A trip to rotgut
I rode my horse in to a town called Rotgut
As I rode up the main street I looked at the old saloon.
The doors was closed to traffic for some odd reason it wasn't noon.
I notice at the front of the sheriff's office a hang mans plank.
For today, they were hanging billy boy Taylor.
Rotgut was a mean town hanging was a weekly thing. But today there would be no.
For my guns would blaze to save a man in rotgut.

I want to be a **** up
Hooked on every drug
Drunk every night
A wasted life
******* anyone
Willing to make me ***

I want to be a leader
Of the unhealthy
Lifestyle

There's a ****
To my madness
Needle in my vein
Powdered nose
Think I'm going insane?

I want to be a leader
Of the unhealthy
Lifestyle

One night stands
Behind garbage bins
**** faced drunk
Passed out
****** on
Pool of *****
Pass the rotgut
I need another shot

I want to be a leader
Of the unhealthy
Lifestyle

"No one ever said I want to be a ****** when I grow up"

Well I did
I do...

*Sleep it off in the gutter
You *******

A Tale of ****** Excitement by Herr Barty Maulwurf

Often **** tales of my past I am writing and sometimes they are a little rude and porny but now I will try to be only slightly profane at request of new friends I am making everywhere. This tale very sensual story is, told by master storyteller (which is me). Filthy bits included. *Danke sehr.

Although I so much hate repetitive to be, Barty Mole must as always apologise for his occasionally slight errors in English-writing as he writes the English language not so very top-class (but he ***** English girls' tongues lots and likes them his tonsils to wipe so good). I (me, Barty) am German person but special type of that because as I are half-and-half black/white (not striped or even top half white, bottom half black, but mixed-up goldene-brun colouring), by this I must explain mein Papa was black US soldier in Germany who did enormous number of bouncy-bouncies with various ladies including meine Mutti (note to monoglots: this means my Mummy) - who was part-time Lili Marlen type tarty number, great **** and much-used **** - for tinned milk, coffee, ciggies, silk stockings and comfy underwear with soft non-scratchy gussets for once instead of unlined which tickle *****-*****, also she was a major sort of a ****** in her day so combined business with pleasure, and why not, we got these bits under our ******* so use them or they dry up (so thinks der Barty.). Also please you will remember black market utterly rampant in post-war period because the kind ****** Allies smashed my beautiful homeland (Germany) to little bits and then guess what even worse Russkies came and stole anything leftovers and did mass rapings of anyone with two legs (or less, in fact easier as poor tarts can't run away), but my Mutti ran and avoided Ivans, she not any kind of idiot, not going to give it away for free, and not liking cheap rotgut ***** anyway. Also Russkies never wash bottoms-hole so not much fun in the sack with smelly-bummed Ivans.

Nowadays Barty (that's me) am not so young, indeed now out of work living in Hamburg (home of inventor of hamburgers, Herr Wendi McDonald-Burgerkoenig) but I remember some super **** going-ons from mine mis-spended youth and middle age, my God I was a right goer, make no mistake about that, I had more lady friends than most people have hot luncheons mainly because I inheritated huge lovepole (23 centimetres, well over 9 inches in UK/US measurement style) from my dear Poppa, God rest his swindling soul. And ladies like the big bronzed stick as ramrod lovepole, you bet your fat wobbly ***, dear reader, 100% sure.

As often I say to my multitudinous readers, I never accept that it is only top-class ***-event to make love-humpings between male person who is in all one piece (full complementing legs, arms, naughty pieces etc etc) and lady who in similar state of repair (2 legs, 2 arms, 2 boobos, back and front naughty areas also) so I shall now recall romantic interlude with one-legged groupie I am meeting at rocking Konzert in Berlin with famous German group DIE TOTEN HOSEN (this means "The Dead Trousers" look them up on Google you think I am joking? no, German musicians have great sense of humour and also almost for free get to **** a lot of birds).

This story are total true, swear it on Mummy's honour (big joke, what honour I hear you said out of side of mouth, but watch your manners please or I smash you one in your effing gob) this not so explicit as usual so much apologies to filthy pervies wanting cheap smuttings, you come in wrong place (*******).

