Tuned to Nonsense
Tuning your ears to nonsense clear,
Tripling your gut’s instinctual fear,
Reworking all your critical mind,
You’ll find the Judas in the heroic kind.
Easiest of all—Pav Morozov,
From others, vile threats often shove:
"Sort the Pantheon—take your claim,
Place them all where none’s the same."
---------------------
Worship of the Horned One
Our Masha cries so loud and clear—
They lied to her about good cheer.
Treachery’s the key to rise,
For the horned one rules the skies.
Hush now, Masha, don’t you weep,
You’ll earn your bread, your gold to keep.
And serve him well, the one you bow—
Just bend and break beneath him now.
---------------------
Darkness is gunpowder,
Lies are the fuse.
Tolerate Moloch? —
You’ve got nothing to lose!..
---------------------
The Distant Journey
The plague of words
From traitor swine
Calls the fools
To the Land of Lies, malign.
Now the guide is just a pawn,
Sent by the beasts—lost and gone.
---------------------
No More Thoughts
When there’s no more thought to ponder,
Only REACTIONS rise in you,
Put on your coat, your gear, and wander,
And heed the trumpet’s call anew.
"Enemies" will soon be found,
The more the fools, the better still.
Once they hid in holes, "unbound"—
Now in trenches, slaves they fill.
---------------------
Mindless Rot
The fools have made themselves at home,
And called their cesspit "parliament."
No brains — just guts and empty foam,
Their “laws” make zero, dumbfound sense.
They chant and chew, no thoughts to share —
Just mouths to feed and slogans loud.
Yet media dreams fill the air:
"Joy for all! No pain allowed!"
---------------------
The Building of Communism
"Make ploughshares out of every sword!" —
The fiends cried out to every fool.
Then from those ploughs rose no accord —
Just vanished lives and ruthless rule.
---------------------
So-Called “Russophobia,” or The Instinct of Self-Preservation
“Russophobia” — they claim —
Is just blind hate, without a cause.
But it’s defense from spreading shame,
From cargo-darkness, war, and laws.
They say it “lights up minds” with fire —
But does it light… or just incinerate?
A “Russophobe” is no denier —
Just keen to seal no fascist fate.
---------------------
The zombie-box will always win
Against the fridge — it works within.
It feeds with visions of delight,
And fattens herds without a fight.
They swell with pride and happy cheers
For “righteous paths” and hollow years.
Such are the traits, so plain to see,
Of modern propaganda — baaa from me!
---------------------
The scaffold doesn't trust your tears...
Indifference, fear, and endless lies,
Submission, death, and fading skies.
If born upon the scaffold’s rise,
Forget the cries, the weak disguise.
Make fury the salt of your life,
And battle all the World’s great strife.
At last, with blood, your mark inscribe —
A signature: you won’t be snuffed alive.
---------------------
The Goose World
— Gadget! Gadget!
— Ga-ga-ga!
— Will it tell you lies?
— Yes-yes-yes!
— You can't fly with it, you see!
— Food, distraction, beasts — that's key,
And no need for Heights, just glee!
---------------------
Burrows
Arguments over food and space,
In the real world, we find our place.
But on the cover, looking grand —
A city rises, far from sand.
---------------------
The Beastly Mantra
"What can I do?!" — the mantra calls,
A chant from beasts behind their walls.
The inhumans, clever, play their part,
Replacing chains with lies at heart.
Together, they’ll spread falsehood wide,
And with our song, the truth will hide.
Our anthem’s done, the crowd’s insane —
By the majority, we’re bound in chains.
---------------------
Stuck Minds and Years of Running
A wedge won’t clear the mind's decay,
It only makes it worse each day.
Therapy won’t help the pain —
The shrinks are dull, it’s all in vain:
It’s not about health, but wealth,
Their aim’s to line their pockets stealth.
Running helps — though not always right —
You’ll need to run for years, not night.
---------------------
Ice for Bruises
Running like snow that blankets ground,
It hides the wounds that still are bound
In hearts, offering a cooling touch —
Only to cold, the wounds clutch.
---------------------
Burn! And burn without a trace—
That’s what became of many "grace."
All that's left is the stench of lies,
A filthy soul that never dies.
---------------------
God could not restrain the UGLY —
Now it's us who face the struggle.
Strength is fading, hope is thin,
And the minds grow dark within.
---------------------
Every century, every season,
Fools increase — and lose all reason.
No tomorrow, no clear way —
Just mad minds that go astray.
---------------------
They cure all lack of cash with money,
And sickness too — it isn’t funny.
Soon minds will get their safeguards done
With crypto sums in banks — well spun.
---------------------
The price of junk keeps climbing higher —
The world’s become a global mart.
While Conscience fades, its voice grows dire —
Cash is the god in every heart.
---------------------
They’re clearing out old myths and notions,
Like forests burned for cultured seeds —
The Devil’s lab-grown dark devotions,
Designed to serve his hidden needs.
And soon, not only food is tainted —
The mind itself is modified.
A “brave new world” will be acquainted
With thought suppressed, and Evil — dignified.
---------------------
Our Masha cries out loud and long,
For as we go, it all goes wrong —
The fascist state grows more insane,
And women die, the blood, the pain.
Why bear a child in hell’s own name?
Men have degenerated, lost their aim.
No future left, no way to save —
Just standing at the edge, the grave.
---------------------
Our Masha cries out loud and clear:
"What will we leave for those who’re near?
Decay, deceit, and endless fears...
Shall we call our hospitals ‘Gears’?"
---------------------
The minds have lost their way, it seems,
And books of wisdom fade from dreams.
A wedge won't cure what’s torn apart —
Few books remain to heal the heart.
---------------------
A quarter of the songs are sung,
The "choir’s line" is tightly strung.
Strangers can’t break through the sound —
Many fall, lost and unwound.
The "choir" here — propaganda’s crew,
A separate gang, with aims askew.
What’s unsung? It doesn’t fit —
The beastly goals, they won’t admit.
---------------------
In forest depths, where lies have strayed,
And weary from the chaos made,
Rest now — it’s far, far better still
Than thrashing 'midst the filth and ill.
--- Total 26 poems. ---
