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Pagan Paul Jul 2018
.
And her arms enfold me,
I lay my cheek
against her breast.
The shaking starts,
the tears fall,
as sobs emerge unhindered.
Cries from way down deep,
and I hear her heart,
slow, steady, metronomic.
So I follow its rhythm
along a path richly bathed
in warm sunlight.
Through an archway
and across a threshold shrine,
the cemetery of the Ancients.
A hundred thousand names,
carved in marble,
adorned with statues and plinths.
Holding knowledge of old,
and the sound of silence,
like an abandoned library.

The shadow of love hovers close,
driving through midnight mists
and leading me on.
Practising narrative necromancy,
reanimating old words,
giving them life newly born,
upon the first carved marbles,
its names burnished with wisdom,
and the anonymity of obscurity.
There glows one name
in forgotten script
and I know my deepest identity,
the weight of the aeons
flows free into my mind,
histories of the millennia.
I know
my Forest Lady holds secrets
that belong to me.
And she gestates them all,
a coveted pregnancy.

A path-working, an etherical dream,
and her heart skips a beat,
as another part of me
crumbles and dies,
to mingle with the dust
of ancient knowledge.



© Pagan Paul (11/07/18)
.
SMOKE of the fields in spring is one,
Smoke of the leaves in autumn another.
Smoke of a steel-mill roof or a battleship funnel,
They all go up in a line with a smokestack,
Or they twist ... in the slow twist ... of the wind.
  
If the north wind comes they run to the south.
If the west wind comes they run to the east.
  By this sign
  all smokes
  know each other.
Smoke of the fields in spring and leaves in autumn,
Smoke of the finished steel, chilled and blue,
By the oath of work they swear: "I know you."
  
Hunted and hissed from the center
Deep down long ago when God made us over,
Deep down are the cinders we came from-
You and I and our heads of smoke.
  
Some of the smokes God dropped on the job
Cross on the sky and count our years
And sing in the secrets of our numbers;
Sing their dawns and sing their evenings,
Sing an old log-fire song:
  
You may put the damper up,
You may put the damper down,
The smoke goes up the chimney just the same.
  
Smoke of a city sunset skyline,
Smoke of a country dusk horizon-
  They cross on the sky and count our years.
  
Smoke of a brick-red dust
  Winds on a spiral
  Out of the stacks
For a hidden and glimpsing moon.
This, said the bar-iron shed to the blooming mill,
This is the slang of coal and steel.
The day-gang hands it to the night-gang,
The night-gang hands it back.
  
Stammer at the slang of this-
Let us understand half of it.
  In the rolling mills and sheet mills,
  In the harr and boom of the blast fires,
  The smoke changes its shadow
  And men change their shadow;
  A ******, a ***, a bohunk changes.
  
  A bar of steel-it is only
Smoke at the heart of it, smoke and the blood of a man.
A runner of fire ran in it, ran out, ran somewhere else,
And left-smoke and the blood of a man
And the finished steel, chilled and blue.
  
So fire runs in, runs out, runs somewhere else again,
And the bar of steel is a gun, a wheel, a nail, a shovel,
A rudder under the sea, a steering-gear in the sky;
And always dark in the heart and through it,
  Smoke and the blood of a man.
Pittsburg, Youngstown, Gary-they make their steel with men.
  
In the blood of men and the ink of chimneys
The smoke nights write their oaths:
Smoke into steel and blood into steel;
Homestead, Braddock, Birmingham, they make their steel with men.
Smoke and blood is the mix of steel.
  
  The birdmen drone
  in the blue; it is steel
  a motor sings and zooms.
  
Steel barb-wire around The Works.
Steel guns in the holsters of the guards at the gates of The Works.
Steel ore-boats bring the loads clawed from the earth by steel, lifted and lugged by arms of steel, sung on its way by the clanking clam-shells.
The runners now, the handlers now, are steel; they dig and clutch and haul; they hoist their automatic knuckles from job to job; they are steel making steel.
Fire and dust and air fight in the furnaces; the pour is timed, the billets wriggle; the clinkers are dumped:
Liners on the sea, skyscrapers on the land; diving steel in the sea, climbing steel in the sky.
  
Finders in the dark, you Steve with a dinner bucket, you Steve clumping in the dusk on the sidewalks with an evening paper for the woman and kids, you Steve with your head wondering where we all end up-
Finders in the dark, Steve: I hook my arm in cinder sleeves; we go down the street together; it is all the same to us; you Steve and the rest of us end on the same stars; we all wear a hat in hell together, in hell or heaven.
  
Smoke nights now, Steve.
Smoke, smoke, lost in the sieves of yesterday;
Dumped again to the scoops and hooks today.
Smoke like the clocks and whistles, always.
  Smoke nights now.
  To-morrow something else.
  
Luck moons come and go:
Five men swim in a *** of red steel.
Their bones are kneaded into the bread of steel:
Their bones are knocked into coils and anvils
And the ******* plungers of sea-fighting turbines.
Look for them in the woven frame of a wireless station.
So ghosts hide in steel like heavy-armed men in mirrors.
Peepers, skulkers-they shadow-dance in laughing tombs.
They are always there and they never answer.
  
One of them said: "I like my job, the company is good to me, America is a wonderful country."
One: "Jesus, my bones ache; the company is a liar; this is a free country, like hell."
One: "I got a girl, a peach; we save up and go on a farm and raise pigs and be the boss ourselves."
And the others were roughneck singers a long ways from home.
Look for them back of a steel vault door.
  
They laugh at the cost.
They lift the birdmen into the blue.
It is steel a motor sings and zooms.
  