So now here we go with telling of how I got on good and ***** with one-legged lady I meet in bar of Grosse Konzerthalle in Berlin after we go from Konzert by Toten Hosen - noise so fickende loud we not able to hear each other talk as we total deafened for at least 1 hour, so just wink over bar to each other and Robert is dein Onkel.

I digressed - when I saw really pretty girl at bar with **** three-inch bolt through her lips and I think, WOW, if she got so much metal in her face, what the Fick she got in her *******!!!!  I notice she leaning against wall, I think she a bit drunk but I find out she only got one leg and it's because she has only one leg she would go falling over if not lean on walls. Never mind, I think to myself, I'll try this out for size, in for a pfenning (penny), in for a pfund (pound), except now it's in for a cent, in for a euro which sounds naffs. So we have several dozen beers and a couple of schnapplis and she is good fun, laugh at all Barty's filthy jokes and innuendos and then, out of blue, she says with naughty giggling, "The night is young but we're not so effing young and when you have any more beers you don't stand up, fall flat on handsome face, and not able to get great big ****** up me to shove it", WOW I thought, this is some forward one-legged piece of work. So no more further ado and we jump in taxi (pay 50:50 as Barty is gent and refuse to allow her pay whole fare) and go to her place.

Hildegard is her name and she was pretty good looking bird, great booboes, narrow very **** waistlines, very cute botty sticking out like great big pair of rubber footballs, but let's be frank, liebe Freunde, her main claim to eternal fame in Barty's immense ***-memory bank was the leg-stump, only one of them she had. She tells me missing limb result of accident with vicious bacon-slicing machineries at LIDL and I not like to probe too deeply, because I leave the probing up to my 23cm (9 inch) lovepole instead.

Thus we had many love-makes that night and I got to find her stumpy-thing quite **** in weird kind of way, very smooth skin on it and odd colour (purplish) too. Only problem of was hard to do it Alsatian-style as she topple off bed and me with her, especially since we have many more beers down hatches by that time. Never mind, make up for this with very high class (FIVE STAR!) "neunundsechzig" (German for 69 just in case you not understand)! WOW she utter hot stuff in oral department store. Her tongue like starving St Bernard guzzling the bowl of nice fresh spring water on hottest summer day in century! Swallow everything, stray hairs and all.

Also Hildegard very noisy lady when she does the comings, which Barty likes very much indeed. Like demented demon being bashed around her head with three-metre long metal crowbar every single time she gets one off, she screamed. "Ooooooh, ich komme, ich komme, ach, ja, ja, ja, ja," she shrieks GOOD & LOUD like fat Wagnerian heroine with immensely red hot poker up backside-hole (which not far off the truth when Barty gets stuck into his fabbo ***-rhythm, like whirring up and down piston on Mitsubishi motor tricycle). Even allowing for drunken prematured senilities lapse, I happy to recall seven times for me that night and maybe twenty for her, WOW, what a filthy one-leg hornbag!

We meet a few more time for repeat bonky session but never so good as first time round, but that's because Barty sober next times, nothing new in the history of love there which is very philophical pensée. Also Barty's interest in the leggy-stump waned a bit after a couple of weeks.  But Barty has good live-action photos to keep his memories warm, WOW, they are some totally hot ones! I know Hildegard must have the equal happy memories of old Barty, bet she never saw such a big ***** as his ever again (NB: 23 cm lovepole)!

Mit freundlichen Gruessen
von Ihre
Bartholomew Mole (=Maulwurf)
(23 cm brown lovepole)

Once he was my constant companion,
I loved the way he soothed my soul,
took all my troubles away
& we played continuously,
frolicked hand-in-hand
throughout many a long night.
But the mornings always hurt,
I'd wobble and stare at the bloodshot eyes
staring back at me in my cracked ***** mirror,
my parched throat usually speechless,
until I finally
sang his swan song.

