Butterflies kiss the sage, where sun drips off primrose
into mute lily horns who know but cannot say:
This is the day. In yonder Sycamore a cardinal's question
is answered from afar: This is the day. Sleep no more
fields of green. Arise and be heard all who dwell within.
The night has been, has poured out all its darkness like water
onto parched earth that cannot be gathered up again.

When with eyes as good as closed we peered into the night
what stain had we beheld? Was it ink upon our canvass,
dripping from the trees, running on the lawns and fields,
the gardens deep in slumber, staining dark foreboding hills?
"Be thou, " we cried, "a lamp unto our feet, a light unto our eyes."
What then should we have seen who could not see,
or known who could not know, what has once been made,
once beheld, once loved, what was once our own continues still?

This is the day. Let all who have a sound to make proclaim.
From among the pines, from within the thickets come. Let each one
make his song. This is the day. We shall not sleep therein.
Arrogant and proud the night, let all the living cry.  Profound
the darkness. Grave the depth of night. Become a dew
for unction of the lilies who know but cannot say this:
This is the day. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.

Sacagawea's Capture*

As I strolled the Knife River trail
a dust cloud swirled and fell
and earth lodges appeared by the score
extending from the path to the river banks.

Hidatsa women sang at their chores,
        husking corn -
              beading moccasins -
                     scraping a buffalo hide.

A band of hunters dismounted
and released their ropes -
dropping two deer and an elk
by the hanging rack.

Triumphal shouts from the river
turned all heads to the shore
where warriors, returned
from Shoshone fields,
lashed up canoes and dragged
their human spoils up the rise.

Several squaws reached out
from the gathering crowd
seizing two of the squirming children.

A Shoshone girl with terror in her eyes
cringed as a warrior raised his arm.
"No, tell your Hidatsa name!"
Sobbing she choked through broken tears,
"My name is Sacagawea."

I bolted to breach the walls of time
to face death in her defense
but a new whirling cloud intervened.

When the dust fell away
all the lodges had vanished
with all the Hidatsa villagers.

Kneeling down to the Dakota grass,
I caressed a circular hollow
etched deeply in the silent earth.



August 6, 2010

Perplexed and troubled at his bad success
The Tempter stood, nor had what to reply,
Discovered in his fraud, thrown from his hope
So oft, and the persuasive rhetoric
That sleeked his tongue, and won so much on Eve,
So little here, nay lost.  But Eve was Eve;
This far his over-match, who, self-deceived
And rash, beforehand had no better weighed
The strength he was to cope with, or his own.
But—as a man who had been matchless held
In cunning, over-reached where least he thought,
To salve his credit, and for very spite,
Still will be tempting him who foils him still,
And never cease, though to his shame the more;
Or as a swarm of flies in vintage-time,
About the wine-press where sweet must is poured,
Beat off, returns as oft with humming sound;
Or surging waves against a solid rock,
Though all to shivers dashed, the assault renew,
(Vain battery!) and in froth or bubbles end—
So Satan, whom repulse upon repulse
Met ever, and to shameful silence brought,
Yet gives not o’er, though desperate of success,
And his vain importunity pursues.
He brought our Saviour to the western side
Of that high mountain, whence he might behold
Another plain, long, but in breadth not wide,
Washed by the southern sea, and on the north
To equal length backed with a ridge of hills
That screened the fruits of the earth and seats of men
From cold Septentrion blasts; thence in the midst
Divided by a river, off whose banks
On each side an Imperial City stood,
With towers and temples proudly elevate
On seven small hills, with palaces adorned,
Porches and theatres, baths, aqueducts,
Statues and trophies, and triumphal arcs,
Gardens and groves, presented to his eyes
Above the highth of mountains interposed—
By what strange parallax, or optic skill
Of vision, multiplied through air, or glass
Of telescope, were curious to enquire.
And now the Tempter thus his silence broke:—
  “The city which thou seest no other deem
Than great and glorious Rome, Queen of the Earth
So far renowned, and with the spoils enriched
Of nations.  There the Capitol thou seest,
Above the rest lifting his stately head
On the Tarpeian rock, her citadel
Impregnable; and there Mount Palatine,
The imperial palace, compass huge, and high
The structure, skill of noblest architects,
With gilded battlements, conspicuous far,
Turrets, and terraces, and glittering spires.
Many a fair edifice besides, more like
Houses of gods—so well I have disposed
My aerie microscope—thou may’st behold,
Outside and inside both, pillars and roofs
Carved work, the hand of famed artificers
In cedar, marble, ivory, or gold.
Thence to the gates cast round thine eye, and see
What conflux issuing forth, or entering in:
Praetors, proconsuls to their provinces
Hasting, or on return, in robes of state;
Lictors and rods, the ensigns of their power;
Legions and cohorts, turms of horse and wings;
Or embassies from regions far remote,
In various habits, on the Appian road,
Or on the AEmilian—some from farthest south,
Syene, and where the shadow both way falls,
Meroe, Nilotic isle, and, more to west,
The realm of Bocchus to the Blackmoor sea;
From the Asian kings (and Parthian among these),
From India and the Golden Chersoness,
And utmost Indian isle Taprobane,
Dusk faces with white silken turbants wreathed;
From Gallia, Gades, and the British west;
Germans, and Scythians, and Sarmatians north
Beyond Danubius to the Tauric pool.
All nations now to Rome obedience pay—
To Rome’s great Emperor, whose wide domain,
In ample territory, wealth and power,
Civility of manners, arts and arms,
And long renown, thou justly may’st prefer
Before the Parthian.  These two thrones except,
The rest are barbarous, and scarce worth the sight,
Shared among petty kings too far removed;
These having shewn thee, I have shewn thee all
The kingdoms of the world, and all their glory.
This Emperor hath no son, and now is old,
Old and lascivious, and from Rome retired
To Capreae, an island small but strong
On the Campanian shore, with purpose there
His horrid lusts in private to enjoy;
Committing to a wicked favourite
All public cares, and yet of him suspicious;
Hated of all, and hating.  With what ease,
Endued with regal virtues as thou art,
Appearing, and beginning noble deeds,
Might’st thou expel this monster from his throne,
Now made a sty, and, in his place ascending,
A victor-people free from servile yoke!
And with my help thou may’st; to me the power
Is given, and by that right I give it thee.
Aim, therefore, at no less than all the world;
Aim at the highest; without the highest attained,
Will be for thee no sitting, or not long,
On David’s throne, be prophesied what will.”
  To whom the Son of God, unmoved, replied:—
“Nor doth this grandeur and majestic shew
Of luxury, though called magnificence,
More than of arms before, allure mine eye,
Much less my mind; though thou should’st add to tell
Their sumptuous gluttonies, and gorgeous feasts
On citron tables or Atlantic stone
(For I have also heard, perhaps have read),
Their wines of Setia, Cales, and Falerne,
Chios and Crete, and how they quaff in gold,
Crystal, and myrrhine cups, imbossed with gems
And studs of pearl—to me should’st tell, who thirst
And hunger still.  Then embassies thou shew’st
From nations far and nigh!  What honour that,
But tedious waste of time, to sit and hear
So many hollow compliments and lies,
Outlandish flatteries?  Then proceed’st to talk
Of the Emperor, how easily subdued,
How gloriously.  I shall, thou say’st, expel
A brutish monster: what if I withal
Expel a Devil who first made him such?
Let his tormentor, Conscience, find him out;
For him I was not sent, nor yet to free
That people, victor once, now vile and base,
Deservedly made vassal—who, once just,
Frugal, and mild, and temperate, conquered well,
But govern ill the nations under yoke,
Peeling their provinces, exhausted all
By lust and rapine; first ambitious grown
Of triumph, that insulting vanity;
Then cruel, by their sports to blood inured
Of fighting beasts, and men to beasts exposed;
Luxurious by their wealth, and greedier still,
And from the daily Scene effeminate.
What wise and valiant man would seek to free
These, thus degenerate, by themselves enslaved,
Or could of inward slaves make outward free?
Know, therefore, when my season comes to sit
On David’s throne, it shall be like a tree
Spreading and overshadowing all the earth,
Or as a stone that shall to pieces dash
All monarchies besides throughout the world;
And of my Kingdom there shall be no end.
Means there shall be to this; but what the means
Is not for thee to know, nor me to tell.”
  To whom the Tempter, impudent, replied:—
“I see all offers made by me how slight
Thou valuest, because offered, and reject’st.
Nothing will please the difficult and nice,
Or nothing more than still to contradict.
On the other side know also thou that I
On what I offer set as high esteem,
Nor what I part with mean to give for naught,
All these, which in a moment thou behold’st,
The kingdoms of the world, to thee I give
(For, given to me, I give to whom I please),
No trifle; yet with this reserve, not else—
On this condition, if thou wilt fall down,
And worship me as thy superior Lord
(Easily done), and hold them all of me;
For what can less so great a gift deserve?”
  Whom thus our Saviour answered with disdain:—
“I never liked thy talk, thy offers less;
Now both abhor, since thou hast dared to utter
The abominable terms, impious condition.
But I endure the time, till which expired
Thou hast permission on me.  It is written,
The first of all commandments, ‘Thou shalt worship
The Lord thy God, and only Him shalt serve.’
And dar’st thou to the Son of God propound
To worship thee, accursed? now more accursed
For this attempt, bolder than that on Eve,
And more blasphemous; which expect to rue.
The kingdoms of the world to thee were given!
Permitted rather, and by thee usurped;
Other donation none thou canst produce.
If given, by whom but by the King of kings,
God over all supreme?  If given to thee,
By thee how fairly is the Giver now
Repaid!  But gratitude in thee is lost
Long since.  Wert thou so void of fear or shame
As offer them to me, the Son of God—
To me my own, on such abhorred pact,
That I fall down and worship thee as God?
Get thee behind me!  Plain thou now appear’st
That Evil One, Satan for ever ******.”
  To whom the Fiend, with fear abashed, replied:—
“Be not so sore offended, Son of God—
Though Sons of God both Angels are and Men—
If I, to try whether in higher sort
Than these thou bear’st that title, have proposed
What both from Men and Angels I receive,
Tetrarchs of Fire, Air, Flood, and on the Earth
Nations besides from all the quartered winds—
God of this World invoked, and World beneath.
Who then thou art, whose coming is foretold
To me most fatal, me it most concerns.
The trial hath indamaged thee no way,
Rather more honour left and more esteem;
Me naught advantaged, missing what I aimed.
Therefore let pass, as they are transitory,
The kingdoms of this world; I shall no more
Advise thee; gain them as thou canst, or not.
And thou thyself seem’st otherwise inclined
Than to a worldly crown, addicted more
To contemplation and profound dispute;
As by that early action may be judged,
When, slipping from thy mother’s eye, thou went’st
Alone into the Temple, there wast found
Among the gravest Rabbies, disputant
On points and questions fitting Moses’ chair,
Teaching, not taught.  The childhood shews the man,
As morning shews the day.  Be famous, then,
By wisdom; as thy empire must extend,
So let extend thy mind o’er all the world
In knowledge; all things in it comprehend.
All knowledge is not couched in Moses’ law,
The Pentateuch, or what the Prophets wrote;
The Gentiles also know, and write, and teach
To admiration, led by Nature’s light;
And with the Gentiles much thou must converse,
Ruling them by persuasion, as thou mean’st.
Without their learning, how wilt thou with them,
Or they with thee, hold conversation meet?
How wilt thou reason with them, how refute
Their idolisms, traditions, paradoxes?
Error by his own arms is best evinced.
Look once more, ere we leave this specular mount,
Westward, much nearer by south-west; behold
Where on the AEgean shore a city stands,
Built nobly, pure the air and light the soil—
Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts
And Eloquence, native to famous wits
Or hospitable, in her sweet recess,
City or suburban, studious walks and shades.
See there the olive-grove of Academe,
Plato’s retirement, where the Attic bird
Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long;
There, flowery hill, Hymettus, with the sound
Of bees’ industrious murmur, oft invites
To studious musing; there Ilissus rowls
His whispering stream.  Within the walls then view
The schools of ancient sages—his who bred
Great Alexander to subdue the world,
Lyceum there; and painted Stoa next.
There thou shalt hear and learn the secret power
Of harmony, in tones and numbers hit
By voice or hand, and various-measured verse,
AEolian charms and Dorian lyric odes,
And his who gave them breath, but higher sung,
Blind Melesigenes, thence Homer called,
Whose poem Phoebus challenged for his own.
Thence what the lofty grave Tragedians taught
In chorus or iambic, teachers best
Of moral prudence, with delight received
In brief sententious precepts, while they treat
Of fate, and chance, and change in human life,
High actions and high passions best describing.
Thence to the famous Orators repair,
Those ancient whose resistless eloquence
Wielded at will that fierce democraty,
Shook the Arsenal, and fulmined over Greece
To Macedon and Artaxerxes’ throne.
To sage Philosophy next lend thine ear,
From heaven descended to the low-roofed house
Of Socrates—see there his tenement—
Whom, well inspired, the Oracle pronounced
Wisest of men; from whose mouth issued forth
Mellifluous streams, that watered all the schools
Of Academics old and new, with those
Surnamed Peripatetics, and the sect
Epicurean, and the Stoic severe.
These here revolve, or, as thou likest, at home,
Till time mature thee to a kingdom’s weight;
These rules will render thee a king complete
Within thyself, much more with empire joined.”
  To whom our Saviour sagely thus replied:—
“Think not but that I know these things; or, think
I know them not, not therefore am I short
Of knowing what I ought.  He who receives
Light from above, from the Fountain of Light,
No other doctrine needs, though granted true;
But these are false, or little else but dreams,
Conjectures, fancies, built on nothing firm.
The first and wisest of them all professed
To know this only, that he nothing knew;
The next to fabling fell and smooth conceits;
A third sort doubted all things, though plain sense;
Others in virtue placed felicity,
But virtue joined with riches and long life;
In corporal pleasure he, and careless ease;
The Stoic last in philosophic pride,
By him called virtue, and his virtuous man,
Wise, perfect in himself, and all possessing,
Equal to God, oft shames not to prefer,
As fearing God nor man, contemning all
Wealth, pleasure, pain or torment, death and life—
Which, when he lists, he leaves, or boasts he can;
For all his tedious talk is but vain boast,
Or subtle shifts conviction to evade.
Alas! what can they teach, and not mislead,
Ignorant of themselves, of God much more,
And how the World began, and how Man fell,
Degraded by himself, on grace depending?
Much of the Soul they talk, but all awry;
And in themselves seek virtue; and to themselves
All glory arrogate, to God give none;
Rather accuse him under usual names,
Fortune and Fate, as one regardless quite
Of mortal things.  Who, therefore, seeks in these
True wisdom finds her not, or, by delusion
Far worse, her false resemblance only meets,
An empty cloud.  However, many books,
Wise men have said, are wearisome; who reads
Incessantly, and to his reading brings not
A spirit and judgment equal or superior,
(And what he brings what needs he elsewhere seek?)
Uncertain and unsettled still remains,
Deep-versed in books and shallow in himself,
Crude or intoxicate, collecting toys
And trifles for choice matters, worth a sponge,
As children gathering pebbles on the shore.
Or, if I would delight my private hours
With music or with poem, where so soon
As in our native language can I find
That solace?  All our Law and Story strewed
With hymns, our Psalms with artful terms inscribed,
Our Hebrew songs and harps, in Babylon
That pleased so well our victor’s ear, declare
That rather Greece from us these arts derived—
Ill imitated while they loudest sing
The vices of their deities, and their own,
In fable, hymn, or song, so personating
Their gods ridiculous, and themselves past shame.
Remove their swelling epithetes, thick-laid
As varnish on a harlot’s cheek, the rest,
Thin-sown with aught of profit or delight,
Will far be found unworthy to compare
With Sion’s songs, to all true tastes excelling,
Where God is praised aright and godlike men,
The Holiest of Holies and his Saints
(Such are from God inspired, not such from thee);
Unless where moral virtue is expressed
By light of Nature, not in all quite lost.
Their orators thou then extoll’st as those
The top of eloquence—statists indeed,
And lovers of their country, as may seem;
But herein to our Prophets far beneath,
As men divinely taught, and better teaching
The solid rules of civil government,
In their majestic, unaffected style,
Than all the oratory of Greece and Rome.
In them is plainest taught, and easiest learnt,
What makes a nation happy, and keeps it so,
What ruins kingdoms, and lays cities flat;
These only, with our Law, best form a king.”
  So spake the Son of God; but Satan, now
Quite at a loss (for all his darts were spent),
Thus to our Saviour, with stern brow, replied:—
  “Since neither wealth nor honour, arms nor arts,
Kingdom nor empire, pleases thee, nor aught
By me proposed in life contemplative
Or active, tended on by glory or fame,
What dost thou in this world?  The Wilderness
For thee is fittest place: I found thee there,
And thither will return thee.  Yet remember
What I foretell t