In the subway plugs and drums,
In the slow hydraulic drills, in gumbo or gravel,
Under dynamo shafts in the webs of armature spiders,
They shadow-dance and laugh at the cost.
  
The ovens light a red dome.
Spools of fire wind and wind.
Quadrangles of crimson sputter.
The lashes of dying maroon let down.
Fire and wind wash out the ****.
Forever the **** gets washed in fire and wind.
The anthem learned by the steel is:
  Do this or go hungry.
Look for our rust on a plow.
Listen to us in a threshing-engine razz.
Look at our job in the running wagon wheat.
  
Fire and wind wash at the ****.
Box-cars, clocks, steam-shovels, churns, pistons, boilers, scissors-
Oh, the sleeping **** from the mountains, the ****-heavy pig-iron will go down many roads.
Men will stab and shoot with it, and make butter and tunnel rivers, and mow hay in swaths, and slit hogs and skin beeves, and steer airplanes across North America, Europe, Asia, round the world.
  
Hacked from a hard rock country, broken and baked in mills and smelters, the rusty dust waits
Till the clean hard weave of its atoms cripples and blunts the drills chewing a hole in it.
The steel of its plinths and flanges is reckoned, O God, in one-millionth of an inch.
  
Once when I saw the curves of fire, the rough scarf women dancing,
Dancing out of the flues and smoke-stacks-flying hair of fire, flying feet upside down;
Buckets and baskets of fire exploding and chortling, fire running wild out of the steady and fastened ovens;
Sparks cracking a harr-harr-huff from a solar-plexus of rock-ribs of the earth taking a laugh for themselves;
Ears and noses of fire, gibbering gorilla arms of fire, gold mud-pies, gold bird-wings, red jackets riding purple mules, scarlet autocrats tumbling from the humps of camels, assassinated czars straddling vermillion balloons;
I saw then the fires flash one by one: good-by: then smoke, smoke;
And in the screens the great sisters of night and cool stars, sitting women arranging their hair,
Waiting in the sky, waiting with slow easy eyes, waiting and half-murmuring:
  "Since you know all
  and I know nothing,
  tell me what I dreamed last night."
  
Pearl cobwebs in the windy rain,
in only a flicker of wind,
are caught and lost and never known again.
  
A pool of moonshine comes and waits,
but never waits long: the wind picks up
loose gold like this and is gone.
  
A bar of steel sleeps and looks slant-eyed
on the pearl cobwebs, the pools of moonshine;
sleeps slant-eyed a million years,
sleeps with a coat of rust, a vest of moths,
a shirt of gathering sod and loam.
  
The wind never bothers ... a bar of steel.
The wind picks only .. pearl cobwebs .. pools of moonshine.
Dawnstar Jan 2018
Tepid damp and lukewarm night,
Build your camp by rivers bright;
Sable black and and somber grey,
Silt the river's arms away.

Island tenements rent for cheap,
Bakèd bricks in plinths lie deep;
Stores of merchants and their wives,
Sheltered from the thund'rous tides.

Glance on that maternal shrine,
Softly angled toward the Rhine;
See the men with flowing beards,
Seldom entertaining fears.

Moon illumes a stony pose,
Sun sustains a garden rose;
Temple pillars bathed in or,
Leave mute shadows on the floor.

Olifant horns begin to sound,
Tribesmen fall upon the town;
Riding with the northern gust,
Trampling the homes to dust.

Yet, as gateside rocks abound,
From the ashes, rises now,
Where that city met disgrace,
A mighty fortress in its place.
Now, the horns will sound no more,
In the Temple of the Ruhr.
Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length—at length—after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength—
O spells more sure than e’er Judaean king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!

Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones!

But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades—
These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts—
These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze—
These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin—
These stones—alas! these gray stones—are they all—
All of the famed, and the colossal left
By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?

“Not all”—the Echoes answer me—”not all!
Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule
With a despotic sway all giant minds.
We are not impotent—we pallid stones.
Not all our power is gone—not all our fame—
Not all the magic of our high renown—
Not all the wonder that encircles us—
Not all the mysteries that in us lie—
Not all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.”
John F McCullagh May 2017
Mine eyes have seen the statues being torn down from their plinths
erasing our shared history at the Citizens expense
those who rewrite the past commit a grave offense

when Truth is trampled on.

Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
The Truth is trampled on.

Soon they’ll revise the history books and omit the civil war.
Our Youth won’t have to learn about the “lost cause” anymore                                                                                                                  
To tell the truth about the past will be against the law

then  truth is trampled on.

There was once a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel,
"Six hundred thousand had to die before our land could heal;"
When a Hero, born of woman, crushed Rebellion with his heel
When God was marching on.

Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
The Truth is trampled on.

I have heard the trumpets echo die; its absence makes me weep
I see Marse Robert join the rest upon the ******* heap
He who was skilled in victory and gracious in defeat-

This history must live on.

Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!

This history must live on.
t is a a sad state of affairs when Lenin is honored  with a statue and Robert E. Lee is dragged down like he was Saddam Hussein. Lee was our countries hero during the Mexican war, he led the Americans who recaptured Harper's ferry from John Brown, a domestic terrorist. He was a worthy adversary in the War between the States and his gracious surrender did much to heal the wounds of war.
These cultural Fascists of the Left do no one any favors. Remember that those who start by burning books end up burning Human beings
Darkly Jun 2018
Sleep.

The vast world of dreams, leaden as oceans deep.

In the depths we find our dear prince, but this time—dreamless—in a place of ether and temporal energy.