I met me a gypsy somewhere South of Poughkeepsie, and this hobo from Hoboken offered me his creased hand in a token of friendship.
We travelled out West in Box cars,made some dollars selling jam jars,slept under lilac trees and drank rotgut from the river bars.
Down in Kentucky we got lucky with diamonds,drew a full hand at poker,smoked Cuban cigars,spent more than money in bars and blew the whole *** on showgirls.
Then hobo got sick and he died awful quick,it was the pox and the rotgut that took him,but hell we had fun.

terror is a friend
a close one
the kind of friend
kind enough to warm me
away from the things
that might **** me

like places where people
are real people
not rotgut drunks
stuck in the mud
like me

the real people are the nightmare
without them
i wouldn't see what i don't have
or can't have
or shouldn't have

but the terror keeps me safe
drink up it says
then maybe the real people
might get blurry
and look more like me

then i can pretend
that i am them
that is what the terror
can abide

Rain, ride down the river
  and pass me by.
I'm gone out to deliver
  my rotgut rye.

There's children at the rope swing
  this first of June.
Up in the church, they're hoping
  he'll finish soon.

Rain, keep right on goin',
  and should you see
them solemn faces showin',
  kiss them for me.

There's an emptiness inside of me
That I've been doing my best to avoid

Words used to fill the hollow spot
As deeply as the humans I once knew
But slowly they all slipped out
And left a bottomless well
That burns like rotgut whiskey and ulcers

There's an emptiness inside of me
That I choose to ignore

I take my mind off of it with small adventures,
Afternoon beers,
Late night cocktails,
Early morning ****** Mary's
And whatever semblance of interaction I can procure.

There's an emptiness inside of me
That I've been trying to ignore

But it has grown vicious teeth
And jagged talons
It tears me apart from the inside out
But you'll never see it on my face
Or hear it in my voice

There's an emptiness inside of me
That I've done what I can to ignore

But the emptiness inside of me is mine
And I'll walk with it to Death's door.

Desperate times for desperate men
then relaxation time with a cup of tea,a
glass of wine or if it's handy a
snifter or two of the finest brandy but
I have drunk electric soup,scooped it up,
swallowed it down,plugged into the main
and become one of the totally insane.
In the shallow end you defend against the night,
paddle if you will with can,
just call me the rotgut man.

When it's all a state of mind it looks so easy to unwind,
it's not.
The rot sets in as the sun rides out and the twilight shouts my name.

I was barely 21
when I ran with this older crowd,
(they were between the ages of 30-35,)
and I thought it was something cool,
something special,
I thought I was someone
real grown up and mature,
I thought age had something to do
with sophistication
so, I tried to impress them with Bach & Beethoven & Mozart
while drinking rotgut whiskey out of cheap tumbler glasses
because that’s what I thought grownups
were suppose to do
but instead they’d say,
“this isn’t that kind of party,”
and then they’d exercise their drinking prowess by guzzling down a whole bottle
of Rumplemintz and chasing it with a case
of Icehouse while blasting Screeching Weasel so loud that my neighbors couldn’t exist.
my forethoughts of adulthood had been marred by the stench of reality
and despite the headaches and hangovers
that paired with the morning sun,
I continued on anyhow,
matching them drink for drink
like it didn’t phase me
because I had something to prove;
I wanted to show them
that I was cultivated,
that I could hang,
that I was tough,
that I could run with the big dogs,
that I was all that was man,
(whatever that means)
all I wanted was their approval
that I was something
after so many years of being told
that I was nothing
and I wanted it to be known that I had endurance and stamina
but those addlepated simpletons were too vapid and clueless to notice the ****-stains
in their pants let alone what I was doing.
we were an odd pair, different yet the same;
we shared the same desirous need for intoxication yet our levels of class
were on a parallel universe.
but as time went on,
the framework of realization took shape
and I began to see they were just a gang
of losers with no place to go.
they used up my living quarters
as their party sanctuary:
people getting tattooed in my kitchen
people snorting coke in my bathroom
people ******* in my laundry room
people throwing up in my closets
people ******* in my living room
and it grew tiresome after a while.
so, I had to kick them out of not only my house but out of my life for good.
decades went on, I reached my 40’s,
they reached their 50’s,
and most of them are dead
but the few still living are more dead
than those buried in the ground.
they’re out there now,
enduring a midlife crisis
with bed-wetting regression;
peering down from the hills of nostalgia,
sprinting towards their
social media platforms,
losing their minds over
things they can not control,
smearing opinions around
like **** as if you asked for it
and gnawing away at the bars
of their enclosures for one last taste
of the honey, the pleasure, the folly, the glory
because they’ve become
embittered with world;
a world they hadn’t envisioned
a world they weren’t ready for
a world that’s changed forever
and after all the wild and lawless nights
and after all the rebellion against authority
and after all the broken glass & cigarette holes
they’ve became like everybody else:
unable to face the inevitable.