I

In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the electric heat
Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.

                                    In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
The association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie—
A dignified and commodiois sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.

Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.

II

What is the late November doing
With the disturbance of the spring
And creatures of the summer heat,
And snowdrops writhing under feet
And hollyhocks that aim too high
Red into grey and tumble down
Late roses filled with early snow?
Thunder rolled by the rolling stars
Simulates triumphal cars
Deployed in constellated wars
Scorpion fights against the Sun
Until the Sun and Moon go down
Comets weep and Leonids fly
Hunt the heavens and the plains
Whirled in a vortex that shall bring
The world to that destructive fire
Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.

That was a way of putting it—not very satisfactory:
A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion,
Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter.
It was not (to start again) what one had expected.
What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity
And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us
Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?
The serenity only a deliberate hebetude,
The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets
Useless in the darkness into which they peered
Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems to us,
At best, only a limited value
In the knowledge derived from experience.
The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived
Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm.
In the middle, not only in the middle of the way
But all the way, in a dark wood, in a bramble,
On the edge of a grimpen, where is no secure foothold,
And menaced by monsters, fancy lights,
Risking enchantment. Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.

The houses are all gone under the sea.

The dancers are all gone under the hill.

III

O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark,
The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant,
The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letters,
The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and the rulers,
Distinguished civil servants, chairmen of many committees,
Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark,
And dark the Sun and Moon, and the Almanach de Gotha
And the Stock Exchange Gazette, the Directory of Directors,
And cold the sense and lost the motive of action.
And we all go with them, into the silent funeral,
Nobody’s funeral, for there is no one to bury.
I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing façade are all being rolled away—
Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations
And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen
Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;
Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing—
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth.

                              You say I am repeating
Something I have said before. I shall say it again.
Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
    You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
    You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
    You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
    You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not.

IV

The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer’s art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.

Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam’s curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.

The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.

The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.

The dripping blood our only drink,
The ****** flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.

V

So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l’entre deux guerres
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate—but there is no competition—
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

    Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O’er which clouds are bright’ning,
Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven
In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight—

Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear
Until we hardly see—we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:

Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves:

Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine:
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal
Or triumphal chaunt
Matched with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt—
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest, but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.

Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow
The world should listen then, as I am listening now!

1

A great year and place;
A harsh, discordant, natal scream out-sounding, to touch the mother’s heart
closer than any yet.

I walk’d the shores of my Eastern Sea,
Heard over the waves the little voice,
Saw the divine infant, where she woke, mournfully wailing, amid the roar
of cannon, curses, shouts, crash of falling buildings;
Was not so sick from the blood in the gutters running—nor from
the single corpses, nor those in heaps, nor those borne away in the
tumbrils;
Was not so desperate at the battues of death—was not so shock’d
at the repeated fusillades of the guns.

2

Pale, silent, stern, what could I say to that long-accrued retribution?
Could I wish humanity different?
Could I wish the people made of wood and stone?
Or that there be no justice in destiny or time?

3

O Liberty! O mate for me!
Here too the blaze, the grape-shot and the axe, in reserve, to fetch them out
in case of need;
Here too, though long represt, can never be destroy’d;
Here too could rise at last, murdering and extatic;
Here too demanding full arrears of vengeance.

4

Hence I sign this salute over the sea,
And I do not deny that terrible red birth and baptism,
But remember the little voice that I heard wailing—and wait with perfect trust,
no matter how long;
And from to-day, sad and cogent, I maintain the bequeath’d cause, as for all lands,
And I send these words to Paris with my love,
And I guess some chansonniers there will understand them,
For I guess there is latent music yet in France—floods of it;
O I hear already the bustle of instruments—they will soon be drowning
all that would interrupt them;
O I think the east wind brings a triumphal and free march,
It reaches hither—it swells me to joyful madness,
I will run transpose it in words, to justify it,
I will yet sing a song for you, MA FEMME.

Every dawn is a nexus, /
Every twilight is a beckoning; therefore, /
Embrace the fickle future /
Ensconscing within the sacral oath /
Of a thousand words: /
These utterances shall envelop you /
When upon Triumphal Arcadian Skies /
We meet again. /

Save your tears, /
For love shall reign /
From the empyreal aethers above /
To the Gaian epidermis of /
The Magnanimous Matriarch; moreover, the mellifluous kisses /
Of The Sovereign of Songbirds /
Will burgeon within, /
Will descend upon you as The Holy Dove. /

Unfurl your third eye, /
See with an indefatigable clarity /
All that you were meant to be: /
Strong, Wise, Just; /
Love; /
A luminary fulminating /
Radiantly, resplendently upon /
The Denizens of the Terrene. /

(—Se' lah)

I regard what calls itself "Christianity" today, as so much RELIGIOUS ****.

Why? The Apostle Paul wrote this in his second letter to the Corinthians

2nd Cor 11:4 For if he that cometh preacheth another Jesus, whom we have not preached, or if ye receive another spirit, which ye have not received, or another gospel, which ye have not accepted, ye might well bear with him.
KJV

Some earmarks of "another Jesus"

· He was borne on Christmas
· His "Triumphal Entry" was on Palm Sunday
· His Crucifixion was on Good Friday
· His Resurrection was on Easter
· He turned water into grape juice
· He inspired the NIV (or anything other than the KJV)
· He prays the Lord's Prayer "...thy will be done on earth..."
· His "gospel" is John 3:16
· If he didn't have brothers and sisters
· If he loves EVERYBODY
· If his mother makes apparitions
· If he builds his church upon Peter (Matt 16:18)
· If you have to say the "Sinner's Prayer" to be saved (John 6:44)
· If some "Reverend Doctor" preaches about him
· If a ThD "Theologian" explains him
· If his ministers call themselves "Reverend" of "Father"
· His followers refer to the 3rd Person of the Godhead as "Holy Spirit"

Go tell your Lovey-Dovey jESUS: he can take his salvation and shove it up his ***...AND TELL HIM THAT I SAID SO!