Woven throughout a nebula are paths of light leading to distant gates and far off doorways.

Plinths of stone floating about… Orbiting…

On one such path our prince finds himself, his means of arrival… not remembered.

If this is not a dream, then how can I be drawing breath? Where am I?

The luminous pink and blue gasses impart nothing. The twinkling dust scattered all around only twinkles.

This place is beautiful… and has such strong magic, on a scale I have not seen before.

Calypso looks to the path on which he stands. Made of energy, it winds, curves, dips, rises, and connects with many others. A few end at what appear to be large doorways… portals…

He starts to walk down the path.

With barely three steps taken, Calypso senses something… a slight breeze… he stops and turns to see a storm.

A massive squall line of dark rolling clouds with sporadic flashes of light emanating from within.

Thunder, ominous.

What brought that about?

No sooner had the question formed in his mind than he realized the speed at which the storm was traveling. In a mere minute, it seemed to have moved a mile closer; another minute and he will be in its clutches.

Tracing geometric patterns in the air with his hands and using words of enchantment, Calypso creates a sphere of magical energy around himself.

The storm, an unstoppable force of magic and nature, consumes the prince.

The shield, conjured by one of the most powerful sorcerers, holds.

There is darkness…

The clouds move around Calypso’s magic sphere, lightning flashes nearby and everything is lit for an instant. A moment passes, and the hairs on the back of his neck start to tingle…

And a massive bolt of lightning connects with his shield, turning its blue hue to fiery orange—and another arcs into the path close by—Calypso, eyes closed, is thrown from the path by the shockwave.

Through space, the prince flies…

On stone, does he land…

His shield, gone.

The hungry wind starts sweeping him from the plinth—lightning flashes—he finds a hold and grips the stone with all of his strength.

But such is the strength of the wind… Is this it, then?

And in an instant, the storm passes, the wind moves on…

Silence.

Calypso pulls his battered body to the middle of the floating stone and stands. His wonder, greater than anything he had felt before. Moments pass… he senses something…

A slight breeze…

He turns and looks.

Out in the distance, in the void between the stars… a silver sail.
;~)
James Andrews Oct 2013
Drawn lines amongst the willows dripping,
Shadows of the morning,
Sight set upon the evening star,
He gazes at the solstice moon,
Plots placements of the plinths and altars,
Holds the hearts of sarsens.

Tomorrow all the villagers will come
Expecting messages and blessings.
Tonight he only dances.
Robed arms upraised
Reflect the branches overhead
Now shattered by the starlight,
Recessional of priesthood.

Across the yawning sway of centuries
He smiles.

He knows the fervid moss
A dream much like his own and all those after,
How the generations falling down
Will wonder, touch the giant stones

And breathe
Cody Edwards Feb 2010
The winter had been bitter cold,
Yet still gave way to spring.
Anticipating the untold
And ev’ry lively fling.

Of eager mists and marigolds,
The winds would think at length.
In majesty the hilly folds
Shone sunny, golden plinths.

Still Silence greeted Morning, bold
Not fearing, he, the sting.
For Winter had been careless, cold
And murdered everything.
© Cody Edwards 2010
Psalm 14  vs. 1-7 ' The fool has said in his heart there is no God '

' Crown him with many Crowns the lamb upon his throne , hark all the heavenly music drowns all music but it's own '.
" Banished to earth now what ?
Ah Gods blessed created ones
Did God really say that ? '.
A thud as fruit from the mans hand suddenly falls to earth ,
Oh cheribim and flaming sword  thunder hail and rain .

AD 34
" All. Hail King of the Jews , ''.  as The light of the world is slain ,
Lamb of God oh Holy one blessed be thy name .

On a Holy hill death stands still
a curtain torn in two ,
as darkness fell , no more hell and life is born anew .
A gardener who had broken bread , crushed satans head to all who will believe .
Yet man still mocks , time has cast Gods word upon a shelf ,
stacked with books of Peter Pan , with Idols made of gold .
Nailed down on war chalking plinths
Made from nicotine tar and soot .
Forged in bronze , coloured by money , wealth and power.

Yet to the faithful few who gather in pews , every Sunday morn ,
Dawn awakes , heavens gates and with the Angels start to sing praises to
Their Savior King oh hail redeemer King for he has died for me thy praise
Shall never fail throughout eternity ..
God Bless
Jude v 24.x
aeri izzy Mar 2019
what's to find in this labyrinth
how to move with the flow
too much mist and identical plinths
no Adrian's string glow
no scent of hyacinths
is a pathway ever gonna show!
suddenly represent itself and meet her gaze!
and will it matter if it's spacious or narrow?
perhaps she's enjoying this state of maze
or maybe it's denial and ache for the afterglow..
John F McCullagh Aug 2017
Let our country produce no more exceptional men;
at least none worth remembering in Bronze or Stone.
The American Taliban has declared war on the past;
Since those men are dead, their statues must atone.

So pull down their monuments and leave the empty plinths.
Efface their names from  parks and roads and forts.
Gutzon Borglum offends us with his carvings.
“Demolish Stone Mountain!” the Taliban retorts.

The day will come when Stonewall is just a bar
Where tops and bottoms battled with police.
Foote, Catton and McPherson must be burned,
with all other books about that war and peace.