I like the way my hands look like in the light of a fire,
I think.
It could be the drugs, or the drinking
Or sleep I haven't been sleeping,
But every year,
When winter has gone, and spring stands defiantly ahead,
I am reminded of this,
I like my hands,
In the light of fire,
With a good bit of dirt on them,
And a jug of rotgut wine in them.
I like the way my hands look in the light of a fire.

No one gets the credit
that they're due
not me nor you
it's a fukin zoo out there

I think Bernardo Soares
shares my view on this,
you can kiss goodbye to the
how, where and why
and get used to the
red line through
everything that you do
a fukin zoo.

No one told me when
the World turned upside down
I was so busy spinning
my frown was still a frown
and thus it was,

and now I have a shotgun
and
rotgut for my friend
the end will come
and it
will come for you
it's all the same
in the fukin zoo.

Withdraw your labour
fuel the fires?
it
all tires me out.

I've chugged bottles of the finest wine,
guzzled gallons of rotgut whiskey,
smoked bowlfuls of ethereal herbs,
& swallowed lots of strange pills
& I'm sorry if I hurt you,
it was never my intent.

I'm just hell bent on
******* things up,
it's always been my way,
but I will always love you
when you don't love me,
promise.

Feeling that feel good
it felt good to give a new pound coin
to an old beggar,
but then I didn't feel so good,
what if
he bought drugs with it?
or
what if
it was spent on drink?

then I felt better
how many drugs could a pound buy?
and how much alcohol?
unless it was that lightning cider krap
and even then a quid wouldn't get rid
of the thirst in a gnat
so I felt the feel good until,
what if,
he choked on his cheap rotgut
overdosed on a shot
put
that in perspective

would the feel good factor
factor in my defence?

I don't feel so good now.

When nothing's as good as anything
there's no point in us knowing everything
not when something is
bound to appear.

I have faith that good fortune will find me
before the rotgut I drink totally blinds me.

Saturday and the Saturday smell,
fresh and inviting
I shall dip my toes in
the weekend,

but it's windy and the wind's always greedy
it sees me as in need so it feeds me
with fingers of ice
which is not very nice,
but I go where the wind tends to lead me.

Christmas and Santa'***** the sherry
it's no wonder he always looks merry
his elves help themselves off the
bargain ***** shelves
because
some things are as good as anything.

An elegant finesse
& O what love they share,
it's so very complex
like a fine wine.
And with the grittiness
of rotgut whiskey
& his wanton demeanor,
he loves tender-moment kisses
swallowing her petals
& absolutely
craves her
beautiful simplicity
she exudes.

dressed to mask this scowl
painted it bubblegum pink

poured my three finger shot
of 100 proof rotgut to drink,

no ice for a chaser required
as all my inhibitions shrink

naughtiness envelopes me
willpower slips off the brink

my sights set, the target you,
you shall be mine with a wink

in the armor that you sport
feel me slide passed a *****

craving the heat of naked flesh
races pulse, stimulation in sync

resistance is futile, ***** the rules
time to feel with no time to think

Waiting somewhere in the wings are things we
never talk about,
walk out on,
things that don't sit comfortably,
helplessly but not hopelessly we
move along the lines of life where fate or
indeed, fates wife can comfort us,
we look to futures not yet set but
can't see them,
yet we look ahead.

Blue eyes turn red,
was it something that someone said?
someone in the wings being fed your
own ammunition?

And over,
over yonder hills after
twenty seven thousand pills and countless
shots of rotgut gin and years of counting
mounting minutes or the treading of the mill,
there's still someone waiting in the wings
or something someone never brings,
and somewhere I never talk about
I keep on walking out.

I've been to that place.
The place of the unknown,
where I've been so ripped,
I can't remember a thing.
And pondering what got me there,
I haven't a clue.
Was it pain.
Was it joy.
It certainly wasn't the taste
of rotgut whiskey.
That liquid burns your throat
& makes your face contort
to forget things.
And who would want
to forget happiness?
But it did.