If your opinion of ANY of the above is: "It doesn't matter", then YOU, your church your pastor, your denomination, your jESUS, your gOD - are so much RELIGIOUS ****...ask Nadab and Abihu how much it matters! (that is of course, if your stupid *** even knows who they are)

Also, if you still think it doesn't matter, because one day you're going to fly away to meet your lovey-dovey lord in the lovey-dovey clouds...your ******* will wonder why you are still here when the FIRST SEAL BREAKS

There are 7 years soon to commence, it's called the Great Tribulation. All you lovey-dovey ***** Chunk "christians" will have an opportunity to PROVE that you REALLY ARE what you claim to be.
++++

Do you think you will survive? The coming Seven Years
It's called the Tribulation, a time of and pain and tears
-
Chances are not good, that you'll live to see it through
You'll probably be killed, your not the chosen few
-
You will greet the Antichrist, and you'll take his Mark
This guarantees you'll burn in Hell, the warnings were so stark
-
For 1000 years you'll burn, before you stand before the Throne
The Great White Throne of God, you He will disown
-
Then you'll be cast alive, into The Lake of Fire
With all RELIGIOUS ****, and every other liar

translation from russian by rolanda


                                                   E.К
I write you from ex-colonia
grounded twenty centuries ago
by romans-sounds like a symphony
for hyperborean ear, hundred time
increased distance till addressee.
Looks like Agrippa knew what she did
the sister, worth by her madness of her brother.
Further cinematograph-**** body
bent and etc..accordingly screenplay
maid lapping in marble bathtube
horns leads triumphal aria
with a long sound. On the backstage
usual complaining on the fate,
tangent glance to the east,
muscle of cease  walk
the female wolf her concrete ******,
snapping, moving back to the building of arsenale
lost fatten twins.
I recollect what you didnt finish to say me
closing second door on the bolt,
on same spot there is a snow, cover up Prachechnij bridge
panorama of river, filled up by ice,
something with tear through two thousand miles
or old age with saged belly.
In our age, verticals are
soaring unreachable, slipping to result
of life, just right to dress on sandals
but hardly happens to slip into toga.
Invariable law of falling drops
down, no matter- fontain, rain, ******.
Harbour of postscript...rats storm the ship.
Funeral office offers moire
from spring collection for upholstery of
coffins, grief on the faces of personals,
just in time served coffee with cream
soften disaster of final account.
I write you, for what? - after victory
of foreign football team
from the closeness of prosperous summer,
connected Alps and Andes
by wave of psychose from tv,
inflicted by joy of superiority
above..(not clear what of), and their poses
of victors is sign of ugliness
from point of view of observer-
old neurasthenic and misantrope.
Contemplating fly of pterodactyl
by eye of stamped cyclop,
gilded **** on short spike of chirch
scream by voice of Luter:
"Be blessed folks cars!",
and  morning flow down by sunrise on wood

by Dmitrij Poparev

(Manuscript of Poet Mario William Vitale)


From 1993-1997 - Attended State University in Connecticut,Attempted plays : Tartuffe, Miracle Of St. Anthony and Balm in Gieade,( His poetic aspirations had  in 1989 from submitting his first poem entitled, "Remembrance Of A Loved One"- (Sparrowgrass Poetry Forum)Next from 1989-1997 ( Wrote primarily for Poetry.com and The International Library Of Poetry),* Received editors choice award in 1997 for poem, " A Beacon Of Light ",(1998) Sent poetic manuscript to N.Y. Time Magazine and Chief Editor " John Hyland".Back with rave reviews !* ( From 1999-2008:Had adapted a real keen sense of style for writing poetry: ( 1999- Sent Editorial to:New Man Magazine for the Passion of Christ Movie;Sent followup letter to company with poetry platform information attached,* 2000-2007 : Magazine : ( Catholic) Maries Rose Ferron Magazine submitted poem" Beacon Of Light", which had excellent editorial reviews as the outset !2008- Wrote poem entitled: ( The Heavy Cross) to Poetry.com* Achieved Poetry status of work of Excellence in writing from the Academy Of American Poetry in which still having received rank and status as a member of Academy;* ( The Connecticut Poetry Society)* Short story submitted entitled, "China Dog Ray" submitted to Virginia WritersQuarterly, West Virginia, Also having member status on their board of Poetry.*


( Attribute Poetry to an ever increasing love of God and his unconditional love that he has for us in return,Thankfulness toward family and friends.( To our past ancestors who fought to uphold freedom that far too many of us take for granted ?One needs a pure heart that's fixed on truth,This is in order to withstand the true great test of time !Life is way too short,Press toward the goal or mark of our high calling that is in Christ Jesus The Lord !~My contempoarry artists include that of ellan Bryant Voight, Kay Ryan and carl Phillips.Which all three are Participants in the Academy Of American Poetry.* Having been a member since 2006,My work reflects the likes of past poets such as C.S.Lewis, Hawthorne and edgar Allen Poe.Most of my work reflects with the values of religious beliefs intact,( In my personal view it is essential in demonstrating a real heart of creativepassion !The reader I believe will benefit by my artistic style of development in a verypositive light.)To further the need for poetry to become more main stream,

Mario Vitale was born in Bristol , Ct Has developed a skill for writing poetry in the free verse form. has been featured on Hubpages.com, Starlitecafe.com & Poetry soup. Vitale lives with his elderly mother Ann Soulier in Wolcott, Ct. Currently has written well over 1,000 poems & 2 short story's toward credit platform.

Vitale has taken the poetic world by storm being featured on Google, Yahoo & MSN. Looks up to contemporaries in the poetry industry such as John Ashbery & Major Jackson.
Has been a favorite featured poet reader at Barnes & Noble in Waterbury, Ct.
Also featured on such sites as Poetry soup, Writer's café & Neo Poet.

Mario William Vitale
1 Winfield Drive
Wolcott, ct 06716

A Beacon Of Light
Written by: Mario Vitale
A beacon of light to a much hurting world in need !

Can't help but to claim..,

Some sense of identity,

Stregnth and encouragement only come from above !



Amidst in the distance, the trapped seagull..,

Lieth frightened but still yet adrift !
In a most vengeful fashion striking the passing fish,
A true source of hope,
Yet a most triumphal beam !

This beacon of light shineth forth,
Passerby's can err' escape the helping hand..,

To the most sparkling of radiance !


(2)Thanksgiving Dinner by Mario Vitale
Home for the holiday from New Orleans,
with Mother and Father at the tiny
drop leaf, brown rosewood, mahogany
table with the gold, grinning claw feet;
Father, choler- red-in the-face, short-
sleeved white shirt and cane, says the blessing
as Mother brings in the turkey and cranberry.
Then Mother asks, “Won’t you have more?” and father :
“Do you think Moll Flanders was a *****?”
(I have suffered and bleached my hair blond.)
I am silent before their replies.
Mother sighs. “I can scarce speak to her.”
And Father, too, quotes Shakespeare. (I am thin
as paper and the rose- colored bowl
of blown glass sitting on the silver stand,
half- filled with water.)
“How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is
to have a thankless daughter”


(3)

Song of Spring
Today I heard a robin sing
heralding the coming spring
A song of exultation to the sky
an ode to earth's awakening

I saw a willow on the hill
It's branches greening in the sun
and all the earth seemed hushed & still
sleeping streams began to run

I heard a softly rising breeze
whispering through the grass
singing through the still bare trees
waiting winter's chill to pass

I saw the sun, so bright and warm
warming the earth after the rain
the buds and leaves, no frost to harm
at least, at last, it's spring again.

(4)

The Ancients
It's my last day with the old giants
In mourning I hike the lost trails,
sniffing the aroma of the bark,
that cinnamon of the forest
Under tepees of wood
in a membrane of shadows,
I stalk the earth, its mammal traces,
its elusive tracks,
to sit on a fallen log
where spiders macramé,
moss sloping to my knees
unaware of invisibles within,
grubbing in their tunnels
A lizard taps my foot,
responding, I muse to its touch,
my thoughts like Indian visions,
And when daylight mushrooms into night,
and an owl hoots from cedar,
I still sit with a lizard on my shoe
Huddled with the ancients of the woods


(5)

Epiphany
Written by: Mario Vitale
It clings to the cliffed shore,
to the wintered face of the thistle path,
to the fingers of the old man's glove
as he waves his memory homeward

In that breath between come and go
she moves up from the bay;
gold turns her stride,
the line of her dress,
the soft sea pulling at her feet

When he reaches out
and the frail birds fly
and the sun and the sky
have married deep into the sea, it clings

Even as his shadow threads retreat,
it clings, even now as it dissolves to mist


(6)

A Return Home, Only Time Will Tell
Written by: Mario Vitale
Oh blessed hope !

Both hardly a believable dream,
Sweltering heat with bloodshed in the street...
Send the troops home !
There is no clear reason for them to roam..,

These are desolate times !
For we have chosen ill faded rhymes..,
The casualties are enormous ?
For a stated cause that clearly atrocious..,

A mother's cry as the door chime rings,
A vanishing salute to freedom as the church choir sings !
Let us look above to all the heavenly love..,
Merciful one, take this chip off my shoulder..,

Stop the senseless fighting before our dear nation grows a bit colder,
Suddenly, seeds were dropped out of a farmers bag,
In time roots spring up fresh out of the fertile soil...
As the sun heats up,


Time will tell when this harvest will soon boil...
In the vast game of life,
One's time is so very brief !
The soul yearns for its' heavenly relief..,

Share with others who may want to turn over a brand new leaf..,

Time will tell of the true importance of helping one another,
To never give into the finish line..,
Nor harsh criticism that our society puts out !
Like a famous fighter in his final bout !

Time will tell of the return home,
To the open arms of a loved one !

(7)

A Valiant Knight
Written by: Mario Vitale
A Valiant Knight

Death springs a new day basking in the breeze
In solemn moments lets pause to think of a place
A far off castle in the mountains away from it all
A valiant knight lived in the structure of it's dwelling
Those days of old where mere men had a noble demise
A beautiful maiden was in waiting for her knight
He would often fight for the cause of stregnth and dignity
The draw bridge where the castle stood had a very unique aura
A mystery of sort sought up in the vast array of crowned nobility

For the king on his thrown was humble yet greedy
Always would take care of himself caring nothing for the needy
A valiant knight was concerned about the kings trust
Often they would disagree on who it was to serve
A joker came in front of the king one day with a magic wand
Waving the wand in the air then there floated ivy everywhere
For the court jester was a fool in the making of his legacy
The maiden would often come forth and see

For she treasured a red rose that was plucked sometime before
Cherished the calling of her stature to the glory of the throne
A valiant knight would often sing sweet songs in the night
Had a following of village people that would sit before his feet
Having a way of words that he would often share
The castle was filled with dragons and warlocks searching for love
A cause to be brave amidst uncertainty of the kingdom
The legacy of golden capulets filled ardent vestibules
Let us toast to the valiant knight who keeps a watch on all that is good


(8)
Hampton Beach

The smell of fresh fry doe
Time had elapsed playing at the casino
Fresh lobster with a side order of fries
Those spacious wonderful sky's
Down at the shell the continental were playing
A walk by the lady of a statue in waiting
Flip flops and the sound of laughter
A playground for kids in the middle
The boardwalk with seagulls flocking over head
Fire works in the midnight air with a cheer


(9)

God's World
It is raining again.
Summer will be over before it ever gets here
Thunder rolls far away, drops
hit the windshield, the sky turns gray

The Sunflower, the blue
Delpinium, the white
Stinkwood drink the moisture
greedily. The green and silver

leaves of the Aspens sparkle as the rain hits them, and the
wind turns them round and round
The creek flows on, oblivious to
the change in the weather.