An army of ants can bring an elephant down.
An army of ignorance can drag down old heroes.
When America is exceptional no more
All will be equal; all men will be zeros.
The Past and the Future are both at the mercy of the Present.  I don’t know which of them to pity more.
PK Wakefield Dec 2014
The first act of creating oneself is nearly impossible. Being that they must ***** the very plinth upon which all creating is later done–all plinths themselves been built on ever prior ones.
Lawrence Hall Sep 2017
Now That We All Know What a Plinth Is…

What will we establish upon our bare, ruined plinths
Where late the stern-visaged generals stood? 1
Guitarists, perhaps, or free-verse poets
Or refugees from Harvard’s sophomore class

We could ***** erections to erections
As advertised on the family radio
With brazen legends reading “Hey-Hey! **-**”
Honoring the noble eloquence of our age

Or, with roses for remembrance, leave them bare
Amid shrill protestations of despair


1 Cf. Sonnet 73, Shakespeare
Bamiyan
John F McCullagh Jun 2019
“We have no need of “Heroes” from our “so-called” storied past.”
So they pulled their statues from their plinths, while we looked on aghast.
The generals and the Presidents; the finest men we’d known,
Consigned to History’s dustbin until one remained alone.

Grant’s tomb was desecrated; its plea for peace ignored.
His opponents’ visage shattered; Lee reduced to shards of stone.
“Thomas Jefferson was a ****** who had children by his slave.”
Despite some feeble protests, his statues weren’t saved.

“Churchill’s bust, be gone from us!” They tossed it on the heap.
“Consign him to the flames!” they roared. It was not his first defeat.
Paintings done by Trumbull joined busts made by Houdon
Until nearly all reminders of our country’s past were gone.

Once Washington and Jefferson had joined Lee and Longstreet;
Their Paintings and their statues gone; their names expunged from streets.
They pulled “Old Glory” from its pole and consigned it to the fire,
and danced like Satan’s children as the flames leaped ever higher.

At last, they came for Lincoln to unseat him from his throne.
Of our pantheon of heroes, he, till now, was left alone.
“His fine words and speeches shall not save him from this fate!”
“He was a white supremacist too; he wished blacks would emigrate.”

What he thought of these barbarians is known to him alone.
Like Athena of antiquity, when the “Christians’ razed her home.
They went to work with relish until Abe’s statue had atoned.
For all sins, real and imagined, they left no stone upon a stone.

From age to age we gather, and we pool our ignorance.
At things we think good and moral,, our forebears would take offense.
Tolerance- the last virtue lost, as we approach a darker time.
Our civic altars desecrated; our civilization in decline.
Some of this has already happened. More of this type of activity is planned... In a world where poor Kate Smith has her statue wrapped in garbage bags isn't anything possible? After all, the Taliban desecrated art that had endured a thousand years. Still, I hope this remains a work of fiction and not a prophecy. This work of fantasy was inspired by a friend's observation that artists like Mozart Haydn and Beethoven  are being removed from the curriculum of several American Universities for the sin of being old dead white Europeans.
Fire

"Fire is eternal as the root of all things,
while the cosmos is not eternal."
— Heraclitus

Fire is timeless. Worlds are fleeting—
False and frail, their heart's not beating
When Spirit’s impulse gets suppressed
Like pus that festers in the chest.

The Fire’s within—now stir, ignite!
Or serve the Dark. Defend your blight.
Corrupt the ego, sly and clever,
With "minds" built just to fail forever.

They justify the beasts’ demands—
Still waiting blessings from their hands?
Then wait—your soul they'll surely shred,
But first, feed lies and fear instead.

They’ll sell you life inside a pen,
Where Satan wears a crown again,
Where forms and names may change their face—
But "kindness" masks the same disgrace.

"Goodness"? That’s the CowID scam:
A sniffle dubbed a plague—then BAM—
They pumped the weak with poison dread,
And fooled a herd into the dead.

And more will fall, for worse is near—
A mind that lacks the Fire, dear,
Is ruled by beasts, by tricks enslaved,
By every scheme that cowards paved.

So fight this world of blood and lies—
Its shallow charm, its thin disguise.
You’ll join, in time, the Fire’s Great Might—
A Flame to make the creatures fright.



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



Pyramid of Rot

"He who wishes to be good at all times is bound to come to ruin among so many who are not."
— Niccolò Machiavelli


Virtue plays the traitor’s part —
Gets you stabbed through honest heart.
Speak your truth? You're marked as threat
In a world of sly regret.

Spirit here’s a cursed disease —
Exiled... if you look within.
But this world, which kneels with ease
To every plague of rotting sin—

Let it choke or let it **** you,
Softly, quietly, out of sight—
But never bow, no matter how
The mob proclaims its twisted right.

For on top there sits a vermin,
Crowned atop the filth they bring.
If your mind is sharp and burning,
There’s no seat here in the ring.



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



The Song of Collapse

"Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky. We fell them and turn them into paper to record our emptiness."
— Khalil Gibran


A bulldozer hums the song of decline,
The sawmill chants its voided line.
We are bark beetles, bred in waves,
Too bored for truth, too dumb for graves.

A house, some snacks, a weekend thrill —
Who cares if Gaia’s wounds won’t heal?
But here’s the twist: she can destroy
The gnats that treat her like a toy.

The cycles come — they always came —
Catastrophes that cleanse by flame.
When fascist peaks, as now, arise,
The Earth will burn her own disguise.

No god will sow the next new seed.
The Devil might. Or none, indeed.
This realm’s a jail for crawling swine—
The fools who won’t read any sign.

So once again they’ll smash the hive
Of madness where the worms survive.
No tears. No legacy to save—
Just chains in every heart and grave.



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



Out of Tenderness Too Deep…

"When asked why he had no children, Anacharsis replied: 'Out of love for children.'"
— Anacharsis, 6th century BCE


When warmth of soul runs deep and true,
No child will face the hell we do.
The fool breeds life to gain some gold—
Then throws kids into cages cold.