In order to feel that,
one must eschew dog
in favour of cat food,
install a ski lift,
give short change and
shorter shrift,
paint palindromes
torch light garden gnomes
take out pay day loans
and skip town.

It surely follows on that
when the day has gone
the night appears,
and owls eyes scan the
fields for mice.

I have nine lives
used up one
and twice I've nearly split
from number two,

it's the catgut or rotgut
or the garden hut for me
where no one sees the
madness in my eyes,

there's only reflected light
in these cats eyes

The snow swirls around a cold room
Iron in my stomach
I'm burning up from the rotgut
Open a door to invite the flurries inside
Embrace my shivering limbs
Cool my throbbing stomach

Words come to me like spirits spilled across an ouija board
subliminally controlled and full of promises
we both know I can't keep
Whispers into the crimson contents of upturned bottles
Screamed into a porcelain bowl soon after
My body is dying
my organs are organizing a union against me
they demand water
less spirits
maybe a walk around outside every once in a while
I find myself wrapped in a comforter of my own *******
I'm letting down my body
and so many other things
handed so many things
and failing to do anything with them
I'm a shell
I can't think about anything
I can't do anything
I am nothing

Oooh~ I Caught the tail end
of the tail trail
back from the parade,
coming from Canal zig-zagging
back the back way,
(maybe south, no north…)
to Bourbon St;
and the tail trail promenade
was full of talent on display,
and temptation,
and it was passing
right. in . front of me.
A veritable smorgasbord
of bad decisions one could make.
A circus Maximus of humanity,
in Grecian magnitude;
this bacchanal goes rolling
through the streets every year,
and this year it’s encircling me.

^Rocking This Sweet *** Suite^

Boppin’ around the outskirts of town,
With bottle o’rotgut, a limp, and a smile,
Wearing a thin coat of mornin’ sunrise
to cover the patina of Stale *****
and gutter dew,
in his Gutter-Suit
and a Pair o’ boots,

Is man of means
(if only “means well”)

On sabbatical from livin hard;

Taking it extra easy
this very evening,
and looking for something to do.

^In the Big Easy^

“Take it Eeeeasy,
Take it eeeeaeeasy”
he sings to himself softly,
and then - to no one in particular
in his purview -
“I been livin’ hard my whole ******* life,
trying to prove I ain’t got nuttin’ to prove,
and all I got for all it took
is a whole lotta ******* nothing-to-lose.
Man I gotta figure it out,” he muttered,
swaying slightly under the *****.
“This ol back’s only gotta a few seasons left,
dude. We gotta come up with something new.”
He reaches back with his right hand
and places his fist in his back,
knuckles to his right hip,
as he limps a shuffled cadence
favoring his unhealed broken ankle,
which lends his pace
a meandering sashay
of someone strutting,
and belays a a bit of class in its stance,
with his arm held out of view,
much akin to the prideful rigid reserve
of a French maitre’d,
but with a derelict sheik
uncommonly seen.

“Otherwise it’s broke street,
on the corner of no-go rd,
and you know what that means.
Yes you do…
You gotta big brain buddy,
why don’t you use it to maybe do something good for you?”

There is no response…

He looks weathered in a way
that only rough living can wear on a man -
leathered skin,
wrinkled brow,
creased crows’ feet at the corners
of his bright gray blue eyes
(eyes that seem unsettling, at first glance
• almost animal •
due in part to a golden yellow ring
around his pupils,
and a wild flitting movement
as if he’s constantly seeing someone unknown
entering into his view;
But this wild-eyed creature turns
uncannily human,
as soon as someone
willing to listen more than a minute or two
gets caught in his gaze
and locks eyes for the first time;
And let me tell you,
it does something to you.
That gaze is magnetic,
and his hard scrabble appearance
is softened and sweetens
when he’s looking into you.
It’s not something that’s common these days
(steady eye-contact, that is),
what with all the distractions
we’ve entrenched ourselves in
with our phones and computers
and near constant stuff to do.
But his eyes are soft,
and  welcoming and it’s hard to not believe
he means no harm.
So, despite his appearance,
most people don’t shun him,
as people are often wont to do
when confronted by poverty
and personal suffering-
but he doesn’t wear that as armor,
as many of the indigent community will;
he simply lived what he was given
and doesn’t complain,
“Cuz, what good would it do?”  
He’s profoundly joyful
in his demeanor,
and He’ll tell you why if you let him,
cuz he’s “playing with house money
everyday he wakes up”
and he’s “still gotta a lot o’ livin’ to do!”

