid.

The BEAST rules the herd through the tremble and scream —
But a wild daredevil won’t fit in that scheme.



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



The Machine World

“The real threat to man is not machines or chemicals. The real threat has already entered the core of human existence.”
— Martin Heidegger


A world of machines. You’re not one? Prove it.
With CowID, with war — absurd and stupid.
The twisted spines, the vacant eyes,
The herd obeys, believes the lies.

The fuel is lies — injected fast,
Through veins they flow, from first to last.
The “men” rise up — to punch, not think,
While freedom’s just a poisoned drink.

They're proud to march — enslaved, yet loud,
Just call it “freedom,” and they’re proud.
This plague of fools will drag us low —
Past rock bottom, straight through the Dno.



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



Spiritual Vision and the World's Vile Rot

Faith in “God”?
Or faith in you?
To pierce the fog,
Love what is true.
To truly see,
The soul must guide —
Or you’ll be swept
By filth and pride.

The soul untouched will rise and glow,
But join the rot — and you’ll sink low.
Detach from evil, or you’re caught —
Just one more fool the world has bought.



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



The Führer of the Madhouse

Hell has frozen — here's our Führer!
Loud and proud — but not much surer.
And the crowd, once known for might,
Now believes this clown is right.

Drunk on nonsense, near elation,
In a fog of degradation,
They applaud the ashtray preacher —
The madhouse roars. He is their teacher.



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



The Chance to Create Yourself

It’s tough —
But not the end.
No luck?
You missed the trend?

That excuse
Is rot for cinders —
Just dead souls
With dying embers.

Smash the wall,
Let fire rise.
Show your fist
To captive lies —

Through creations bold and burning —
Even poems, ever yearning.





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



Surrealist “Picnic in the Open”

Crust of lies
On fear-made butter.
Ashes rise
Through dreamlike clutter.

Chew the lie,
Then eat the heap.
Sip some swill —
Let numbness creep,

So the ash
Becomes a view,
And your crash —
A feast for two.



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



Money in the Filth

Money calls from Hell’s own pit,
And you sell your soul for it.
If your mind is sheepish clay,
You’ll call that “joy” along the way.

But this filth plays by no rule —
Beasts will squeeze you like a tool.
Wave “success” before your face —
Then drain you dry without a trace.





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



Murk and Fear. A Lonely Way
Through fire, lies, and full dismay.
Stand alone beneath the hail
Of total falsehood — do not fail.

Be the brave one — hold your ground,
If your truth is battle-bound.
Truth’s your cause — the rest is free.
In war with Evil's tyranny,

Meekness is the primal sin —
So strike the dark. And strike within.





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



“Flowers of Evil”

“Just focus on the light,” they say,
Forget the horrors of decay —
And in that blissful, blind retreat
The **** of Evil finds its seat.

It clings, it spreads, it haunts the air,
Its roots are lies, its bloom — despair.
And evil, masked by ignorance,
Peers through their dreams with twisted glance.





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



Mirror, Mirror, Cruel and Grim...

Mirror, mirror, harsh and clear —
Who’s the fiercest one you fear?
The unbending Russian soul?
No — the khokhol plays darker role.

He strikes Russians with a glare,
Swears his strength comes from the air.
Guards each inch of village dirt —
Lest the Moskal brings it to hurt.



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



Junk “Classics” and Fake School Lore

The wise one knows: when art turns dull,
It rots — a death without a skull.
In schools they feed the kids pure lies,
Fake “truths” that petrify their minds.

And once that stone is fully set,
It won’t be cracked — not even yet.
So youth, start thinking while you can —
At thirty, Mind won’t make a man.





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



Feminine “Charms”

The body — battlefield,
Where soul’s asleep or sealed.
The war is sharp as steel —
And rot is all it yields.

Wrapped in glossy lies,
It lures with deadly glow.
You bite — and pay the price:
The blade will shape you low.



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



Silent Slaves

Amid the shameful, swirling mess,
The minds decay, they’re in distress.
The chaos says, “We’re not the slaves,”
But in truth, they’re silent graves.



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



A Führer in Zombie Disguise

A Führer dressed in zombie skin,
So dumb, you'd swear he’s just your kin —
A cousin to the fool and clown,
A soulmate to the lowlife crowd.

That crowd is vast — the final score
Of silent genocide and war.
If you’re not dull in this parade —
You’re pastry tossed in a latrine’s shade.



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



Gas Exchange: Thought and Matter

The air we breathe, the world, the skin —
They twist the Thought that flows within.
Distorted well — a grand conceit —
And thus was born Debility.



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



Serve No Evil Homeland

Serve no land that’s steeped in lies —
Bow to Truth, not flags or cries.
Then you'll walk a noble way,
Clean of thought, by light of day.



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



The Worm’s Last Century

Was it Worm or Wretch that reigned?
Twisted times were preordained.
Change erupts — the herds start marching,
Led like sheep, their brains discharging.

Not through desert, but through waste,
Filth and fear — a bitter taste.
Welcome now the Drainage Age —
We’ve earned it well. Enjoy the cage.



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



Total Censorship by Pseudo-Search Lords

“Let thoughts be countless, so no censor keeps up.”
— Stanisław Jerzy Lec


Dullness rules — and now the censor
Is your god, your thought dispenser.
Search engines obey the crown,
Cracking minds and shutting down.

So multiply your thoughts, be daring —
Don’t get used to evil’s bearing.