A break in the clouds allows a bit of sun to hit the side of a
towering mountain
Three cows slowly wend their way homeward. It is dusk.
The gray clouds lift and the sun bursts through,

before sliding behind the hills for the night
It is God's World. He gives it to us to enjoy and to share with each other


(10)

Jake's House
There was a man whose name was Jake
Who had a house upon the lake
Every morning he would wake
And for breakfast have a piece of cake

He had a private fishing hole;
He always used a long cane pole
He fried his fish on red hot coal
And served it in a great big bowl

For a pet, he had a cat


(11)

In The Zone
Written by: Mario Vitale
In The Zone

whispers...
through the dark deranged portals you evoke fear
filled with angelic fervor on it's textual base
yet we dig much deep then ever before

cries in the dark will light the spark of what we need to know
still we stand idle as the average novice introduces its spell
along again then the sadness evokes a newer feeling
dwindling through the vain extraction of the never world

we visually see a flash then a new day approaches
on the lawn two lovers having passionate ***
the screams of vile extreme explodes throughout
perhaps this is the place where Nero tread

yet again I sit alone in my house now huddled in the corner
the twilight sun has tainted my inner vision
the howls of Satanic laughter gives a piercing shriek through
a candle was lit by the edge of my bed

One can remain lax in the quietness of the moment
yet again the setting of the sun
a new day has begun as we embark on the moment
Does death hurt you the most or is it fear

You can equate logic through a firm grasp of the hand
whispers again...
then a faint cry,
we construct living pyramids to honor the dead

A stroke of luck an the impulse ensues
onto so much more but for what
are we grasping for straws what are we searching for ?
quietness again this time I'm in the zone

as if zombie creatures with viscous long fangs that bite
dripping blood off side we run away to hide
no one questions anymore no one has a voice
alone one last time yet feelings of grandeur awake

to the message of hope that spills from the sky
a challenge to be free is a question of time
eyes with spots digging holes in a pool of blood
Satan laughing again spreads his wings

Suddenly I awake but to what ?


(12)

An End Of The Age Of Innocence Part III
Written by: Mario Vitale
In our fast paced twentieth century world..,

We oft' have neglected to stop to smell the roses,
Oft' we used to bow our heads silently to pray,
As we reflect back to the sixties is had launched a pad to rebellion !
With a vast amount of liberal bias and thinking,

No wonder why our nation is sinking..,

Sinking amidst a cuss pool of mere morality..,
For now it is a quite different time,
A very unique but different type of day..,
An end of the age of innocence,

One hath been enlightened..,

From seeking truth,
Some fresh out of a garbage can..,
Yet for Gods' sake,
He hath such an amazing plan !

Hence, to shun the broad road,

Yet to seek to venture in the narrow..,
Such as a distant bird in flight !
You might see this creature venture out at night ?
Of the Eagle nor the Sparrow..,

It used to mean something to have a sense of common courteous..,
To hold open the door for your neighbor ?
Yet for the time being we relent and waiver..,
Would you prefer another taste of a certain ice cream flavor ?

To ponder we must be content with who we are in the inside..,

Nor, a mere fancy suit or blazing sport's car,
Life is a roller coaster..,
In what you do while busy making other plans..,
Finding solace among the height of nature.,

Such to think at what is quite simple,
As a young child reflects on his or her poster board,
Playing with their magic crayons..,
For in eternity it is such a very long time !

Take heed in what you do,

Now is the expectant hour !
What will one choose to do ?
There can be no place nor need for any compromise,
Within it's vast perpetual spectrum !

One just can't put a price tag on a genuine but unique heart !

Hence, with honest integrity..,
The time for change is today !

(13)

He Was There
by Mario William Vitale

From the inner silence of the lamb he was there
In welcoming to the world to share
Within the multiple of words the mouth speaks
As a heart beats through the passage of time
To every poem that was ever written
To every burden ever lifted
To rivers crossing where people living
Sometimes loving other moments giving
In storms that were outside brewing
What is the significance of this love
In painted pictures from above
To every soldier in a battle
To every cow amidst the cattle
Not a second glance at any real romance
A field of dreams throughout our head
From both fire and ice will make you think twice
Perhaps another chance at a roll of the dice
When every kingdom comes thy will be done
Shadows in the shining morn if there's a rose it bears a thorn,
He was there in every circumstance
When they tried to throw stones at her
He was there drawing a line with his finger in the sand
It is my hope that some day all will understand
A glance at the past will tell us of our future
Amidst the inner pain & uncertainty
Through shadows in a field of dreams
In moments of solace amidst the pain
A light moved out upon the street outside
A day that wasn't meant to be
Thorn crown was pulled upon his head
Those shouts of intense anger from the mob
There was only one who would help him back on his feet,
A light that brought only a few to greet
Let us not run away & hide
Each one of our sins was placed on that cross
To lose the battle now would end in tragic loss
Father please forgive them for they know not what they do
He said the prayer now the rest is up to you
That cross that broke a sinful world apart
With his blood-soaked crown with spear in side
To show the whole world he had nothing to hide
The summoned cry brought about healing in the sky
Watch the free angelic dove fly!



(14)

Momma Of Pearls
by Mario William Vitale

Since there's nothing I could find
That was worth giving you,
I sat down to think a while
And write a line or two
If I had a magic wand
I'd wave it just for you,
And give you anything you'd like
No matter how many or few
If I could give you back the years
You so willingly gave to me
I'm sure that you spend them over again
The same as they used to be
Remember when those days and nights
Instead of going to the fair
I'd always say tell me again
The story of the three little bears
I tried to get a strawberry pie
But they were out of season
Then I thought of gold

There was no earthquake
no shattering birth
raging against the pane of existence
sending butterflies cowering behind glass
and wolves baying over a bloodless loss
in a forest where one tree falls to a soulmate
breaking free from clutter with a passionate flair
like a newly clustered sun's first real pulse
of living light
flung into a dark sky to dwell on its joy
at brightening its view of the universe

when I met you

there was no pepper spray
of subdued stinging elation
burning under my skin
when you climbed over everything
and demonstrated against
all I had ever defined
choking the air with a perfume
so hot it welded every flower
within miles into a single staggering
placard blowing me into a garden paradise
from where winds were strengthened
with a strange unprotesting fascination
only guessed at by curious angels
only sensed as the singular truth
amidst the nonsense of existence
by a philosophical idealist

when I met you

there was no starving ants' nest
hunger to consume you morsel by morsel
carry the idyllic seeds aloft in triumphal succession
and acclaim the day as evermore celebrated
store the piecemeal plot as sacred land
my eternal home to build on as we will
and relishing the daily harvest
the piled to spilling their vanity fruits
of Aphrodite's labouring shaken womb
by putting your heaving bodice of attraction
on display where the highest peak
looks up at your shockingly favoured nature
and in its warm shade curls up
contrite

when I met you

on a never to be exceeded
memory pillow of accomplished desire
below the tree line where it melts
the final crystals of snow
and rolls over on to its back
hard time ink tattoos giving way
to slipped on morning lipstick
like a puppy wanting a rub of its tummy
discovering the pleasures of green grass
on its first summer
of life

when I met you

there was no play of your fingers
skimming down my back
touching every vital chord
of merciless disharmony
tormenting the hell out of me
with a soft on my eyes stream
of exotically attired tireless servants
loyal only to our exchanged look of adoration

when I met you

performing in concert with your lithe body
by suddenly trumpeting the flash of lightening
generated by a momentary show
of everything you possess not static
and worn to part plush glimpses skin on skin
from shifting notes dripping under lazy dresses
dropping their quavers on to velvet carpet
and rubbing in the salted healing potion
you drummed up on quiet sleepless nights
inside a perfection of smooth conniving visions
bolting the bedroom of mad freedoms from inside
and banishing every other maiden's swan song
from this man's dreams of orchestral piece

when I met you

I found only the more
perfect body
personality
kindness
and love
and that
my dear one
was more than I deserve

way way beyond
what I couldn't find
what will ever be
envisioned
enough

when I met you

to think maybe the other bits
will follow
but it doesn't have to be so

when I meet you
and meet you more

Spear shafts splintering beneath its hulk -
the mastodon crashed to the earth,
roared its final lament and fell silent.

Shouts echoed across the ravine.
Dark-haired Clovis hunters converged:
stripping the hide,
carving the flesh.

Others frenzied about the carcass,
tracing broken shafts
to salvage the flint for tomorrow's hunt  -
retrieving all save one.

A triumphal fire hissed and snapped,
hurling heat and smoke
high into the mid–day sky.

     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *    

      *The archaeologist knelt to the ground.
      Heart racing, he scraped dirt from flint,
      brushed away the millennial dust
      and raised the projectile to the sun shouting,
      'Clovis point! '

'Clovis point' - an epiphany in the dust:
found inches from the bones of its prey.
Khaki and blue jeaned hunters gathered quickly
to read the epic written in flint and bone:
Mastodon and Clovis united by the point of a spear.

July, 2006

I want to live right up to when I die
and through, beyond the finish line.
Not with a gasp and an ugly stumble,
but run straight on, strong and triumphal.

I want to live right up to when I die
with au revoir and not goodbye.
I want to live with real expectation
and run on into the new creation.

Kenyan home can bring tears. In Brazil, do you think the corn spin? But these are not alone. World Address. Hill, Blake, Jack, Brice. Frequent calls and White Expansion. Epipid Tanks. Karl forces her husband and does not support Guggenheim and gynecologists. Eye shadow from AH II and blue cows, Lamb Cork and Tan, Red, Black and Blue, Be. Then the delicious deserts of the tree. Dr. Benny Day Ahoyimo, Roberto Roan, married. Hallyu Istanbul, Brazil Vingoling Song Tashvi. We can not do this to get grocery stores and other places, and we should do great games. But these are not alone. All Internet features, Internet features Jack Browns Amen, American Dream, American lovers.

Havakin Liberty is located on the Hawaiian coast, on the west coast of Hawaii. In fact, Tatum's body, the "temple" and the triumphal temple and the Ummaskan kanwi neighborhood, which is getting worse, is tragic. One in Africa and Italy. British cathedral, Art GMS Cathedral. Kansas Avenue, Red, Aijian, Black, White House, St. Paul, Louis Paul, Veem Arnin, Guru, or Oregon. Personal tours and fishing. These targets are in New South Wales and Darwin. She was married to Sistar Kanti and Kaseke and artist Tess Ties, who did not go to the world of peace and shared our *******. All other Internet features, other important features of Internet Explorer and Latin American film Hicks Kee. Western Children near Houston and Texas. Generally speaking, the British writings were very good. Exhort the walls. African-American. *** Cherry Association Association. Kenyan home tears and so on. Why? D. Olives in Brazil? But these are not alone. World Address. Hill, Blake Jack, Brice. Common Cal and Henson White Fork ecosystems.