That fool will mold, with clumsy hands,
A clone of self — who barely stands.
And life becomes a twisted trial
For those raised in the mob’s denial.

For love, to them, is just routine,
A hollow chant, a borrowed scene.
They pass down fear as sacred lore—
And childhood feels like prison lore.



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



Drifting Downstream on Makeshift Rafts

Down the stream — toward Decomposition,
That’s the journey’s destination.
Through the swamp of dim traditions,
Few still fight with real fixation.

To swim upstream, resist, and drown —
They take it almost as a crown.
But try to find such soul or seer
Who brings a message bright and clear.

A message bright—while fascist grime
Devours the Earth in modern time?
The Spirit’s saved through Wrath and Shock
When Earth becomes a public... dock.

A dock of filth: CowID and war—
One rolls in, the next one's sure.
All deserve the purge that nears,
We endure the rot for years,

Pretending we're the great exception
While floating in the same infection.
The raging swimmer, stripped and worn,
Waits for Fire to be reborn.



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



"Normality"

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


"Norms" of fools now flood the land,
Strip your soul with friendly hand.
Dead inside — but grinning wide,
They wear "kindness" as a guide.

"Normal" means to cram your head
With old decay and ancient dread.
That’s how thought gets burned away—
And all repeat the same cliché.

The "new normal" is pure hell,
The old one? Just a slower spell
Where the same grotesque disease
Advanced politely by degrees.

Few can fight — they lack the will.
But rot moves in for every ****.
And soon the mask of sense will fade—
Just ash where "normal" once was laid.



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



A Failure of Creation?

To call this world Creation’s flaw —
Where rot runs rampant, without law,
Where Satan’s cult, in sleek disguise,
Is worshipped under moral lies —

Is it just failure? Weak selection?
Some freak of blind misdirection?
No. It's more — a cursed decree,
A verdict on both soul and mind we see.

No hope ahead, no path to climb.
Half-lives slap us, lost in grime.
Most go mad or play along —
The few who don’t are crushed as wrong.

The mad now build what demons chart,
With soulless hands and hollow heart.
Honor? Daring? Rare, forlorn —
Among the flames that won’t be born.

The flame is gone. The shell remains —
This thing we still call "man" by name.
And now the End begins to gleam —
This world decays its final dream.



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



Dung Flies and Spirit Sparks

To stay untouched by moral rot
Is all the Spirit ever sought.
But fools in every age agree:
Decay is fine — if there’s a fee.

As long as beasts can chew and breed,
They call corruption "daily need."
The foulest rise, the rest conform —
Truth condemned by their swarm’s norm.

For Spirit, though, estrangement saves —
A holy shield from crawling graves.
But dung flies buzz with blind delight—
Their sacred meal is filth by right.

Though scattered, sparks of Spirit blaze
Beyond the reach of Dark’s malaise.
The world may sink in lawless night—
But single souls will hold the light.



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



Not a Glimpse Among the Fiends

I refuse to grasp a thing
In this fiends’ chaotic ring.
There are poems—here I’m loose—
Crafting chaos, no excuse.

“Order” fools try herding in,
I recoil at all their din.
Poetry’s no steady job,
But my mind will twist and lob.

Readers? Nah—I write for me.
Worst of all—publishers see
And they mark the text as ****,
Sharp verse not for crowds to hum.

Muse embraces those who dare,
While the greedy hardly care.
Though it’s harder year by year
To shove freshness in the sphere,

If you run dry, become a freak—
Only boldness saves the weak.



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



"Teaching"

"A truly humane method of teaching is to present only the premises and let the reader’s or listener’s own mind draw the conclusions."
— Ludwig Feuerbach


Fill memory up — with forged facts stacked,
Push "conclusions" for the dull mind’s pact.
A shallow slave is ready, primed.
Today, it’s not enough—herd released,
The beasts are everywhere, the catch increased.



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



Slave Order

"The fewer the citizens, the greater the empire seems."
— Stanisław Jerzy Lec


Small minds breed a "strong state" myth,
Fed by books that twist the smith.
Propaganda from the depths—
Fortifies their shallow steps.

Leader’s role is just as key:
To steer the fools toward debris.
Ruins drive the final nail—
In the coffin, all will fail.

But fools, lying on the dead,
Insist, "No doom," inside their head.
They repeat the same refrain—
The slave order thrives in pain.

It stinks, it bites, it crushes all—
Yet endlessly they heed the call.



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



Self-Deception: Your True Reach

Your power’s higher than the ceiling set
For common “citizens” of petty net.
But lessons fail to make it through—
The examples few, the doubters grew.

Through spirit’s fire, one breaks the chain
Of stupid, weak, and broken reign—
Even if your mind’s impaired,
Pure will can lift you from despair.

Though ruin seems to mark the day,
Your soul’s saved through the darkest sway.
Yet fools revolt when hunger calls,
Like sleepwalkers behind blind walls.

Days pass by, their only gain—
The trash and dumbed-down children’s pain.
They claim a god in pale facades—
These hollow mocks, these living frauds.



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



Death as the Best Physician

"Death is the best physician on earth, who has never had a failed case."
— Ludwig Feuerbach


It cures dullness and betrayal,
Rejects deceit, forgetfulness’ veil,
Radical against all greed and lies,
It saves the Earth—though rot still lies.

But Death will spare Creation’s fire:
Only that remains alive, entire,
While fascism chokes and madness drowns,
And Satan’s realm pulls all things down.