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



The Fatal Reign of the Abnormal

Abnormals crowned — a fate relentless,
The world’s gone dark, infernal, senseless.
To feel is now a sacred rite,
While storms of lies blot out the light.



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



The Slushy Fool

A dribbling dunce blocks up your way,
His head’s half-melted into clay.
Avoid him — sticky, slow, diseased,
His leaking rot is not appeased.





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



Change as Froth

"Change" is froth, when shame’s the stream
Flowing through a shallow dream.
Fools call it “the past’s great voice”—
Just old foam, but not by choice.



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



The Madhouse

A madhouse fool with brains of clay —
That’s the whole **** world today!



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



From Hell to Hell, and Through Again

From Hell to Hell, and through the flame —
Each circle plays the devil’s game.
Yet still the herd runs, blind and glad —
A slave is dumb, but rarely sad.



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



Combat Media

Slither through the slime and ****—
Is that a life? A job well done?
**** attacks where threads are thin—
Hence the stench, the creeping sin.

Subtle souls are shoved aside—
Trash promotion, truth denied.
All the rest—just dough, just clay:
Molded lies in foul array.

Rotten nonsense, mass-produced—
Vermin’s craft, unchained, let loose.
Brutes in charge—relentless freaks—
Rotting peace is all it seeks.

Yet success is near-complete:
Soon the press will serve the Beast.
Don’t you crawl, unless you’re vile...
Or you’ll choke in filth and guile.



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



The Pseudoscience Fragment Trick

Smash it to pieces,
Then crudely re-glue it —
That’s “science” today,
Our god, so they bray.
But ******* who do it
Are frauds and deceivers,
And people obey —
Like sheep gone astray.

They stitch up the horror
With purpose — distorted —
A world with no soul
Is all they portray.
And once they’ve contorted
The truth they’ve aborted,
The masses will stroll
In file, led away

To pens full of chatter
And lies that grow louder,
While all that is real
Is trampled and killed.





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



False Science: Detail and Blur

All on nothing dwells,
Nothing on it tells —
Twisting truth like hells
Till your conscience gels.
Wade into the grime
Of fake-science slime —
Spirit is the base?
***** it. We're the race
Of demonic pawns.
In the chaos spawns
Of our dead ideals,
Truth dissolves, it kneels.

Media will cite
Us as guiding light —
While we cut the cord
To the higher Lord.
We unleash the reign
Of the blind and vain.
To be blunt and crass:
Yes — we all are ****.





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



Flying Fish

No fathead carp, for sure —
They’re heavy, dull, and proud.
A sunken kind of “pure,”
Respected in their crowd.

But some still dream of flight,
To breach the water’s hold —
Escape the swamp’s long night,
If only for a fold.

Who rises from the grime?
Who dares to leave the pond —
Where weeds, like ancient slime,
Devour those who respond?

The carp loves muck and mud,
It's home — a cozy pit.
No stirrings in his blood,
Though all around is ****.

But fly — or rot below.
There is no in-between.
Let carps adore the flow
Of sludge they deem serene.



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



What Made You So Broken?

What made you so broken, so low?
Where’s the fire you once had inside?
You wander like husks in the shadow —
No soul, just a hide you now hide.

You traded your spirit for wages,
Chose chains for the sake of a bone,
Now rot in the hell that you staged —
Lashed onward by lies overthrown.

Corrupted, enslaved, and compliant,
You sink, and you scream not a word.
At rock bottom, limp and "defiant",
You don’t even see that it’s absurd.

It’s not “them” — you’re the disgrace.
No monster could dream to create
A world that would stoop to embrace
This filth you still dare tolerate.

The price? It is written in flame.
The fall — it is coming, no doubt.
When fascist delusions proclaim
Their “truth” — and the rabble buys out.



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



Strain and Surge

Life is lived through grinding —
Friendship’s gone or hiding.
Push with all you’ve got — and
Weakness comes to naught.

Lone, defiant fighter —
None but he climbs higher,
Breaks from Hell’s dead zone,
Far from herds of drones.

Swinging like a pendulum,
Spent, he slumps — momentum gone.
But he will return again,
Flame will rise and burn again.

Flare up! Burn completely!
Fight the dark — not sweetly.
If you love this Hellish stay,
You're just meat — and not far from the blade.



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



Little Thought — Lots of Fire

Little thought,
Lots of fire.
Count it out —
Check desire.
When emotions storm and crash,
Guard your mind — or you're just trash,
Bleating in some madhouse pit,
Broken down to barely fit.

Think too much — you’ll start to bite.
Boldness is your only right.
In this madhouse, stay alive —
Only rebels will survive.



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



Ping-Pong

Ping — pong — ping — pong —
Who’s the sheep? The gong plays strong.
Ping — too weak?
Pong — a blow below.
Too bleak?
Evil plays by rules that show
Only in some film or fiction —
Truth’s a lie for mass conviction.

Ping’s the bait, and pong, you see,
Is genocide — of thought, of meat.





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



Lip-Flappers

Lip-flap crew —
In deep poo.
March to "bliss" —
Mall-bound, too.
They will guide you
To the market —
There they’ll grind you
In the target.

Digital or not — who cares?
Camp or store — it's set with snares.
All looks clean, well-lit, and catchy...
Lip-***** swear that this is "happy."
Too bad truth looks less than snappy.



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



Thrown Away for Nothing

****: they **** you through the lie.
Push against it — do not die,
Even when the fools surround you,
Bleeding out what strength is in you.

Fools are many, loud and proud —
In this world, the vile rule loud.
But your soul you still can keep —
Fighting on, for zero reap.