As he shuffles along the the shaded city streets
Every now and then, he stops
And squats,
Puts his hands on his knees
And props himself up.
He looks
like he might be having a heart attack,
but his back just hurts
(like it always does),
and he just needs a second
to let it breathe.
Once it’s released,
he pops back up, and continues about his way, spry for a man his age
but still brittle and broken
and whistling the blues.

Did you ever want to ride on the range
wear a tin star
be a cowboy?
no?
strange
I did.

I wanted to rustle some beef
take them across the Rio..
shoot it out with
Lee Van Cleef.

I wanted Rowdy Yates
to wait for me
wanted to drink sour mash rotgut
in Tennessee,
see the Mississippi and
cry yippee ki yay,

not to be
except
on the TV.

Done for the day
and I'm sure
that I have been.

It'll be catgut or rotgut
that gets me in the end

They say,
never give a sucker an
even break and I take
that to heart,
if there's one born every
minute
that's a lot of suckers.

Find me in the classified
under certified.

I'd gladly take the 28 days
outa the ways of everyone
if only to get on
with myself.


to find that happiness
is a draw on a state of mind
impossible to understand
how my mind found it
but find it
it did.

Now to get on with it
forget the *******
and enjoy every moment.

Brothers in "Literature"
Will ensure culture’s sepulture:
If courage fades, then you will find,
It can't rise up, it’s left behind.



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



Hopeless idiots, and most of them...

Idiots, fooled by every trick,
They march ahead, both blind and quick.
For without a change in the beasts’ core,
They whisper, “Soon, all will be no more.”

An old tale, but now, it's grotesque,
As blood in veins grows cold, in distress.
The beasts’ blood runs, yet still we see
A protest born from nostalgia's plea.



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


The few are not in wold the freaks,
So we are Nature’s shame, it speaks:
Idiots, fools, and crazy minds,
In nonsense, years are left behind.



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


To craft a miniature with care —
A big achievement, if there's flair.
But if it births a ****** rhyme,
Erase it quick — don’t waste your time.



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


A man’s like a cheburek —
Juicy with filling, crisp and sleek.
But for a lifetime, they pack it tight
With nonsense, fear, and lies to fight.

Weigh the filling, break it down,
Into segments: fear and frown,
Fragments of joy — hold them fast,
For those are the truths that will last.



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



If only a trace
Of creativity’s grace,
Conquer fatigue,
Cast pity away,
Take the final leap—
And don't drift in dismay.



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



A mania of grandeur,
Through every guise it’s pure,
No strength to hide it now,
It merges with the soul somehow.



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



Journey to Nowhereville

Step by step to Nowhereville —
Every stride’s a clumsy spill.
What is Nowhere? Just exhaustion.
Hang in there — you’re near the crossing.

Nowhere’s not on any chart —
Just a dot in Fog-of-Heart.
Fired up, you made it matter —
Yet it’s hellish, false, and shattered.

There’s a way to break the trance:
Pause, and give your mind a glance.
Look around with eyes unclouded —
See the MADNESS all enshrouded.

On the Path, there is a guide —
Almost instinct deep inside.
Hold to reason, hold it tight.
Chase illusions with your light.

Cleanse your thoughts of haunted dreaming —
Find the Truth beneath false seeming.
You’ll arise, no more decaying —
SPIRIT’S MOTION — ever staying!



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



The Toady Folk

Toadies crave a fatter ration,
Crush the world with savage pride.
Luck is drawn to their vocation —
Satan's standing by their side.

Toadies rule as lords and leaders,
Every petty crook and boss.
Fools line up to serve as feeders,
Paying rent to Satan’s dross.

Rent in Hell is paid in spirit.
Sell your soul — ascend the stair!
Honor? Conscience? None will hear it —
Blabber rules the market there.