The harshest cure? A furious storm—
A global cataclysmic form.
No one can flee this final test;
All answer for the fool’s unrest.

Both wise and fools must soon unite,
Since reason failed to hold the fight.
Yet in this mad, distorted scene,
The plague of hate reigns cruel and mean.



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



Creating the Dead by Fear and Nonsense

Fear of death
Breeds walking dead.
Trust propaganda—
God of fools instead.

Then scary tales
You’ll wrap around your mind,
Become a fool,
And coward combined.

Once trapped within
This dead, endless loop,
Only fear remains—
Reason starts to droop.

Soon the soul
Will meet its doom,
The world is full
Of canned meat’s gloom.

This is the "citizen"
Of a fake land,
Where idiots die
By trickery’s hand.

CowID showed us—
The Super-Goat reigns,
He rules through lice,
And spreads disdain.

A world ruled by Satan,
No future in sight,
If fools infect
The masses outright.

Fear plus fools—
No man remains,
Just a mass of nonsense—
Dead souls’ remains.



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



Totalitarian Regime

"The ideal person under a totalitarian regime is not the convinced **** or Communist, but one for whom the distinction between fact and fiction, truth and falsehood, no longer exists."
— Hannah Arendt


This grim regime — the whole dumb world today,
Few sense the lies beneath the shallow play.
Their idol now? Mammon or Stalin’s ghost?
The source of falsehoods doesn’t change the most—

For cracks are few, the ice is tightly laid,
The world is frozen in a web of shade.



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



The Rise of Lies — A Symptom of Hell’s Dying World

To rise above a life so poor,
So weak and laughable, no more—
Where CowID-fascist nonsense reigns,
And damaged minds bear endless chains.

A ghastly specter not long past,
Of filth and lies that bind so fast.
Yes, you are captive, trapped in slime,
A world of ****, a waste of time.

But Pure Spirit, the living core
Of those who are not lost, but more,
Can never let this sick realm stand,
If you keep guard with steady hand.

The true foe is not mere men—
But ages, centuries of sin,
Weaving plots to turn us all
To cattle trapped behind the wall.

Chains forged from lies — your task is clear:
Break every link, reject the fear,
Inside yourself, the stone of lies—
Shatter it, and grow wise.

No pain nor trial can harm the soul
When you abandon slaughter’s goal,
Reject the world’s thick fog and hate,
And walk the Path to open gate.

The sheep walk false lands of decay,
This fascist muck devours the day—
The beasts have claimed the realm to keep,
But payment’s due for debts so deep.

The fire comes to cleanse the ****,
Cataclysms will not be numb.
The sun’s bright light grows ever strong,
That Flame will burn the weak and wrong.

Spirit’s few—the blessed few—
Await the grace that’s pure and true.
The beasts will perish, slaves remain,
Who sold their souls for daily gain.

The invader rages in his fear,
Unleashing lies to keep them near.



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



Outward Goals — The Root of Fools and Lies

The Light is within, the fog outside,
Darkness thickens where truths hide.
Nonsense thrives, my friend, you’ll find—
While Light is veiled by lies designed.

Goals set outward—the world’s disease:
A factory for fools with ease!
They swap their chains, new bonds they make—
Replacing old with fresh mistakes.

True goals lie deep inside the soul:
Creation’s spark, the knowledge whole.
Fools seek in ruins false delight—
In lies and sludge they lose the fight.

Future goals control the crowd,
If minds can’t reach, they’re pushed, allowed
To follow schemes set by the blind,
Who trap the weak and dull the mind.



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



Chains That Bind Us All

A link is ****,
But strong the chain!
Not world—just pit
For fools’ domain.

If you’re a link,
It seems alright;
But under ****—
You scream in spite.

To all the pure,
The stench blinds sight;
The slyest brute
Is glad to bite.

Fool and fiend—
They form the chain.
Their god? The End—
The source of pain.

But hidden lies
Within their books.
Decay and spite
Bind all with hooks.

They’ve chained us all—
No hope remains.
Success in filth—
Complete insane.

Only few
Escape the fall.
The rabble bowed—
And lost it all.



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



Economic Cattle and the Rare Wise

"We shall leave this world as foolish and as cruel as we found it."
— Voltaire


Who seeks to raise the Reason now
Within this world, so low and foul?
All aimless under greed’s sharp sight,
Embracing evil’s dark design.

Few break away from common herd—
The world drifts down to utter void,
Not mere decay, but helped along
By genocide that masks the wrong.

The wise navigate through beasts,
But harder grows the fight to free—
As CowID revealed the truth:
The world’s become a vast untruth—

A global nothingness in place—
Of lies and shame, a dark disgrace.



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



Steel Cut by Torch, Minds Cut by Lies

Steel is cut with blazing flame,
But lies cut people just the same.
Promising fools a distant light,
The mob believes again despite.

The tale repeats — the white bull’s myth,
Yet lies grow sharp, they sting and sift,
Killing fools with finer art,
A brand-new war tears minds apart.

False plagues sent in wild campaign,
Propaganda’s ruthless reign—
The herd endures, trapped in the net,
While truth is fading, drowned in debt.



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



Battle Mosquitoes

Battle mosquitoes?!
It’s tough to lose your mind
In this foul, rotten world,
If your soul’s aligned.

But order comes,
When reason’s in control—
Trash is smashed
And crushed whole.



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



Throw a Stone — Rude Meets Rude

Throw a stone — rude meets rude!
If something flies back, conclude:
Blame the fools and their mad spree.
Sure, you’re flawed—so what, agree?