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



“Professionalism” — A Cult in Disguise

Ockham’s Razor? Now a script —
A software glitch in logic’s crypt.
No one's close to thought or art;
They grunt like hogs and call it “smart.”
A poet’s word and hack’s dull spit —
Worlds apart. And we eat it.

All decays — no soul, no craft...
The "pros" just guard their petty raft.
They speak in jargon, thick and dead,
To keep out minds they truly dread.
It’s not about skill — it’s a mask, a scheme:
A gatekeeping priesthood of mediocrity's dream.



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



"GazMeat", "RusAg",
And "MadTech Global" —
The boss? A ****.
The rulers? Noble...

Worms, that feast
On a corpse, decaying —
A wretched beast
That forgot all praying.

A nation crude,
Soul burnt to ember —
Vile and rude —
Too numb to remember.



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



Bitter Truth, and Sticky Lies

Bitter truth, and sticky lies —
Lies get sugar, truth — goodbyes.
One small spoon of bitter pain,
Drowned beneath a sweetened rain.

First, a drop. Then comes the flood.
Bitter’s real — but sweet sells blood.
Truth’s too sharp, too hard to chew...
So they stall — and swallow you.

And the herd? They lick the plate,
Smile wide and call it fate.
"Better sweet and full of ****,
Than awake — and choked on grit."



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



Templates

Cut to fit —
You’re done, that’s it.
Thought is dead
Where molds are spread.

Stuck in frames?
Enjoy your cage.
Template minds —
Template rage.



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



Three-Fingered, or The Rule of the Rich

Yeltsin, dull and vicious —
How many lay in ditches?
Preach "democracy" aloud —
Or bow before the greedy crowd?
Raging at their lies and schemes —
Does that absolve your guilty dreams?..



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



Lenin and the Cause of Revolution

Comrade old ChLenin,
In mob foam venin’,
Go find the villains —
The crowd has millions.
Send in the Chekists:
Some off to jail lists,
Some to be shot —
The Cause must not rot.



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



The Global Prison

We laugh at our own fate,
At others, just the same,
At doom we can't escape —
The "Others" play the game.

Like inmates, locked away,
Who mock their fellow slaves —
The world is steeped in grey,
Insane and digging graves.

A cage, a vast corral —
Call it what you prefer.
The soul's dismissed as pal,
Our deck's a losing blur.

The "Others" — not quite men —
Have ruled since time began.
They planted every "truth"
To rule the mindless clan.

Force isn’t quite enough —
They'd rather plant belief,
Make fools draw blood and bluff,
And cull the Souls in grief.



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



Selfish Gain

“The noble mind knows what is right;
the petty mind — what brings advantage.”
— Confucius

A world where profit wears the crown,
Where “good” is smeared with selfish grease —
The soul grows faint, the mind shuts down,
And worse to come will never cease.

The Spirit's voice is drowned in noise,
The Reason shackled, caged, alone —
We sink in greed, in fear, in lies,
And nothing saves a heart of stone.



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



The Living Dead

"Men waste their lives to chase the things
they think they need to live."
— Seneca, 1st century AD


Life slips by — we race and spin!
One wrong step, and you fall in.
You won’t notice when, one day,
Death walks in and wants to stay.

Dead men walking, all around —
Worship wealth, their hollow crown.
Just a few still stand, defying —
Till the mob becomes their dying.



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



Monkey Training

Doubt is weakness — that’s the rule.
“Best of worlds!” — they teach in school.
Family’s harsh verdicts bite:
Step off course — you’ll lose the fight.

Obey the system, you’ll be fed;
Forget the soul, you're meat instead.
“Don’t mind the cost, don’t ask what’s true —
Now go catch flies for mommy too!”



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



Mutual Aid

"Help is the hindrance of evil — real or potential."
— Plato


O Mutual Aid, where did you flee,
On any worthy scale?
Deceit and Madness drown the free,
While envy tips the scale.

For money, talent, empty fame —
We’re crushed beneath their boots.
To fiends who play a devil’s game,
We’re sticks for brutal hoots.



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



Pasta, Lies — or Just a Snack?

Is it noodles? Is it lies?
Truthless fiends wear clever guise.
Some lies dangle, light and sweet,
Others rot you from beneath.

***** world — the plague is speech.
**** the lie — you're out of reach.





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



Mass ****** & the *** of Communism

Trotsky rants and spits with flair —
Sailor, soldier, mad with glare.
“Hold on, daughters! Sons, beware —
Bourgeois blood is in the air!”

“We'll drown the world in crimson streams,
To build an *** of broken dreams.”



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



Sleep Deprivation

Lack of sleep hits hard and true,
On health and work, it wrecks you too.
In poets' "Labor Laws" they say,
A penalty for work that’s gray:

“Get your rest, and write with grace,
Don’t stress the rhyme or lose your place,
Though verse may seem a heavy task,
Just dream and write — no need to ask.”



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



Propagandists, or Hell’s Firemen

Add more fire to Hell’s flames,
Spread the lies and shift the blame.
Write on banners, bold and bright,
“Folly” or “Mirage” — all right.



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



Khrushchev

Corn-fed fool,
Spins his lies like a tool.
The fools buy his tale —
In his fog, they will fail.



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



Cheaper Clothes and Devices

Clothes are cheap, and man’s more crude,
The cost of honor — no prelude.
More dear the heart, the anxious mind,
As the world’s last days unwind.