He’ll explain the "higher missions"
With a zeal that’s cold and grim —
Thrilled to earn his low position
In the cattle pens with him.



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



Puppet Politicians and the Sheepish World

Just a bunch of lifeless puppets
On the screen — while fascist muck
Chokes the world of sheepish comforts.
Such a sight — it deeply cuts.

During CowID they were preaching
Rotgut lies with poisoned teaching.
Now they've got a brand-new war —
Hear them wailing, craving gore.

Off they drive the fools to slaughter.
Nations? Gone. It doesn’t matter.
So the world, in grand despair,
Spills toward the devil’s lair.

Hell is near — a brand-new version.
This one needs a vile conversion:
Cleanse the land for beasts to nest —
This dark soil suits jail the best.



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



The Puppets

The puppets dance in sync, delighted —
Their strings pulled tight by hands unseen.
Between the acts, they gripe, short-sighted:
“No cash! No breaks! This life is mean!”

They’ve had enough of whips and lashes —
Now lies and gold take center stage.
Their minds reduced to tattered ashes —
The theater burns, and yet the rage

Is sold as “special stage effects.”
What sense can wooden fools express?
The beams are cracking — all’s a wreck.
Get out — or vanish with the mess!



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



The Death of Natural Farming

The earth bears fruit in freedom’s way —
But such a truth they can’t abide.
They flood the fields with waste and grey,
Industrial madness far and wide.

For sprouts of freedom dare to grow
When soil breathes clean, beneath the sun.
So poison’s mixed in warlike flow —
A global mess for everyone.

They’ve labeled toxins “pesticides,”
And “fertilizer” means pure ******.
They turn the farms to labor sites —
Like gulags masked as industries.



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



Mouse-Sized Happiness

A roof above one’s head often prevents people from growing.
— Stanisław Jerzy Lec

The burrow presses on your brain —
You see no light, you feel no pain.
To gather crumbs, the rats decree:
"Lie and praise our colony!"

"Tell the young it’s paradise.
Fear and faith — the combo’s nice.
Lack the zeal? Then face the blame.
Not from hate — it’s just the game."

For the rule is iron-tight:
March in step and squeak just right.
Hear the anthem, loud and shrill —
Propaganda, dressed to ****.

Play along — you’ll find your bliss
In some mousehole’s dark abyss.
Speak against it? You’ll be gone.
Best keep your tiny mouth shut, son.



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



The “Magic” of Propaganda

Unbewitched, you don't belong —
Propaganda rules the song.
Any movement out of line
Falls to rot — by foul design.

Rot is shaped through slick campaigns,
“Education” fans the flames.
Thus, officials form a crew —
Thugs in ties, corruption’s glue.

And the masses, led like sheep,
Turn to dullards, shallow, cheap —
The new mainstream prototype,
Built on slogans, fear, and hype.



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



In Their Service...

Not by noose, but fear they slay —
That’s the modern tyrant’s way.
Hard to stand and just be you
When the dogs all cower too.

Few remain with souls intact —
"Serve the Darkness!" — that’s the pact.
Lose your soul — and all you see
Melts to false reality.

Mirages drift to MADNESS' gate —
CowID showed the world that fate.
And the hounds bark loud and tight:
“Fetch!” — they’re fed for blind delight.



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



The Rule of Satanism

Chains of sorrow aren’t by chance —
Evil planned this grim advance.
This “amazing world,” you see,
Is ruled by goats — satanically.

Wars and crises, endless plagues —
All designed to raze and break.
Year by year, the kind and wise
Fade beneath the flood of lies.

Donkeys led by bold deceit,
While fake problems flood the street —
Easily “solved” with broken laws,
While freedom dies without a cause.

Then — much worse. The beast returns:
Hidden fascist fire burns.
Through collapse, they try to win
With the same old game and grin.

Prospects? None, when fools hold sway.
Dark and brutal years await.
But the sun will blaze its way —
Scorching all this rot and hate.



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



Slavery

The word “slavery” is banned —
Not by law, but by the mind.
That’s how tyrants took command,
Drowning truth in filth redefined.

Simple truths are left to rust.
A child might see them clear and plain —
But lies, injected from the crust
Of cradle days, infect the brain.