Epipid Tanks. Herbalife (Karl) calls her husband and does not support Shenyang ginger and ginger. Unknown picture from IHHII and Blue Lamb, Lamb Kusar Tuna, Pamploo Lamb Black and Blue, Stone Sv. Then unexpected delicious meals in the forest. Blen Dan Akuni, mm. Robert Rover got married. High Power Istanbul, Brazil Tashvi Vingoling Song. We can not do this to get grocery stores and other places, and we should do great games. But these are not alone. All Internet Features, Internet Features Jack Bruce Amen, United States Amadeus, American Artist. The main black beak is the Everest aquarium on the west coast of Everest Editions. It is tragic for the entire "temple" and local temples, as well as Umberbakkons Samantha Hublok (Umbrella Cook), Viram Truman. One in Africa and Italy. British cathedral, Art GMS Cathedral. Kansas Avenue, Red, Aijian, Black, White House, St. Paul, Louis Paul, Veem Arnin, Guru, or Oregon. Personal tours and fishing. These targets are in New South Wales and Darwin. The North American citizens of Kisi, Kenya, Kasekai and the people of Tao Tzu, the people of Punjabi, shared unpopular things in the peace of the world. All Internet Features, Internet Features The other great Latin-American film about Thionest Play and the Latin American film Hicks Kekem. Cocoa - the New York horse near Houston and Texas. Overall, the UK members were very good. A struggle against difficult walls. African-American. ACCO Associations

Housing in Kenya can cause tears. Have you imagined the corn flakes in Brazil? But they are not alone in contact. The whole address of the world. Hill, Blake Jack, Brice. Common calls and Henson white calls. Epiphonation tanks. Her herbs (Karl) prescribe her husband and do not support Gigs and Minden's gynecologists. Image Curiosity is a message from IHHII and Blue Lambs, Lamb Kusar Tuna, Lamb Pamploo Black and Blue, Stone Sv. Then unexpected delicacies in the tree. Blue nun Dai married Akuino MM, Roberto Rowan. High Power Istanbul, Brazil Vingoling Song Tashvi. We can not do this to find wooden shops and other places and we should do it in great games. But they are not alone in contact. All Internet features, Internet features. Jack Bruce Amen, American Amed, American lovers.

Havkins Liberty is the main land on the west coast of Illinois. In principle, the "temple" and temple of elegance, as well as the cause of Villiam Truman's body, Umberto Kunka, are tragic. One of Africa and Italy. British Cathedral, Jimi S. Aittis Cathedral. A. Kansas Avenue, Red, Aegean, Black, White House, St. Paul, Luna Paul, Villiam Arrien, Guru, or Oregon. Private tours and fishing. These targets are in New South Wales and Darwin. Cicero, who spread to North America, married Kentucky and Keske and artist Tess, so they shared our people's pandas that you did not go to the world of peace. All Internet features, Internet features. Another important Latin-American film

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
       From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
       In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
       The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
       As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
       And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
       And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
       And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
       While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
       Lightning, my pilot, sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
       It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
       This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
       In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
       Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
       The Spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in Heaven's blue smile,
       Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
       And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
       When the morning star shines dead;
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
       Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
       In the light of its golden wings.
And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
       Its ardors of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
       From the depth of Heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine aery nest,
       As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
       Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
       By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
       Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
       The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
       Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
       Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
       Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone,
       And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim
       When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
       Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,--
       The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
       With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,
       Is the million-colored bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,
       While the moist Earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
       And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
       I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain
       The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
       Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
       And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
       I arise and unbuild it again.

At the lowering of the flag,
and the rise of white,
let it not be mistaken for cowardice,
but may it be perceived as wisdom,
that my heart, a battleground
torn and riddled with blood and scorches
is now the blessed land of peace,
that all foes are in full retreat,
and the drums of victory loudly beat
and the shout of triumphal praise.

And at the going down of the bitter red Sun,
when flames smoulder, and hearts surrender,
I shall rest easy in the night, knowing, knowing
no more shots and thunder ring to my ears,
nor the tortured screams of twisted souls,
as the sun slowly sets in its ****** colour,
the fields of red and crimson,
are washed clean by truth.

Relief, the greatest sigh of relief,
that this land suppressed by fear
is liberated by an almighty host angelic
in all its glory, that with every rhythmic step
and every lyrical chant,
the enemy trembles and breaks,
no wait, they retreat.

And now, this scorched field of battle
bloodied and burnt, is restored by Christ
to beautiful fields of green and life,
trees, forest, Golden sunlight, skies of blue,
air of purity, and a life renewed, and improved,
rivers ebb and flow, trees creak and groan
as birds sing their songs, and the world is once
again alive and fully well,
this is my world,
this is my human soul.

Tonight,
the Dark
gathers it's
greatest might,
but will
be broken
by morning's
triumphal
Light.

  ~mce

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/1/2019

Be strong, o brother! And with your eagle wings
whip the clouds, that clouds which threaten you with a storm...
We were born by days so sad and so hard
that great strength is needed not to die out
at some early, lonely grave like a blood-red lightning bolt,
but to live bravely on earth full of tears.

Be strong! Let your young arms
bear the burdens, worthy of your efforts...
Let brotherly love fill your chest...
For as long as at least one spirit in darkness dwells,
as long as at least one heart doesn't know
to what should it devote itself with persistence,
no swordsman should ever rest
in the silence of his own existence.

Be strong! Life overwhelms with its weight
those who, without the helm, will and power,
among the multitude of world's phenomena and contradictions,
err, unwillingly carried by the current of events,
absent-minded and not conscious of their own actions,
like a somnambulist sleep-walking through the night...
The Earth won't lean on them for sure!
And Humanity, in its triumphal march, never takes into account
those who having retreated before the battle - die.
And outside the persistent Spirit Realm
they won't exist, nor will this mysterious shadow,
which disappears when the immaculate sun rises in the sky.

A handful of noble men that are conquering
the future are like loose, solar links,
which are unable into one whole unite...
And maybe it's your spirit they lack
to close the circles of the big chain,
that will engird the globe and push it with might to a new path.

Be strong, o brother! ... ah, your proud chest
I would like to clad in a diamond breastplate,
against the burning breath of carnal lust
that takes you on a journey full of temptations,
against poisoned arrows of doubt
that strike you as bolts of lightning...
But I'm weak myself, and I cannot be your shield,
though I'm standing by your side
like a sister, outstretching my hands,
and I look at light slowly dying in your eyes,
and at your lips, which with a smile
blaspheme to the secret mournings of your soul,
like blasphemous would be a rose adorning orphans' black robes;
And in vain I want to protect you with my tears
against the scorching sun of life that dries up your chest;
And helplessly looking as your soul is dying,
I am calling: o brother, be strong! ...

The ground is shaking under your feet, but you must stay strong!
You have to remain at your post with courage undaunted in the storm.
He who carries the Torch of Hope and hoists
the Victory Standard at the summits of spirituality,
whoever imprints himself with lion's strength
on his own Age, the one to whom the Earth
is like a non-solidfied block,
that his divine mark awaits,
- only he the name of a "Man" shall gain
in the non-erasable annals of immortality!

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

When skies cry, /
I dare not doubt /
For I know every tear has meaning, /
& not one of them is forgotten: /
Tenuous, airy, heady, divine, sublime. /

He raises me to heights empyreal, supernal /
When I have ascended triumphal arcadian skies /
I fathom the redolent reverie has not ended, /
Rather, I am one /
With all things. /

Crystalline, intemerate, pearlescent /
His glistening irides /
They gleam, they shimmer /
With a luminosity that is interstellar: /
Divo! /

Every morn he awakens me anew /
Reminding me that I still possess life, love, liberty, /
& embrace! /
With boundless freedom, /
I unfurl the wings to soar. /

The clairron voice of The Sovereign of Songbirds awakens me every morn. /
The musicality within, /
I fathom it /
Will never leave me. /
It cascades upon me incessantly. /

(—Se' lah )

it's wild, the film:

"Joker" seemed to

presage what Gotham

is starting to look like.

there are very many of

which too much freedom

is getting away from.

it is indeed getting very

crazy out there.

faithful
forgiving
triumphal
overjoyed
so grateful
and
rest ashored
more
than
willing
to
make
that sacrifice
for
the
blessings
in
my life

The steady sunflower
     Follows and glorifies the sun
Tracking its light from dawn to setting -

Each solar tilt
     A dauntless declaration
Of self-fulfilling hope -
     Intrepid symbols of
A strong Ukrainian nation!

After the invaders have left
     In shame and failure -
Their crimes faded
     Into pointless ugly memories and
Liberty sings her triumphal anthem,

Sunflowers will break the soil
     And prevail in everlasting glory
Over all her shining fields and valleys.

Slava Ukraine forever!!

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                        T­he Great Gate of Kiev

                Mussorgsky’s The Great Gate of Kiev is no hymn to the
                people of Ukraine (telegraph.co.uk)

If there was never a Great Gate of Kiev
Except in Mussorgy’s triumphal hymn
There ought to have been, and there will be some day
Trophied with captured Putinista flags

For now

Wherever a Ukrainian enters Kiev
By rail or bus, or in worn-out army boots
He is the Gate, the Knight’s Gate, the Golden gate
With a chapel and the most wonderful bells

And the pictures at an exhibition
Will be ikons of Ukrainian martyrs

On some days

I am like the butterfly.

Vibrant and colourful,

Fluttering my wings

Not settling for anything bland.



On some days,

I am like the firefly.

With my pulsating charm

And flickering lights,

Mystifying  the people around.



On some days,

I am like the rainbow.

A triumphal arch across the sky,

Between paradise and earth

Enticing dreams and musings.



On some days,

I am like the fire.

Wild and rebellious

Setting social evils ablaze

Leaving behind chars of

Stigma and stains.



On other days,

I am like the human.

Unceasingly aspiring but frivolous ,

Submissive but woke.

Contained by social media validations

And archaic judgements;

Finding my way

Through different thoroughfares of life.

I am the lion, the wolf, and the horse,
Rainbow and *** of gold, river and source.
I am a windstorm of passion and rain,
Thresher of tangleweed, drummer of pain.

Flocks of the autumn air dance on my wing,
Soldiers and statesmen both bow heads and sing,
Fireflies synchronize hearts to my beat,
Churchimes clap triumphal rings down the street.

I am an echo in dancehalls of old,
I am the fever that comes with the cold,
I am the soul of the goodness of Earth,
Guardian and blesser of every new birth.

I am the mother bird, high in her nest,
All of the creatures are under my breast.
I am the white dove that flies from the strife,
I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life.

I was so very aware
that the afternoon was dying in the domes,
and all around me sounds froze,
turned to winding pillars.

I was so very aware
that the undulant drift of scents
was collapsing into darkness,
and it seemed I had never tasted
the cold.

Suddenly
I awoke so far away
and strange,
wandering behind my face
as though I had hidden my feelings
in the senseless relief of the moon.

I was so very aware
that
I did not recognize you, and perhaps
you come, always,
every hour, every second,
moving through my vigil - then -
as through the spectre of a triumphal arch.

by Nichita Stanescu, translated by Thomas Carlson and Vasile Poenaru

Not-Believer Temple
Not-Believer is not Un-believer,
Making sense through reforming Un-senseless:
Will be life his unworldly and river,
Like Creator, he passes that helpless,

Joining banks for those shades of the souls,
Which abandoned the flesh of Believing:
Don’t turn back each new time, your Goal
Is achieving so near, you, Leader!..

Through rejection that in acquisition
Of the recipe zealous prepared,
Not-Believer, a shining magician,
Tastes beliefs feeding them what he dared.

All that Daring is key Foundation
For the measurements craving for stones:
Building Faiths of them Multination,
That Humanity’s be hopes and moans…

Chiseling Idols a-half, not to crush them,
Not-Believer Experience worships:
In its core, its flame – and its Lashing –
Fascination, equipped like a warship.

And in battle – Belief – sending courage,
They defeat for the sake of Triumphal,
Where non-joining “Not” in an Outrage
After that for Asserted build Temple!..

A handwritten letter a licked
stamp

old fashioned
yes

but not outdated
yet post-dated

with the red metal flag
pointing

to the sky and burning
like an Olympic torch

in anticipation
of your triumphal

return

whit howland © 2021

"The Highest Quality"

The quality of assholery
Has reached the highest peak.
The quirks that once were savories
Are gone, as souls grow weak.

Boring freaks in "perfect" lands,
Tighter now, they’re bound.
Easier—those out-of-hand,
They walk the lighter ground.