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



Brezhnev

Old man, lost in his haze,
Speaks in endless, sluggish phrase.
Only praise, no real thought,
Just applause that he’s been taught.



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



Gorbachev

Spotted fool, a liar bold,
A spawn of Judas, truth be told.
He “restructured” — what a joke,
But built nothing but smoke.



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



Andropov

A student goes to see the show — "Beat him!"
A new whip cracks, the cattle grow grim.
Discipline in the cage is tight,
And fools believe it’s all right.



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



Chernenko

The crippled fool returns to throne,
This “party” rules with force alone.
Crushing all with hollow might,
Or rather — nonsense, wild and trite.





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



"Father of Nations"

“Moustached nanny,” stand in line,
Obey the rule, or face the sign.
Do as you're told, no room for doubt —
Or bear the cost, there’s no way out.



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



Short Verses

Short verses are not hard to write,
On narrow themes, in black and white.
You can churn them out with ease —
One simple rule: don’t spread decease.



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



To the Angel

You flap your wings, but is it true,
That light in Darkness brings a doom?
A genius, often called insane,
In this world, we know the pain.



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



The "fairy tale" is not so cruel —
It turns to myth right before your eyes,
When "consciousness" becomes a fool,
And rule is held by poisoned lies.



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



The Traveler

When you pause and start to think,
You’ll find despair begins to sink.
If in your fantasies you roam,
You’ll find yourself in madness' home.



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



The Path

Mire and Fear,
Our “all in all” —
The path is tough,
Through filth we crawl.



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



Be Yourself

Be yourself, not part of the herd,
A feast amidst the world absurd.
The herd of global decay —
In the days of CowID, we fray.





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



The Solid Ground of Vulgarity

To the poet,
Death’s the prize,
Solace lies
In solid ground, though thin, inside.
Unshaken in the ******’s pride.



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



Putin

Thief and bribed man,
The lazy “people”
Believe the fiends,
And open doors to evil's hand.



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



Lavrentiy Beria
Trust in him? A mere charade.
A backroom deal,
A ruthless blade.



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



Harsh? No — brutal are these schemes!

"Cause and effect — effect and cause,"
Fear feeds the fog, and that's the law.
The fool is trapped — he hit "pause"
And left his doubts for later thaw.

He trusted reason’s rigid preach,
Determinism’s hollow song,
Not seeing that INFERNAL speech
Had tricked his mind and steered him wrong.

But open up your Spirit’s sight —
A different world reveals its streams!
No brutal schemes survive that light;
The soul would wither in such dreams.

Harshness and cruelty are twin seeds —
Fascism in their scheming breeds!
Only sharp minds, with senses keen,
Can tread where finer truths are seen.

Such truths, intangible yet real,
Need silent introspection’s art —
Beyond the chains of cause and wheel,
Into the depths of spirit's heart.

The fools can never understand
That knowing grows through toil unseen,
That crowds are led, like sheep unmanned,
When finer visions are wiped clean.

No brutal scheme can cage that grace —
It’s wasted pain to force it in.
But REEKING frauds infest the place,
Where schemers lie — and souls grow thin.





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



Law-Making

"Legislation should be the voice of reason, and the judge — the voice of law."
— Pythagoras, 6th century BC


Reason’s caged — and "laws" exist
To guard the bars, not break the chain.
The judge? A slimy, bought-out twist,
Who spits on law for private gain.

Who then writes these wicked screeds?
Not "parliaments" — just hollow cries!
Their role? To mask the festering seeds
Of genocide, concealed in lies.

Behind the thrones, the vermin breed,
Invisible to blinded eyes.
CowID has shown their real creed —
Their schemes of Evil, thin disguise.

Each presi-puppet, each fake land,
Each "parliament" of rotting spawn,
Plays their dark games with bloodied hand,
While sheep believe the lies at dawn.



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



Unified Rule by the Global "Elite"

"No people will survive if they see their own history through a neighbor’s eyes."
— Friedrich Nietzsche


Not a neighbor twists the tale —
The same vile filth still pulls the strings.
It trains the "elites" without fail,
Till every one of them now clings

To lies, to poison, to delay —
Their sentence merely pushed ahead.
The "virus" scam showed all the way:
One center spews the floods of dread.

The media storms, the schools are chained,
All ruled by ghouls behind the scenes.
More lawless cruelty is ordained
As Earth runs out its final dreams.

The Cataclysm will be the end,
The story sealed in fire and grief —
For tolerating fascist trends,
For crawling, like a wretched thief.



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



The Fragmentation Method of Pseudoscience

"Makers of any science turn the impotence of their science into slander against nature."
— Francis Bacon, 17th century


When all is smashed into small bits,
No mighty force can rise or grow.
But endless "tests" they still submit
To "prove" the lies they want to show —

That piece by piece, the world’s laid bare
By fragments, dust, and broken lore.
The further they advance — less care,
More wholeness lost forevermore.

Now "scientists" are crowned as gods:
They churn out trash for daily needs.
And what destroys the Earth in clods?
The chewing crowd — it barely heeds.



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



The New Populism (A Fantasy)

The Explorer of the Abyss
Went "to the people" once again.
He found the same foul, reeking mist —
Still slaves, still swallowing their pain.

They swap the names, but leave the core —
Call madness "freedom" now, and grime.
Still sheep believe, still ask for more,
Still dream of "happiness" through slime.

Where spirit dies, where minds decay,
Where man to beast is ground and sold —
Just look at CowID, wars today:
The same dark promises retold.