He'll call this madhouse “civil life,”
And slavery — “my right to choose.”
He picks his poisons with no strife,
Blind to how they’re meant to bruise

His health, his strength, his mind each day —
A question just of dosage rate.
But bit by bit, he'll waste away,
His “thoughts” reduced to spite and hate.

All worsened by the early blow
From school, the news, and TV trash.
No life — just filth in steady flow:
A slave, dumb-struck by fear and flash.



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



Choked by the Dark, or The Soul’s Last Stand

Seal the path that leads away —
To betrayal, fear, and lies.
Only trials fill the day
For the souls that still stay wise.

Facing doom like tanks of dread,
Armed with Words instead of bombs.
Better fall before the red
Sunlight touches Hell’s calm swamps.

In the light, the weak may choke,
Gasping where the brave would stand.
Call it hypoxia’s stroke —
When resolve slips from the hand.



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



Train to Hell

With Dante at the ticket stand,
The train to Hell is nearly boarding.
The Ninth Circle — high demand,
A traitor grabs his seat, self-lording.

The station roars: its name is "Home",
The crowd is tense, the timing brittle.
Departures roll in clouds of chrome,
The board still says, "To Our Saint’s Little."



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



To Hell

With Dante there to sell the ride,
The train to Hell is almost leaving.
The **** all scramble, eager-eyed —
The Ninth’s a deal, if you’re deceiving.

All seats are sold. All faith betrayed.
To spread their filth, they’re boldly surging.
Success of swine — the price we’ve paid:
Our moral core is slowly purging.

And Reason’s dead, or close enough —
Perhaps the devils might restore it?
Let’s rush to Hell! Full speed and rough!
Outsin the fiends — we’ll learn, ignore it.

The "Satan's icons" now are men,
Low creatures once from "Mother Russia".
The demons groan in lower den —
These sons outmatch them under pressure.

The war has shown what’s underneath —
Now ****** spins inside his casket.
This land has touched the floor beneath.
What’s lower? Hell. Lead on, you *******.



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



Woodworking

Freight trucks on the highways,
Lumber runs in byways —
Planks and logs, they haul them,
As if people — fallen.

Not a thought of reason,
Conscience out of season...
Thick-skinned, barely human —
Bark-like in delusion.

Oaks are processed roughly,
Raw and loud and gruffly.
Not for any filing —
That’s what they call schooling.

Then they send us, stunted,
To the jobs — undaunted.
“Do with us whatever —
Lie as much as ever.”

Bent like marionettes, we
Bear our fates regret-free.
Papa’s name is Boss-Man,
Mallets in his crosshands.

Beat us, lie with power —
Every single hour.
Promise us the keyhole —
Turn us into weasels.

Bribes and threats in measures,
Dreams and plastic treasures...
Heaven’s just a cinder —
Needs one match to hinder.

Will the flames defeat us?
Will the foe unseat us?
No — the fire's fated
For the ******, sedated!



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



Sheeplevirus

The Sheeplevirus hunts across the land,
It drills into the brain, it eats the mind.
There’s nowhere I can run from its command,
And soon you'll find there's nowhere left to hide.

The Sheeplevirus, Evil's cruel test—
A purge of fools in panic and alarm.
They’ll drive me out, like all the not-like-rest,
And soon you'll feel that same cold, closing harm.

The Sheeplevirus chokes out thought and grace,
It strangles honor, freedom, every spark.
To march with idiots is now the place—
A sea of dumb, a million-strong and dark.

The Sheeplevirus smells of fascist schemes,
Designed to break us, crush us into dust.
No “cool indifference” will redeem our dreams—
This evil won't be slain by passive trust.

There once was Koch, a wise and steady guide,
Who taught the world to trace what spreads and kills.
But now, it’s noise and fear that rules with pride—
They make their “gods” from hype and lab-made thrills.

The Sheeplevirus is a war of minds,
A cult of power dressed in SS gray.
What use is “matter” when the soul’s confined?
Even a void can steal your life away!

The question's simple—clear, and sharp as flame:
Will we resist, or bow and live in pain?
They’ll never stop unless we end the game—
So do we fight, or let them win again?




--- Total 22 poems. ---