Go seek the quirks, the oddities—
There you’ll find the light.
******* in their lies and greed,
That’s where the source of blight.



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



"Ding-****"

Ding-****, ding-****, I’m the fool who talks,
Here to convert you to "faith" today.
You’re a slave—one law in those walks,
To crush with orders, led astray.

Just fools to smite. To comfort, lie,
With rotten heresy to heal.
And herd them off to die.
If you "believe," your mind's unreal.

You must not "believe," you must KNOW.
Self-reflection brings the light,
That’s what will help you truly grow—
For beasts will lie in faith’s dark night.

Their lies will swell, their numbers grow,
In doctrines that enslave the mind.
Here, all religions serve the foe,
And evil chains all souls confined.

In childhood’s grip, they lock you tight.
The fool seeks others just to bind.
Ding-****, ding-****—The evil’s flight:
Don’t open doors to what you find!





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



A Poem for Aging Children, or Overton's Windows

Mama washed the frame—
The frame by the window,
Of Overton's name.
A drama in the shadow.

Overton’s windows—
It’s all that we see!
Above the law’s lows—
Devour the filth, you’ll be free!

Soon cannibalism
Through windows will spread.
The windows, the prism,
By which the FOE’s led.



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



Fools, Beasts, Lies

Fools, beasts, and lies—
Hell’s infernal glow.
Forgetfulness, it rise,
And Evil’s attacks grow bold.
All around, it’s ROT AND WOE!



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



The Family Cell

A petty world — their rows, their "peace,"
Obsessed with every small caprice.
This satyr-swarm just drains away
Their strength in quarrels day by day,

In petty fuss, in endless chatter —
No room for battles that would matter:
Like spotting foes from friends — no use —
They’re trapped in cheap and ****** views.

A cell? A cage! And in this pit,
The spiders squabble, snarl, and spit.
And what of children born inside?
Will they escape it? Will they hide

From petty griefs, from mental chains —
And taste the world beyond their pains?
But no — their childhood, sharp as thorn,
Will fester, rot, and leave them torn.

This tiny world of family ties
Will be the fool’s last, proud disguise.
No freedom in this world shall rise —
The family's a slave’s device.





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



Sobered by Soul’s Pain

If soul’s sharp pain has made you see,
You still can find a path, be free —
If Mind stands strong against the blight,
The rot, the madness, and the night.

No pain? Then corpse you are, my friend —
Join zombies on their mindless end.
So many flocks of brainless sheep,
Though drooling idiots run deep.

That dreary path — it leads ahead
Into a worldwide camp for dead.
Already now the madhouse moans,
Yet idiots march like faithful drones,

Still tame today, they trudge along,
Led by the media’s cursed song.
They do not know they'll be erased,
They're meat already — souls displaced.

They bow to beasts — that’s clear to see:
CowID showed it openly.
In this madhouse the minds are crushed —
In nearly all — that is the hush.



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



The Swamp of Stupidity

The swamp of folly — thick and vile,
The clutch of lies — a constant guile,
The stubborn, cold persistence of
Betrayal masked as law and love.

Their motto: "Serve the dark, obey!"
But that dark’s painted bright and gay.
To be yourself — insane, they say,
In this world turned the twisted way.

A madhouse — simple, straight, and grim,
Still in its early, evil spin,
Yet even now, beneath its crust,
It grows — a bloom of total Lust.





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



An Army of the People?

An army of the people? Lies.
It never lived, it never tries.
The beasts are in complete command —
And fools rush in to lend a hand.

The simpletons — so quick to trust,
Deceived by lies, by smoke, by dust.
They turn on neighbors, proud and loud —
For slaughterhouses, cheering crowds!



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



People’s Army? Don’t Make Me Laugh.

An army of the people? — Joke!
The filth’s in charge; the herd's provoked.
The crawling beasts give every cue —
And brainless cattle stomp right through.

The idiots — so proud, so dense —
Fall for the cheapest lies and scents.
They butcher neighbors without shame —
For slaughterhouses — in their name!



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



No People’s Army — Just a Herd,
Obeying beasts without a word.
They march to slaughter, loud and proud —
Their brains already in the ground.



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



The Broken Record

Goebbels — plebbels: same old song,
Played again — but now a farce gone wrong.
Lie and lie, and lie once more,
Lure the cattle with a ****** door,

Promise "Eden" through brute force,
While herding them to Hell, of course.
You shear the sheep, you roast their meat —
Just keep their minds in mad defeat.

Hold them raving through the years —
Their downfall echoes through the gears.
To ***** it up — their only art;
The dream of change? A wishful ****.



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



Same lies, same farce, the cattle cheer,
To Hell they march, year after year.
Their dream of change is just a scream —
A rotting, broken, dying dream.



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



"Money in Sacks,
Bags Under Eyes"

Money in sacks,
Bags under eyes —
Drink, and you're wrecked,
Betrayed by lies.

Better to fight —
Victory’s sober!
Aim, hit, and strike —
No drunken cover.



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



Drink and you're doomed —
Fight and you rise.
Victory’s clear —
No *****, no lies!



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



Hunchbacked Freaks

The idiots stack their lies high —
A camel’s ****’s a lighter sight.
The media, with fervent cry,
Whip up fear, lead to the night.

Two humps — they’re lies and fears combined,
The final straw they coddle still,
To bring about the fall, designed,
In filthy, wicked, hateful skill.

The spine will crack, the path grows clear,
A slaughterhouse, it’s drawing near.
Yet in this world of twisted lies,
They’ll call it health, with blinded eyes.



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



Lies and fear, they make their ****,
Their final blow, a bitter lump.
The path leads down to slaughter’s gate —
But they’ll call it "health" — a twisted fate.



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



Twisted and Fallen

Twisted, sunk down deep below,
They babble of a place they know —
A paradise, they claim, they see,
In a world where Evil’s free.

Good is Evil, so they say,
Insanity rules every day.
With lies, they push the fools around,
Sick of it all, they drown in sound.



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



Twisted lies, they call it "Good,"
Insanity in every word.
Sick of the lies, the twisted schemes —
They live in nightmares, shattered dreams.



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



All the Fools Grind Their Power

All the fools grind down their might,
Too much of this foul, crawling blight.
And you live, half-hearted, weak,
Caught in a tightening noose, unique.

They surround, they break you down —
Like a strangling world, it drowns.
Generations fail and flop —
As long as there’s "free cheese" on top.





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



Fools grind down their every might,
Strangled by the endless fight.
Generations lost in vain,
Chasing cheese, they’re bound in chains.



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



Mad Slaves

"White and fluffy" —
Here, a mad slave.
In this foggy world,
The mind’s a fading wave:

Black’s called white, and white is gone,
The body thick, but mind’s withdrawn.
Though flesh is full, the brain’s a mess —
Just twisted lies in pure distress.



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



"White’s called black," they twist and break,
The mind’s a fool, the body fake.
In madness lost, they serve the lie —
With empty hearts, they live and die.



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



Disgust

Disgusted. The shame can't be washed away,
And slavery deepens with each passing day.
Desires in FILTH? Only Diogenes
Won’t rot into ******, pathetic disease.

Love? Friendship? In SLAVERY? Hollow and dead.
A mad little serf has no heart, only dread.
What's honored? Just nothing — a mindless decay:
Get drunk, get dumb, feed your gut — fade away.

No life here — just rot, in a shameful disguise:
All "growth" is a fraud, a procession of lies.
Here Spirit is slaughtered, and Reason is banned —
Just lunatic screeching across this dead land.

And only a few bear the Light, bear the Truth —
But vanish in nightmares of treachery's tooth,
Of fake manufactured catastrophes' art,
Their cross left behind… for a fool with no heart.



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



Rotland

This isn't life — it's rotting shame,
Where spirit's crushed and mind's to blame.
You kneel, you drool, you feed — then die.
While truth is nailed and left to lie.



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



The Judas School

Trust is now change in a traitor’s hand —
They’ll bleed you dry, and they’ll call it fair play.
What’s left of your heart? Just pulp or sand,
When ruin comes swift — the betrayal way.

They’ll rat you out, sell you cheap for a thrill —
While trust keeps dreaming of wonders and grace.
Here “friends” are Judases, grinning with skill,
And “wise old advisors” — the snitch in your face.

"High feelings"? A trap. You’ll be played and abused.
It’s all cold math — the rest is a lie.
And soon, even decent ones turn and get used —
For pennies, they sell you and wave you goodbye.

The world is a Judas school — plain to behold.
A fake little virus made clear who obeys:
The freaks in white coats, the regimes bought and sold —
Unleashed their fascism in orchestrated waves.

Now Judas High marches toward the camps —
This trust, this belief — a fatal disease.
Trust is a sin: on their banner of tramps,
A red cross is stabbed through the heart with ease.



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



Judas Class

They preach with a smile, then stab from behind —
Trust is the noose for the spiritually blind.
The cross on their flag? Not of mercy or grace —
It’s driven through hearts with a butcher’s embrace.



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



The Futility of a Poet

A poet's despair — a cry in the sand,
Unheard in the void of a lifeless land.
A life full of strain, of torment and pain,
With horror that freezes the blood in your vein.

Poets are skinless — they’re born that way,
And skinless, experience won’t come or stay.
But with no experience, what can you give?
Your soul stays silent — too raw to outlive.

To write is to walk the long road alone,
Or scatter your sparks till your fire is gone.
The dangers are many — you may go blind,
Write nonsense and think it’s the work of the mind.

No fame will come if your verse has fire —
This soulless world doesn’t care or admire.
Your poems may serve just to blow off some steam,
But steam chokes the soul, kills the passionate dream.

Useless, and fruitless, and hopeless, and grim —
This path has no joy, just sorrow and whim.
But if you write true to your soul’s wild storm,
You’ll find, midst the horror, one refuge — still warm.



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



Skinless

A poet is skinless — he bleeds when he speaks.
The world wants silence. And silence it seeks.



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



The Punishing Sword and the Red Banner

The punishing sword, without red flags to wave,
No chants of young zealots, no slogans to save,
No fiery madness, no cult to ignite —
Alone, it’s a blade with no reason to fight.

Brute force alone won’t make devils the kings —
But wash out the brains of the dull and the weak,
And soon they'll be wielding their own brutal things,
Whipping themselves while they slobber and shriek.

They’ll beat the dissenters, the doubters, the sane,
Who flinch at the nightmare and echo no cheer.
Fascism's power is not in the pain —
It thrives when the coward becomes volunteer.

Then crawling and snitching become the new norm,
And bootlickers bask while the others are crushed.
So better become a “Pioneer” in form —
The helpful little creep will leave you untouched.

The sword has sunk deep in the people’s mind —
It maims every thought, kills the soul from within.
The goal of the darkness is always aligned:
To torture the spirit — by poisoning reason.





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



Obedience

They don’t need chains — just rot your brain,
And you’ll swing the whip, then beg for pain.



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



Of Greed and Betrayal

Writer D.H. Lawrence once cried:
“Shut all the schools — let ignorance reign,
Or lies and deceit will soon override,
And man will turn beast, bred cunning and vain.”

Today, it’s the doctor — a fraud in a coat,
A butcher of souls in a clinic of fear.
The world is a camp, where the dumb gladly vote
To follow the whip with a patriot's cheer.

"Knowledge" now reeks of deception and noise,
Truth has been banished — no facts, no defense.
Just loud DECLARATIONS, a choir of toys,
And traitors who sell us for trifling pence.

They hoard from the future — these ******* in silk.
Their grandchildren inherit despair.
Blood-soaked coins, Judas-bought milk —
And the end for them too... will be there.