The people’s saga never ends —
It drills through rock, it drills through shame.
"Fight for the new!" — the slogan bends —
Headfirst, they batter through the same.



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



The Way Out of Duality

In a world of idiots split in two:
"Serve the crowd — or serve yourself" —
All people seen as tools to use,
A road that drains and rots your health.

The mob demands not you — but masks,
Just "one of them," a hollow clone.
And since this world’s infernal tasks
Just spin you like a wheel — alone.

If fools are means, you turn a beast,
You claw and trample, cold and numb.
It’s hard to walk the path of least —
Yet Bedlam scars you not as much.

Such is the deal in this foul den:
No prospects bloom, no future gleams.
Collapse creeps closer once again —
The end is nearer than it seems.



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



The Tao of Mao

Lies and fear —
The daily game.
Burn the books —
Enjoy the flame.

A newborn god
Demands your soul,
All-seeing, strict,
And in control.

The crimson flag
Will light the skies,
The final word —
A sea of lies.



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



Intuition

"Atheism is the vice of a few intelligent people; superstition is the vice of fools."
— Voltaire


The "golden middle"? Just a trap —
False science, priests — the same old game:
They turn us into mindless scrap,
Into the slaves of ruthless fate.

Nonsense without Spirit, dogmas of gloom —
Satanic lies beneath their shell.
Try breaking free, dispel the doom,
Erase mirages they have spelled.

Only Intuition leads you through,
Beyond "believe!" or "prove it first!"
It is the path — the one that's true —
From bottom’s darkness into Light’s birth.



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



The Myth of Freedom

"How can those who never knew freedom recognize it?
They might just suspect another mask of a tyrant."
— Stanisław Jerzy Lec


Freedom lives in propaganda,
In schooling wretched, dull, and fake —
Where puppets serve the creeping cancer,
And chain the minds for power’s sake.

The jesters’ breed now floods the lands,
Their rotten lies too vast to count.
The beasts have long since learned to plant
Their poison deep — and watch it mount.



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



The Global Camp and Nature’s Final Patience

CowID —> war —> "AI" —> the Camp.
And famine gnaws the broken lands.
The red cross fades on flags once stamped —
It’s capitulation of all plans.

The "states" — mere pseudo-systems fall,
The Global Camp their final creed.
Long-suffered tyranny devours all,
With hidden genocide its seed.

Yet Cataclysm will sweep the stage,
And wipe out monsters in their lust —
Their dull fascistic, mindless rage
Will fall; death births rebirth from dust.

For few — the rare, the souls that kept
Their Honor bright, their Spirit whole,
Who would not kneel, who never crept,
Nor traded Reason for control.

The fools’ arrogance swarms and reigns,
Multiplied by Lies and Blight —
They'll march to prisons, chained and drained,
And cheer their masters in delight.

But Nature’s Patience is not theirs —
It’s different from the slaves' worn cries.
Farewell, you slimy brood of liars!
Farewell, obedient fool — goodbye.



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



"We are the children of Russia’s dread..."
Now — just the children of no cause.
The "heroes" long have been struck dead...
But no one stops, no one takes pause.

They gulp down lies — and ask for more,
Devour the sludge without a thought.
Cash is their king, their highest law —
And souls? Cheap merchandise, soon bought.

If you're a **** in power’s game —
Good luck! You’re safe, you own the floor.
The rest are dust upon their shame,
While TVs preach their "pride" and roar —

Pride for decay, for rotting bones,
For hollow songs of plastic skies.
The zombified in brain and tone —
A few still guard their mind and eyes.

But there’s no pride in standing tall
When filth surrounds you, thick and grim...
And darker still — a warning call:
The End approaches on a whim.

Not long this shame will stain the skies —
The storm is knocking, raw and grim:
The World Fascism that spat on souls
Will no more mock the Seraphim.



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



Together in That Well-Known Place

The stunted minds, the traitor breed,
A plague upon the world they fall —
Have gathered here in full indeed,
Together, answering the call.

They’ll stuff our heads with lies once more —
We’ll swallow all without complaint.
"Obey!" — and we obey the *****,
Our Führer — sacred, proud, and quaint.

Our Führer leads us to "stand tall,"
To "rise" — yet crawl in deeper shame.
The idiot will bear it all —
It’s every generation’s fate.





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



To Build an Impregnable Fortress of Thought

To build an impregnable fortress of thought,
Reinforce it with Spirit, let Experience bind;
Fill the moat with hard labor, burn every bridge wrought,
And vanish within, catching Inspiration’s flight.

Such is the task that before the poet stands,
A mission granted to only a few.
Thus so much remains unsung by their hands,
For beyond that fortress, Hell’s ninth pit breaks through.



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



Nonsense, Slander, Sheer Insanity

Nonsense, slander, sheer insanity —
Even sarcasm's lost its vanity.
Strength runs dry — to name it all,
You'd dig yourself a grave and fall.

The BEASTS now nurture helplessness,
Breeding rot in their finesse.
Twist and turn, at least break free —
Awaken from the LIE you see.

Lies flood the world — each little mind
A sewage pit, by filth designed.
Most books are garbage, rotting heaps —
No food for Spirit, none for Deep.



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



Mad Slaves

The ancient laws of slavery say:
Drill in the slave that he’s "free" today,
That there's no tyrant, no decree —
It’s all just fate, just destiny.

Thus, every cringing little fool
Becomes the standard, shaped in school.
Darkness loves such crooked art —
Twist the world's map from the start.