These faces sickened to the core,
No need for petty score.
Raise your stones and stand your ground!
If revenge comes, don’t be bound—

You let your soul pour out, no lie,
Breaking rules where ******* lie.



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



What Once Was Vice

What once was vice
Turns custom’s face—
As long as profit
Fills the place.

To hell with all
Decent ways!
Yet even manners
Twist and craze.

The world’s incurable,
Beyond repair—
We crush it down
With foul despair.



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



At Journey’s End

At journey’s end, you’ll pay the cost—
If you endure the Evil lost,
If mercy waits—will fate align?—
You’ll still amass the filth and grime.

A cheap tale claims the soul’s immune,
But fools’ dull minds are out of tune.
Like acid eats through metal’s frame,
Wake up, lost fool—you’re near to shame!



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



Chains of Universal Nonsense

"Some think they descend from apes who sat upon the tree of knowledge of good and evil."
— Stanisław Jerzy Lec


Darwin, false faith—
The choice is slim:
Chains of nonsense
Make reason dim.

Look within—
Find answers clear.
But send away
All fools near.



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



In the Beginning Was the Word

In the beginning was the Word—
And that word was “Disgrace,”
When genocide becomes the core
Of all, the final case.

Creation turned to verdict here,
As horned god casts his sneer
At those less vile, less lost, less weak—
A curse for all the meek.



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



Degradation of Spirit in the Mob

“Subtle matters” lost,
In rabble through *** tossed:
The essence of mystery
Replaced by mere reflex.



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



The “Virtue” of the Scholar

Once honesty was called the scholar’s grace.
Now in the age of dimmed-out face,
The crumbs of truth have all dissolved,
While honesty’s cause is dissolved.

Revealed by slime and cold neglect,
Paid fools spread vile disrespect.
For bribes, the dumb and rotten send
Their cheers to rot that has no end.

They flood with “proof” that backs the lies,
Echoing foul propaganda’s cries.
On filth, the flies have gathered thick,
Spinning tales of lavender’s trick.



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



Empty Hands in Pockets

They flipped the bird and slipped away
Without a price to pay.
Those who shouted — bullets flew,
Prisons swallowed, or withdrew

Into asylums, lost, forgot.
Such is the fate the slaves have got.
Be kind to beasts, and you will see—
Only brave in kitchen’s spree.



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



Oblivion After a Brief Burst of Mindless Noise

"If you want to hear something good about yourself — die."
— Friedrich Nietzsche


Die — then comes the speech, the grave,
The tombstone’s words, brief and grave.
Nonsense penned by fools in line,
Templates shallow, fleeting time.



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



Involution

Clap! Serf,
Dance on quick!
Lies in face—
They strike us sick:
“Rejoice, good citizen!”
You’re now a beast within...
From slave to animal's world—
Involution’s flag unfurled!



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



The Strengthening of the “Art of Slavery”

“The art of slavery” grows, they say—
So Marx once spoke of Russia’s way.
Each generation worse than past,
And now the Spirit fades so fast.

This showed itself in Ukraine’s fight,
Where paid vile “soldiers” bring the blight.
Approval chills the blood to ice—
Messengers of doom, a dark device.

Not in Bible, but on screen,
Propaganda for the mean.
This mad world soon will descend—
To a New Hell, foul to the end.



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



Crocodile and Cheburashka,
Cat stuck in sour milk’s snare:
Fairy tales struck without fail,
“Kindness” wiped from blotting care.

Harsh regime, so cruel, inhumane—
“Kindness” there feels oddly strange:
Lambs prepared for sacrifice,
“Training” starts before the age.



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



Cowardice, the Mother of Cruelty

Cowardice breeds cruelty’s face;
The father is dull wild disgrace—
Fear. Submission hardens hearts,
And thus all striving soon departs.

Passion’s flame that dares to fight
Clashes with this world’s dull blight,
Which, consumed by foul decay,
Falls face-down to evil’s sway.



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



The Small Fry: Their Torment

The small fry’s torment now
Angers, not annoys somehow.
Darkness bets on stupid throng—
A drop wears stone all along.

Amidst the vile and base,
The toughest means so little place:
No scythe strikes the solid ground—
Just slime and filth all around.



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



The Greed for Power

More power — they demand it still!
Hence the plague, the bitter ill:
Rot and filth rule over all,
Swallow lies, obey the thrall.

Sensitive feel endless pain
In the shadow, truth’s domain:
Honest, sharp, and wise — alone,
In a world where Satan’s throne.

Only beasts can unite here—
Genocide persists in fear,
Judgment passed on mind and soul,
In this hell that takes its toll.



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



Soul’s Mechanism Unlubricated by Kindness

The work moves on,
Yet soul will creak—
Without warmth, without care,
The Path it seeks to reach.



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



Zero to the Power

Zero raised, the petty lord,
Bureaucrat and politician stored;
But biting stings the blind horsefly—
The root from zero’s heresy:

A whiner or a toughened brute,
From stench and filth, they pollute,
Spreading nonsense, breeding pests—
The Earth trembles, sorely stressed.



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



Doomed to Defeat

“Better to lose with your own than win with the strange,”
Machiavelli’s words in the game’s dark range.


Lose with “your own”? —
Loners, “your own” alone!
Filth from hell rules the dull and weak—
Drive, milk, exploit the meek!

They’ll turn against “ours” with ease,
Crushing them as they please.
The herd forgets the fallen dead,
While sipping beer instead.



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



“Vegetables”

The soul decays before the flesh,
For many fools their minds will mesh.
Is it mere chance, or vile design—
A breed of ****, to evil fine?