Such is the schooling they proudly provide —
A factory breeding the coward, the snake.
To Spirit — it's torment. To Thought — it's a tide
Of shame for the Real, of Reason’s heartbreak.



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



Blood Coins

They steal from the children, they trade in the dead —
With lies in their books and a whip at your head.
"Education" breeds Judas and trains him to preach.
What soul could survive what these traitors teach?



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



Decadence in Hell

A poet’s true work is to strip every nerve,
Then strum them like strings, with no shame, no reserve.
You’ll rot into silence — unless you're the "first"?
Then you’re just a sellout, degenerate, cursed.

Ignore all the critics, the forms, and the rules —
Write what your nerves scream, not what pleases fools.
If nerves have decayed, if they've snapped or gone slack —
Then die where you lie. Don’t bother come back.

You’re always below — just a few ever burn
With fire so fierce that their minds do not turn.
They vanish like phoenixes, blazing then gone —
Replaced by the stupid who stumble along.

Now global fascism won’t flinch at your kiss —
No “sweet little poems” will soften this abyss.
So blast through the filth with the full force of flame —
Let cowards in Hell choke on truth and on shame.

When nerves are still tight, then the Heights can be heard —
Their resonance comes like a soul-shaking word.
Not all here have rotted or drowned in pretense —
Some fight with raw verse against dead decadence.





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



Hellfire Verse

Your nerves are your weapon — don’t dare let them die.
The Heights only speak when you burn, not comply.
This world is a grave, and its poets are few —
So scream with your blood, or the rot becomes you.



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



Sheep, Jackals, and Wolves

There were wolves — ask Hesse or Vysotsky’s song.
Now traitors in jackal-skin scurry along.
No heroes today — too “noble” a word;
Look up for a second — you’re gone, unheard.

In the jackal-world, there’s a different law:
Sniff for the rot, keep your snout in the straw.
Honor? A coupon. Just shred it for gain —
That’s the jackal’s life: all teeth, no brain.

It pays to be filthy — no one will chase
The jackal who kills with a cleaner’s face.
He hunts like a clerk, all quiet and neat —
Another day’s slaughter, another spreadsheet.

Now all the sheep are herded to **** zones.
Why waste the thrill? Mass death sets the tone.
The sheep stay calm — “It’s treatment,” they bleat,
While jackals howl law through the zombified beat.

Their wild new order shrieks from the screen —
Agree, or you’re mutton, minced and clean.
Doubt is forbidden in pens that stink —
A sheep with questions is meat in a blink.



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



Jackal Order

The jackals write laws with a blood-slick pen —
And sheep call it "care" as they’re herded again.
Look up? You're devoured. Ask nothing, stay small.
This isn’t a farm — it’s a slaughterhouse stall.



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



Grayness

Weakness and dullness,
Greed and deceit,
Laziness, fear, worthlessness,
With sadism’s soft beat.

False “human kindness,”
The fake, polished “care,”
Empathy's stinginess,
Folly everywhere.

Foolishness reigns,
Intellect is strange,
Primitiveness spreads —
Evil in every range.

Endlessness of malice,
Unyielding decay,
Only filth survives,
No dignity in the fray.

Only ******* matter,
Idiots swagger with pride,
Lies build up like towers,
Genocide is wide.

In prison they settle,
The norm is to bow,
Slaves to their poison,
The rot fills them now.

Boldness is nothing,
Only beasts and their lies,
Subtlety vanishes,
Truth buried in disguise.

What remains is the stench,
What ends is the mind —
The filth will be scorched,
But never the blind.



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



The Gray Curse

They live in the filth, in the lies that they weave,
Only fools rise, and the honest deceive.
The weak stand unbroken, their venom is clear —
But truth will be scorched, and they’ll disappear.



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



The Pendulum's Law

Are you tired, weighed down?
What nonsense! Strength will come,
Once you learn the law —
The “pendulum.” With it,
Your potential will grow,
When you build YOUR world,
Where creativity is the law,
And everything else is smoke —
You can't build a home on that.

You were oppressed by the world,
But didn’t become a fool.
You understood — run from the trap,
For in Bedlam, fools will shackle you,
Imposing the laws of Darkness,
In that stench, you’ll suffocate.

Only creative forces
Will rise again, sweetly.
Let what is of the Spirit,
And sanctified by the mind, be cherished.
Let it be small, the rest —
A heap of miserable waste.

Reject the lies and rumors,
Create, fight, laugh,
While on that filth, flies
Dance upon the manure.

But this dance is Vita’s:
Soul and mind are crushed,
And Light is almost gone.
Only creativity is Light,
In this world of evil, condemned.
The only advice —
CREATE! That is the answer to Evil…





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



Pendulum’s Call

When you're tired, don’t be fooled —
The pendulum swings, your power renewed.
In the world of lies, create your own light,
That’s how you fight Darkness, with all your might.



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



The Doppelgänger Puylo and the Kremlin

They blew up houses in Volgodonsk, Buynaksk—
That filthy Puylo, bringing power to the beast.
It spread like ink, a blot in the dark—
A doppelgänger leading the sheep on their feast.

He drives them to slaughter with his lying tales—
Worse than ******, the harm he has done.
The Kremlin, the filth, at fascism’s rails,
Follows orders from the world’s evil sun.

He rules as a tyrant, a brutal dictator—
Gives out decrees, and the Kremlin, they strain,
While the liar-provocateur broadcasts, later,
Spitting poison, turning truth to disdain.

Cunning lies eat away at the mind and soul—
The sheep grow duller with every breath.
And the zombobox, cold and remote,
Is either a clinic or propaganda of death.

The forecasts are grim, the bottom has cracked—
Only collapse and decay lie ahead.
If they endure this Kremlin filth intact—
Then Satan himself will be pleased with the spread.



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



The Kremlin’s Rot

Bombs explode, the lies run deep,
The Kremlin leads the sheep to sleep.
The forecast is ruin, decay, and dread —
Satan smiles, as truth lies dead.



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



The Menagerie

A swindler, spouting “truths” he never means —
A politician, bureaucrat, judge, or prosecutor.
The clutches of **** tighten like a vice,
In a world of disgrace, a universal ruin.

Two-thirds of all "seats" are filled by shameful beasts,
Walking filth, fascist trash, traitors in disguise.
And the "sweet" songs they sing are fewer now,
Turning bitter like acid, truth's demise.

The global lie has spread, and all the creatures
Serve the common master, everywhere.
Fake countries in their drunken stupor,
Tied by lies that hold the fools in despair.

They chain the masses tighter than before,
And the chief vassal is the propagandist's hand.
Two-thirds of the people, dumbed down and torn,
Have lost their minds; the damage is grand.

****, traitors, and the vile have ravaged it all,
The world has become a MENAGERIE — a sad, grim end.
Spiritual bonds between men now fall,
Satanism is the new faith — "God's dead."





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



The Beastly World

**** rule the world, their lies take the throne,
Two-thirds of the fools are now lost and alone.
The world is a menagerie, where truth is dead,
Satan now reigns, and the faithful have fled.



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



Blindness and Deafness

A bright plasmoid flashed high in the sky,
Gaze upon it — slowly it fades away.
If you’ve incarnated as a fool, you’ll deny,
“It’s all just stories,” you’ll say... thus blind and deaf.

To Pure Spirituality and the “subtle realm”…
A monster of blood and flesh — you’ve become, bound forever.
The Lyre’s a donkey’s burden, nothing to overwhelm,
And the vile creatures — as lords they now endeavor.

Memes are invented, or "funny jokes" —
Meant to mock such observations, to grind.
The pseudo-scientist, with endless tricks, provokes,
Spewing nonsense to **** all truths we find.

To knowledge concealed, all motives are dead —
Like a fool repeating “scientific” trash,
Lies intertwine, woven with lies in thread,
While the "school" is occupied by the darkness’ lash.

"Science" and "school" are now mere superstition —
It’s time to light the fires, the pyres rise.
Only Spirit and the Hidden will bring us equilibrium,
In Real Knowledge — it can’t be destroyed, no matter the lies!



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



Darkness and Lies

In science and school, dark fools remain,
Their lies are a mask, their wisdom is vain.
Only Spirit and Truth will restore balance —
Real Knowledge cannot be crushed by the fools' malice.





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



Betrayal

Betrayal has reached its utmost height,
Turning this world into pure absurdity.
You cannot be whole, a mind full of light,
In a world so corrupt, where Mammon is deity.

The traitors destroy their children’s minds,
Infecting them with poison so deep.
Then with shameless lies, they try to bind—
A father’s not a man, but a worm for the heap.

When everything is sold, meaning’s gone,
Only children left to trade and barter.
The circle tightens, no way to run,
The noose of betrayal is getting sharper.

They feed them garbage from an early age,
Like Mengele’s filth, a puppy at best.
Betrayal is inherited, passed on in rage,
It’s Groundhog Day — but with horns on the chest.

These traitors, their lands stripped bare,
Cities like jungles — chaos, despair.
But all those souls, the Universe will weigh,
And find them zero — then the vermin’s last day.



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



Betrayal's Grip

Betrayal has poisoned the world we hold,
Turning bright minds to dust, to be sold.
But in the end, the Universe will decide,
And the traitors will have nowhere to hide.





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



The Fire of Awareness

Let the Fire of Awareness engulf all Hell,
Forget all you knew — lies are spread far and wide.
At first, you won’t like it, as I can tell,
You’ll see only deformities, nothing to hide.

An inverted world, where the Spirit’s true spark
Is but a flicker, not the consuming Light.
Here in this Hell, the darkness leaves no mark—
For all are fed the madness, day and night.

This madness, this material void we call life,
Where you’re just a hamster, spinning in place.
A fog of forgetfulness, causing strife,
Guiding the world along the same disgrace.

It leads to the Concentration Camp of New Times,
Where fascism reigns, merciless and cold.
The "Red Cross" for fascism is their paradigm,
They’ll crucify all — then Hell’s grip will hold.

So center yourself in Spirit, take the road
Of discovery, where intuition is king.
Feel the Power within, let it explode—
For anything else leads to the abyss, to suffering.





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



The Fire of Awareness, short version

Let Awareness' fire burn through all the lies,
See the world twisted through false, blinded eyes.
But center your Spirit, and you’ll find the way—
For only with truth can you rise from the fray.



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



No Analogues!

"No analogues!" — but by lies, a weapon’s formed,
No limits here — it’s all to keep you misinformed.
Destruction, shame, genocide, decay,
The remnants of freedom, everywhere they slay.

No analogues! — a double-faced dictator,
The artificial pain, a blatant truth’s erasure.
A traitor official, and a cop-provoker,
Propagandists reign there — the analogues are no more.

Even Goebbels would serve coffee to their needs,
In this ultra-poor land, "values" they feed,
Like swine in their filth, soon they'll need no bread,
For they’ll feast on a super-fiend, instead.

They now call themselves demons —
The tribe of Judas, astral burps and lies.
Betrayers have become the new Wehrmacht legions,
And in this army, ******* multiply.

No analogues in human history —
Such a fall has never been.
Many have fallen, but this absurdity
Was never before something to be seen.





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



No Analogues!

"No analogues!" — lies form the weapon of choice,
Destruction and shame, they’ve stolen our voice.
No past can compare to this monstrous decay —
This fall of mankind, there's no words to say.



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



Worldview

Worldview’s the foundation, the core of the mind,
How you perceive things, that’s what you will find.
In a mind that's imprisoned, all chains and all blocks,
Few are the thinkers, the rest are just ox.