A mad slave, meek and mild, is fun.
A raging one — that's Terrors' son.
A slave who knows the cage is real,
Who fights — becomes a threat to steal.

So listen, darling, don't you squirm:
You're bathing not in **** — but "charm."



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



"Reality" — A Clash of Myths

"Reality" — just myths colliding,
The mob grows "strong" on borrowed dreams.
One chaos on another riding —
And war ignites in words or streams.

The BEASTS excel at setting fires,
With lies that seep through every seam,
And fools, inflamed by dark desires,
March on, enslaved by phantom schemes.

They rule the minds with iron hand,
Division blooms in every brain.
Resistance flickers, weak and bland —
And every cause goes down the drain.



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



"Reality" — Just Myths at War

"Reality" — just myths at war,
The mob roars loud with borrowed lore.
One frenzied swarm unleashed on another —
And wars ignite, first words, then slaughter.

The BEASTS — oh, masters of the game —
Unleash the lies, ignite the flame.
The fools, so eager to obey,
Are ruled like cattle every day.

Their minds — a battlefield of trash,
Where every thought ends in a clash.
Resistance? Soft, a useless sigh —
And every "cause" just curls up... to die.



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



Cyclops

I'm a Cyclops. One blind eye
Sees only what they choose to show.
Now LIES, the Lord we can't deny —
Have ordered us to die and go.

We'll march to war, inject the slime,
Obey the madness, cold and grim.
We fight for Evil’s grand design —
Satan himself now leads the hymn.

Perhaps it's better to be blind —
Tear out my eye, let it decay.
The MEDIA howls will rule our mind —
Two-eyed? We'll crush without delay.



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



Battlefield Wisdom

I lie with "wisdom" in my grave —
Fooled by the filth that demons rave.
They drive the mindless to the fight,
Each broken head their pure delight.

The spawn still lie about the cost,
And once again the herd is lost.
A "people"? No — a mindless horde,
Marching to slaughter at their lord.



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



Rough-Edged Style

The more the cursing, filth, and spite,
The bigger crowds will swarm the site.
Crude rants and broken, snarling speech
Are now the golden path to reach.

Yet style still leads — indulge its flaws,
They're minor sins compared to those:
The deadlier plague is faking grace
In this cheap world of bought-out fools.



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



Harvest Time of Darkness

The world’s a brew of fear and lies,
Where terror blooms and reason dies.
You’re on the block, don't kid yourself,
If you march with that rotting shelf —

The "crowd" they flatter, sell, and buy.
Walk off alone, or rot and die.
If clothes define you at a glance,
The cage will close — no second chance.

Stay sharp, stay fierce — forsake the herd.
This world is madness, thought absurd,
Where **** ride slaves with grinning pride,
Yet choke in chains they can't untie.

The Harvest’s come — the dark, the knives.
No mercy now. No second lives.



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



Subject-Object Dementia

A mind CONDITIONED only falls,
Dragged downward by the Dark’s grim calls.
Where genocide and fascists grin,
And Spirit's crushed by lies within —
All hail to dead material schemes.
Awake! Break free from nightmare dreams!



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



A Madhouse Stretched Across the Land

We'll build new "Wondertowns" again,
While forging shackles for each brain.
Endless "construction" blurs the view,
Led by a government askew —
Better than playing "Napoleon" grand
In a madhouse, weeping through the land.



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



The Indivisibility of the Whole

"The Whole is seized by parts."
— Lucius Seneca, 1st century AD


The Whole is still the Whole —
Break it bit by bit,
(Mankind's favorite goal),
And the truth is missed.

Nature’s core is shattered
By the mob's blind hand,
With false "science" scattered —
A slave’s iron brand.

A cage, a dried-out sweet —
Junk food, trinket piles.
Nature crushed beneath
The filth of human guile,

Of those anointed kings
Of falsehood's sacred reign.
Lie => "the people's" shrinks
To beasts — no lower plane.

CowID unmasked
The hidden overlord
Of false science — tasked
With shame beyond words.

Yet the fool still kneels,
Building Hell once more.
Only cataclysms’ steel
Will slam shut the door

On savagery we crown
As "mind" upon this Earth.
Now — we are the blight,
And soon — erased by worth.



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



A Dead Man’s Journey

"Much is said about the qualities of good upbringing.
The first I would demand — and it contains many others —
is not to be a man who can be bought."
— Jean-Jacques Rousseau


Rousseau, from grave awakened, sighs,
And treads the world, his heart undone:
The bought-off fools infest the skies,
Obedience to evil — law for everyone.

The centuries have flown — grown worse.
"Progress!" they shout from every shore.
No need today for honest verse —
Just those who praise False Ashes evermore,

Or clog the mad world's dying veins
With cheap amusements, trash and lies.
A writer's work prints few remains —
Sold souls their only enterprise...



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



To Be Human — That’s the Prize

To be a Man — a stroke of grace:
Beasts all around, the beasts inside.
Darkness still schemes its last disgrace —
To strip our soul, "with love" and "pride."

With "care" they’ll do it — filthy swine —
CowID laid the scheme out bare.
Today they batter us with lies,
Their "puppet squads" patrol the air —

Not soldiers now, but slyer tools,
Who guard the trough from clumsy hands.
Forget the guns! Today's old fools
Trade "treats" like powder — filth expands!

Legions of sellouts crowd the field;
Thus Earth is ****** beyond repair.
The megatons of Lies revealed
Will crush us through another layer.