They breed like plants, this senseless horde,
The world now seems a “vegetable” board:
Corruption spans generations’ tide,
Before the Darkness bowed and cried—

Stages set in endless chain,
The slave’s regime, eternal pain.
Here Hell and Spirit clash in fight,
A fierce and ever-burning night.



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



Mind’s Distraction

Propaganda, “art” deceive,
The herd destroys the mind they weave,
Last reason crushed, emotions pleased—
Their senses fooled, the thought’s deceased.



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



Mobile Propaganda

“Dismantling monuments? Leave the plinths —
They might still serve as hints.”
— Stanisław Jerzy Lec


It’s time to spread movable stands,
In this world of shallow lands:
They’ll turn the “light” to filth and waste,
And worship new gods in haste.

Fools now quicker on the scene,
Flashing more, but less serene.
For propaganda, bold and rude—
The brazen way sets the crude mood.



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



Overtraining

The left atrium grew too wide
From all the effort poured inside.
Will running save? Just halfway—
Training for a fool gone astray.

Overtraining’s what it seems—
Skill’s required for all extremes!



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



Constant Insult to God’s Spark by Foolish Life

In false life’s shame, from youth confined,
Each soul subdued, their will aligned.
The slime in heaps their rule enshrines—
Obedience made law defines.

But few preserve God’s sacred spark,
Through ages dark, this endless mark.
Hell lingers long, a tortured dome—
Where soul and mind find no true home.



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



The Right Questions

To ask the right questions —
Oh, not so easy, friend.
Nonsense stirs the mind astray —
Your own demise might send.

Chaos weighs us down —
Some lost in the fray:
The beasts of survival
Crush life in the decay.

And ask about the muck —
What’s this sheepish world for? —
Consciousness displaced,
By lies tormented, chased,
Fear drives souls to slaughter’s door.



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



The Prism of Fascism

Through fascism’s twisted glass,
The foolish world is bent and cast:
A full spectrum of Satan’s reign—
Yet freaks still dream in vain.



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



Empty Noise and Fuss

"Life steals too much time from men."
— Stanisław Jerzy Lec


Time is lost on empty noise,
Awareness finds just little room.
For few, the soul’s small growing voice
Is choked beneath the weight of gloom.

Measured loud in decibels,
The body reigns, not Spirit’s light.
Life’s craft designed in cunning spells—
A slide to chaos, endless night;
No accident—beasts rule this fight.



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



The Path to "Success"

“As the value of things in the world grows,
The human world’s worth shrinks and slows.”
— Karl Marx


Inflation clouds the mind’s clear sight,
The soul falls into endless plight.
In this grim world, to be “success,”
Rush fast — conform, obey the press.

School and college join the race,
Spreading ignorance apace.
Spirit crushed beneath the weight,
Everywhere deemed obsolete.

So march ahead, you sickened breed —
The cunning coward’s what they need.



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



Unbalance

“If there’s no burden in your hands,
The cross is on your shoulders.”
— Miguel de Unamuno


Burden <—> cross: mad world’s game,
Few options lie between the same.
Balance lost — by lies, by fear,
By *****’s fog that draws too near.



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



The Mind’s Advancement

No tyrant fears more than this truth:
The rabble lives with growing youth —
A mind that wakes to stand and strike,
Defying **** alike and alike.



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



Promotion’s No Joke

Promotion’s no joke —
The main game today:
A mass of vile *******
Turned the net into decay.

The whole world’s at bottom,
Dumb fools rule the show,
Corruption is valued,
While your soul’s sunk low.

On the battlefield raging,
They drown your spirit in slime,
And reason’s dragged down—
Lost in endless grime.

The net’s like a plague,
Where nonsense reigns supreme...



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



Thoughts on the Future of Those Who Have None

The future speaks the one
Who’s robbed of having it —
A mind disabled, dumb:
No madness worse than it.

No future waits for fools,
For beggars, for the herd:
Dreams through poverty
Drive work and fight, absurd.

Their wishes broken bowl,
Their limit, dashed and spent.
All cloaked in lies outside,
Inside — the same torment.

They’re lambs led to the slaughter —
At least don’t lie to self.



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



Tracks and Orders — Harsh and “Soft”

I follow tracks
Right to “victory.”
My “mind” is plague,
If orders rule me,
The trail — Madness’ call.
Some “soft” ones crawl —
Rot reeks for the masses,
All “Ivans” and “Jacks” passes.
We’ll reach Hell’s door,
Submissive to gore.



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




Your inner voice or heresy outside —
That shapes you, this is the key divide.
If you trust *******, then you’re unarmed,
An open book, with ***** stained and charmed.



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



Toilet

The world is alien
To your Spirit’s core:
A place where evil
Rules the mind’s poor floor.

You’re like a toilet —
Flush ego’s trash away.
Darkness oppresses —
Say to the fiends: “No way!!!”

Harsh? Perhaps —
But there’s no other start,
Reject the lies,
And save your Spirit’s heart.



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



“Scientists” as Servants of Satanism

No science lives —
Just putrid lies,
When Pure Spirit stands
Beyond fools’ disguise.



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




Flags wave online, sent by freaks,
Old faces turned to dust and leaks.
Insult to Nature, pure and raw —
These grim mugs signal the world’s flaw.



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




Excessive seriousness —
Today’s mad race for bliss.
Cockroach sprints, a dull parade,
Just a hint of haughty shade.



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



What’s expected from the citizen?

“Blue skies” held as something grand,
Hard work praised as highest brand,
But turning into just a goat—
That’s the fate this world’s afloat.

— The End —