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



Crucified by Nonsense

"Ignorance is a demonic force, and we fear it will cause many more tragedies."
— Karl Marx


Not just a force — a demon's scheme:
A tool to keep the world in chains.
Surround the fools — it makes it seem
The yoke must tighten on their brains.

They bent the herd till spines gave way,
In CowID's foul, corrupt ballet.
We wait for Cataclysms' day —
Let emptiness devour the beasts
That nail us to their nonsense-crucifix!



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



Walking Templates

"If we confessed our sins to one another,
we would laugh at our lack of originality.
If we revealed our virtues,
we would laugh just the same."
— Khalil Gibran


One template bruised another’s face
And proudly crowed: "Behold! I’m new!"
But glimpse the "joy" in their disgrace —
The world is lost, and rightly too.



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



By Another Road...

The GULAG's flag — now UN’s disguise:
When CowID was rammed in place,
It stripped the world before our eyes —
To shame, decay, and dumb disgrace.

WHO? It always stank of dung —
Fascism just switched its path.
Where once small carts of lies were flung,
Now endless trains roll day and night in wrath.

And from the "sidetracks," just you wait,
They’ll dump much more of "something nice."
That "something" none can clear or sate —
Fascism wrecks the world — and thrives.



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



The Contagion of Lies

"Only disease is contagious, not health;
the same with error and truth.
Thus error spreads fast, and truth crawls slowly."
— Pyotr Chaadayev


CowID unveiled how nonsense reigns,
How madness floods the world with ease.
Trust only instinct in your veins —
The air is thick with Dark’s disease.

The plandemic of lies poured wide —
The real infection, not a jest.
I see the rot — my heart inside
Clenches with pain within my chest.

Stay clear of crowds — the sick parade
Where error festers, chronic, deep.
Old Peter’s right — truth’s voice decays,
While tides of evil drown the weak.

Their single law: one foul decree —
Each p-resident bowed to the filth.
The drooling mob, in lunacy,
Surrendered what was left of will.

The "instinct to survive" was slain,
Now killing truth is praised as brave.
We've hit the Bottom — rot remains —
While mobs just howl: "More! We’re but slaves!"



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



Hell of Fascist Filth

The BEASTS who wrought CowID’s pain
Have now declared a war — again.
For ****, they posted price and fee:
Know the cost of infamy.

**** your neighbor, take the bribe,
To "rise from knees," they'll preach and lie.
That war — a trap for crippled minds,
Where newer lies enslave the blind.

A ****** fear? — Just scream and swear,
Lie shamelessly and foul the air,
And soon the Stinking Dark will pose
As kindness — leading fools to close

Their eyes and march to Fascist Hell,
Where butchered souls are made to dwell.
The goal is simple: waste more slaves —
The rot alone can't dig their graves.

Tired of their endless filthy games,
The stench of lies still fuels the flames...





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



Crap in Their Ears

"People only pretend they want a companion in talk.
In truth, they only want a listener."
— Abu Shlomo, 11th century


A true companion? Rarely sought.
A listener — that’s what's been bought:
To drown them in their babbled waste,
To flood them deep in filth and haste.

The mob spews nonsense night and day,
While reason flickers far away.
Mad raving arms the hand of spite —
The world’s been leveled into *****.





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



The Ideals of Degradation

"Even when a people retreats,
it retreats behind an ideal —
and believes it's moving forward."
— Friedrich Nietzsche


The Dark keeps tossing new ideals —
Of rot, decay, and madness crowned.
CowID marked the peak revealed;
More lies ahead, more lies abound.

With filthy nonsense they will raise
A brand-new Camp — but digitized.
The herd will cheer — they love their chains —
Their rotted minds already died.





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



Pol *** outshone the tyrants' crown,
But peace is premature, it’s clear:
CowID has shown the Evil’s frown.
Now, we await the Furious Deer...



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



The people fall to silence deep —
Again, we’ll lie without a peep,
Creating Hell with madness torn,
And minds re-shaped by lies we’ve sworn...



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



"World of beauty" you will find
Once simplicity is left behind.
Through ease, the BEASTS will reign, no doubt:
No beauty left — just rot throughout!



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



Is morning wiser, evening too?
To flee from Bedlam through the night,
For farther still, its rage will brew.
Away, away — and take to flight!



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



Your skin has tainted all that’s pure,
When slaves are bowed and spreading hate.
In this small world, the wars endure,
With wealth, the "light" becomes our fate.

Desire for the flesh takes hold,
The "mind" of flesh leads all astray,
To slaughter creatures, weak and cold —
A mad, depraved and filthy fray.



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



Narrowed minds, obsessed with lies,
We've grown accustomed, no surprise.
With wicked falsehoods in our head,
In "consciousness" — mere Mirage instead.



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



"Angel" to the strong, they say,
"Devil" to the weak at bay.
Man grows foul, the world decays,
Darkness spreads with each new day.

Evil and deceit decree
A death sentence for you and me.
It’ll come soon, as sure as fate.
Until then, strike at those who wait!



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



The Hidden Satanism of false Religions

"In the words "God" and "religion" I see darkness, darkness, chains and a whip."
Vissarion Belinsky.


Belinsky died, the Soviet reign
Installed the faith in "communism."
It faded out, yet once again,
Lies cloaked in religion's schism.




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



The soulless seeks the elite,
Money talks, dirt’s in the street.
Power’s for them, not for gain,
The middle’s bound to serve the chain.

In every land, the lowly rise —
A mix of beasts and human lies.
The protest’s voice grows faint and weak —
Power’s in the hands of fools and freaks.



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



A tiresome fool,
Behind him, a knave,
And for that ****, a fool to save —
Rulers... the end is grave!



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



To meet the blade — a gift, they say.
Today it's worse — FPV,
It nearly killed the courage's sway,
In search of love from those we knew.



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



Once in the Sewer, you cannot stay
True to the Heart, no longer sway.
Madness grows, as lies expand —
The Devil’s Seal marks all the land.



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



To cleanse the Heart from soot and grime,
And move once more, beyond all time —
From "man in a box" to one who sees,
A soul that learns and truly frees.



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



By "moral law",
The Dark lays traps,
But heed the Heart,
And Soul escapes its grasp.



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



No limit to the Falsehood’s reign,
Where chaos rises, breaks the chain.
When fools believe, with hearts "so bold",
That "leaders" wise and strong unfold.



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



Innocent deaths have grown less rare,
The balance shifts to deep despair.
The wise grow few, the gap expands —
The world now rots with vacant hands.



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



I can.
They cannot:
Serve the whip
Until the final spot.

Their fate —
Or rather, their doom —
The "path" of slaves,
Their backs in gloom.

The few —
Cannot unite
In endless queues.
Hell’s not a sight.

Hell surrounds —
All is lost, it’s clear,
A vicious round —
Where lies appear.





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



"In the depths of Siberian ores"

"The mind is a god for everyone."
Heraclitus


The mind was God. But Satan,
Became the lord of lower spheres,
And crept inside the Mind, to flatten—
We, beasts, now doomed to jagged piers.



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



The Foam of Evil on the Surface of the Cloaca of the Wretched World

Reevaluation of power’s common,
But it turns critical, you see,
When Evil’s strength is underestimated—
Its foam alone, the only debris.

Beneath, the monsters wage their fight.
Before them, humans fade to naught,
Forgetting God's Spark, lost to the night.
And in the end, to Hell we’ve all been brought...



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



Propaganda

There’s never glitch in the war’s great roar—
Propaganda's pure, vile fright!
Listening, the citizen's poor,
Becomes a beast in the propaganda's blight.

With brains long rotted, no more discerning,
They take it all, believe the lie.
The more the fear, the more they’re burning,
The more the fools stand side by side.

To war, to “healing,” they can be led,
Propaganda’s grip, it’s all the same.
Decay and lies, on which they’re fed—
To lie, to lie, again, the game!



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



The Bottom

Slave souls,
Beasts in lawless sway,
All their “thoughts” in hollow holes,
The honest cast away.

Few are wise, few are true—
Fewer with each day.
Propaganda's sting will brew,
And we’ll all fade away.

Sleep? No, it’s lethargy!
All is doomed, we see.
"We’re not so bad!" they plea—
Thus speaks the BOTTOM, eternally.



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



Chasing Games on Asphalt

I step out on the asphalt,
In summer boots, skis strapped tight.
Maybe the skis don’t glide at all,
Or maybe I’m just out of sight.

The TV's spell—a darker dream—
Worse than any painting, grim.
No need for vice, no sin to scheme—
Lies are plenty for the dim.

I showed my new skis, poles in hand,
The fools all bought it, sure enough.
Once again, they took the stand—
And in the chase, they’ve had enough.



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



Dreams and Hopes

Silly hopes, those puzzling pieces,
You gather in your mind each day,
While fascism and false diseases
Buy the foolish, led astray.

Dreams, those pitiful desires,
Always drag the mind below.
Dreams amidst the festering fires—
They break through—guess they didn’t know?

The pus has flooded, all’s decayed,
More sores with every passing day.
Fascism grows more dull and frayed—
It must burn in Sacred Flame, I say.

Holiness isn’t in those scrolls,
But Nature—where the Sun’s the Fire,
To crush the fools, and make them whole,
As it burns the world in fascist mire.





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



A Half-Tone Higher!

Higher, not lower!
If you stay quieter—
Forget about the hernia,
It’s bound to be the pariah.

You must break yourself,
Get sick or fall to drink,
So you won’t waste away—
Let their faces start to stink.

Ugly mugs and masks—
Multiply with fiery rhyme.
No reason left to ask,
"To measure fools in time."

How the crowd will rate it,
How the crowd will judge,
With price tags on their hatred—
The Judas leash, a grudge.



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



City

Slashed wide—
A knife in the "belly" bides:
It’s fascism that shakes inside.



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



The Blind Spot in Consciousness

The blind spot, this "unique I,"
Holds us, as the crowd directs,
Through such spots, like trash, we fly—
Through them, it all just disconnects.

And through this spot, the spell takes hold,
Its power grows with passing years.
Soon we'll all be fed the mold,
As we become the fools, in tears.

No joke—literally. In the madhouse, it’s true,
They’re testing just how far it goes,
For Conscience, Spirit, Reason, too—
In the Asylum, none of those.



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



Small Business Crushed

The petty thugs crush business dreams—
Will bandits take their toll?
But the **** is just a small-time scheme—
Choking all with fascist soul.

With CowID, they’ve wiped out so
Many businesses, now dead.
The vermin roam, while maggots show
Their rot as they spread the dread.

"Food" is insects, soon you'll see—
You’ll have to eat their waste.
The world turns into a sarcoma,
So we must burn it with haste.

The Sun has started on its task—
Growing stronger every day,
It burns the world of fools who ask,
With its Sacred Flame to slay.





--- Total 234 poems ---