When the psyche’s in line with the animal’s tread,
The yoke’s always ready, the herd’s being led.
Not a world, but a zoo, with the stench of decay,
For the "vegetable" type, it’s a suffering day.

Fake drugs, fake viruses, new wars in the making —
They herd the flocks like before, for the taking.
The herds, as a whole, deserve this fate they abide,
For the "truth" they all know is the TV’s loud tide.

Shift your focus — you’re a Spiritual Being,
Out of the herd, though the chances are fleeting.
It’s hard to escape — the flock’s clouds are thick,
The sheep march to slaughter, the Mist’s cruel grip.

The herds are but food, always that has been,
This slave world’s a cage — it’s time to burn it again.
How vile, how disgraceful, how corrupt the swine —
For the spiritual ones, the herds cannot align.



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



Worldview, short version

Worldview is the key, how you see is your fate,
In a mind full of chains, there’s nothing to create.
When the herd’s all that’s left, the world’s just decay —
For the spiritual ones, the herds are in dismay.



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



Eternity and Infinity

Give the slaves half a liter, a heap of lies,
That the Führer spits out every day in disguise,
Also some food, and eternal mirages —
Immortality for slaves! No need to analyze.

Here everything's different, that's why fascism thrives,
It rules through fear, to frighten the herds of lives,
Then push a new foolishness, dressed as salvation,
But beyond that — no more, no more hesitation!

The record's been played, but it’s ETERNAL still!
Madness grows stronger — now vinyl, it’s real.
And the whole little world has sunk to the floor,
Where the INFINITY of their stupidity soars.





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



Eternity and Infinity, short version

Serve the slaves lies, and food for their pains,
Fascism's still reigning, through fear it remains.
The world’s fallen deep, where fools hold the reign,
And their stupidity's endless, in infinite chains.



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



The Solution to the World's Problems by Apocalypse

Tumbling through the void,
Just explore, don’t aim too high,
Let your soul, in simple joy,
Reach for ties with the Most High.

A satanic world, yet God
Is unspeakably far away.
Building in evil, flawed,
You multiply NOTHING in your way.

A Cataclysm will save us,
It comes from far afar,
It’ll destroy the fascism,
Though the burden’s heavy and bizarre.

To see the Evil and not change
A thing within this place,
The hammer will hit, sharp and strange,
And Death will solve it all, with grace.





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



The Apocalypse Solves All

The world is twisted, far from light,
Fascism will fall in Cataclysm’s fight.
Evil seen, but change too slow,
Death’s the answer — that’s the final blow.



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



Satan

The receiver, that filth, it has in its grasp,
And an army of vermin, who’ve betrayed it all.
No need for floggings, execution’s past,
For shame, fear, and whining no longer call.

When once all was done — on the conveyor,
Far more nourishing, souls to collect,
No need to gather — fools bring them to bear,
For universal treachery, lies in the air,
And beyond money, no one’s direct.

Only a few fight against the Evil,
They’re called fools, and their efforts ignored,
Unable to harm it, yet still so medieval,
The horned goat has made everything deplored.

But a twist of fate, a cataclysm near,
It will sweep this shameful Hell away.
The fools will vanish, along with their fear,
And those FEW will find salvation that day.



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



Satan’s Fall

The filth holds the receiver, lies all around,
Few fight against Evil, their efforts unsound.
The fools will vanish, their reign soon to end,
Only the Few will salvation transcend.



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



Harvest Time of Darkness

The world’s a brew of lies and fear,
And fear breeds deeper with each sneer.
You stand already on the block
If you march with that rotting flock,

The herd they flatter as "the crowd."
Best walk alone, away, unbowed:
If clothes define you at first glance,
The jailhouse marks your last advance.

Stay wise, stay honest — flee the pack,
The world’s a madman’s hunting track,
Where scoundrels ride on slaves below,
Yet slaves themselves — too blind to know.

Now is the Harvest Time of Night:
The mind in chains, the spirit slight.



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



Pseudo-Science, or The Black Letter as Black Mark

The blackened letter — the blackened brand:
Each line is dripping with deceit.
Their rotting “science” stinks on hand —
It rides the fool in the backseat.

See global warming: humans "fume,"
While cows let loose without a care.
And clueless people just assume
Whatever CRAP the LIAR dares.

There’s proof galore — go take a look:
Their stitched-up lies are crude and loud.
Enough! We’ve read their crooked book —
We’re not their sheep. We bite. We’re proud.



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



Search Instinct

The search for truth — that burning trait —
Is what makes humans truly live.
While fear and sloth and bowing fate
Are all the herd can ever give.

To swallow lies without a blink
Is cattle’s mark — a soulless mess.
When all is madness, stop and think:
To feel the truth is to progress.

Even rats inside a maze
Drop their food and flee the night.
Is it instinct? Is it craze?
Or madness sparked by lack of light?

Madness reigns — it chokes, it stinks.
Yet rats outmatch us, inch for inch:
They dare to doubt — while man just sinks,
Drowned in a sea of coward’s cringe.

Forget the herd, forget their script —
Their ready answers all are lies.
Seek your own — through ash and crypt —
Or be a rat... who never tries.



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



The Ego Cycle and Paranoia

The ego’s loop, in fear entangled,
Distorts perception to the core —
The mind gets lost, confused, and mangled
By all the filth and inner war.

This loop of fear and false suspicion
Is perfect fuel for any scheme:
Scare them first — then with precision
You plant whatever in their dream.

To fools, all nonsense becomes law —
"Approved by experts," fed like meat.
The ego walks toward the flaw,
And **** just watch, enjoy, repeat.

The ones who rule this global ward —
They know the script. It’s not obscure.
The ego's cancer marches hard,
And every ***** feels secure.

So now he swallows every sin,
Mistakes the poison for delight.
His soul's gone soft. He won’t begin
To bite — his mask fits just right.



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



When Time Speeds Up

When days fly by and blur away,
Something’s wrong beneath the skin.
The surface smiles, but deep in gray —
Your soul’s in chaos, lost within.

When you burn bright — time stretches wide,
Each moment vast, intense, alive.
But if you’ve shrunk and lost your stride,
Then you’re too numb to even strive.

Time’s not "knowledge" — that’s a fake:
That “truth” is poisoned, full of lies.
They chain your mind until it breaks —
Those horned “lords” in priestly guise.

They’ve built this cage, this blur, this race,
Where time speeds up — a cursed delight.
The rats all hide in cozy space,
And wait for demons to feed them right.

The Spirit lives beyond all time,
But time’s a noose they’ve wrapped around —
By spawn of Hell who make this slime,
These worms who rot the holy ground.



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



Weapons of Mass Deception

Lies and traps, and staged offense —
That's the main game in this place.
Shake the idiots, make them tense —
And they’ll swallow every case.

Two waves fill the poisoned air:
Fear and falsehood, broadcast loud.
All the rest’s just cheap despair,
While Hell reigns above the crowd.

Every system, every name
Rests on ****** that sell their voice.
They lie, they hype, they fan the flame —
If we don’t shake, they cut our choice.

Blow a tower skyward, then
Blame it on some foreign trace.
Tweak the laws, deceive again —
Freedom wiped without a trace.

Too much horror to contain
In one poem, brief and tight.
If you trust these fiends — you’re insane.
You're a dumb, pathetic blight.



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



Blank Page

A blank page waits — it pulls, it calls,
It begs for that first fateful line.
The first — a valve. Then silence falls,
And words begin to flow just fine.

If the poet’s spirit burns,
The lines will pour, both strong and right.
But if his gift no longer turns,
He’ll spill out rust — not words, but blight.

The page is pure. And if your soul
Is just as clear — it shows, it speaks.
No foolish noise can make it whole;
Only truth is what it seeks.

Let the Heart speak first — then Mind
Can shape the frame, refine the sound.
But if no voice inside you shines,
No use in waiting for it now.

For if the Mind commands the Heart,
The song is doomed before it’s born.
You can’t just bolt a door to art —
You’ll make a mess. A lie. A scorn.





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



“Servant of God”? Then You’ve Been Had

"Servant of God"? Your mind’s been wrecked —
God needs no slaves. But demons do.
Those horned and filthy fiends collect
Obedient cattle — blind and true.

They roast their meat not in a pan,
But in delusions, bold and loud.
Each lie inflames the minds of man —
This is no world — it is a shroud.

We live in Hell. And breaking free
Is not a tale from sacred lore.
It is a challenge to the Me —
To Spirit, burning at the core.

No dumb book will show the path.
The chains of others bring no gain.
Think for yourself — or feel the wrath
Of borrowed wisdom turned to chain.

The Mind must serve the Spirit’s light,
Or else you lose the sacred thread.
This isn’t style. It’s not a rite —
It’s life or death. You feel it — dread.





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



God needs no slaves. The Devil feeds
On minds that kneel and call them "creeds."
Your chains are lies. Your prayer’s a bribe.
Break free — or rot inside the tribe.



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



You drown in lies. The rat breaks free.
Who's closer now to truth — or me?



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



The herd obeys. The rat resists.
You serve the dark — it barely twists.



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



No truth is handed. None is owed.
Seek — or rot on their dead-end road.



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



If Heart is silent — stop the pen.
No Mind can fake what's true, and when
You try — you stain, you smear, you miss.
The Soul writes clean. Respect the bliss.



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



Your fear-built ego blocks the light —
You praise the chain, you beg the blight.
You lick the boot and call it fate —
While truth stands armed outside your gate.



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



Your "science" reeks.
We smell the fraud.
We’re not your sheep.
We bite. We’re God.



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



Lies in your lab coat,
filth in your creed —
We burn your banners.
We’re done. We lead.



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



A blackened mark for
a blackened mind —
Your truth is rot.
You’ve fooled the blind.



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



If you trust the screen — you’re owned.
If you fear — you’ve been dethroned.
Lies and terror breed control —
You’re their target, not their goal.



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



Time is a trap, a choking thread —
A gift from demons, masked as grace.
While truth stands still, the herd runs dead —
Their clocks devour the human race.



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



Psychotyranny

Psychotherapy? No — Psychotyranny!
A tool to leash a dead and beaten mule.
The herd’s gone mad, and shrinks, with sick uncanny
Smiles, outdo butchers. Lies? Their basic rule.

Their twisted “theories” — Freud’s obscene inventions,
Other mental tortures — madhouse filth and flame.
The mule is dead — a zombie — no redemption.
But freaks rejoice: a dumbed-down slave’s their aim.

Dumb us down from childhood — school, indoctrination —
They **** the soul and crush the mind instead.
No true physicians here — just exploitation.
They skim the cream off every life gone dead.

These wounds are planned. They warp your mind with terror,
With filth and panic, till you’re sick and small.
Show a hint of mercy? Fired for that error.
They profit best when you can’t think at all.

They breed our madness, feed it through the ages —
“Help” exists on paper, nowhere real to see.
Their science lies. And while we rot in cages,
They gut our minds — their goal? CRUSH utterly!



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



Psychotyranny

They broke our minds to keep us tamed and low,
Called it “care” — a lie dressed up for show.
The shrinks are wolves, the patients led to slaughter.
Truth drowns in pills and propaganda water.



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



The Poetry of Self-Immolation

The poet’s cold fury burns brighter than steel —
No weapon on earth strikes deeper or truer.
Let madness around us devour and reel —
Our answer to Hell is: “We shall endure!”

It’s time to return to the Source, the beginning,
And burn this vile world in the fire of truth.
Forget all the fascists, the fog, the false winning —
The Source wipes it clean, renews us like youth.

The poet — a fakir, a dervish, a flame,
But silence and patience will not always stay.
Now rage rises up — no longer tame —
Self-burning is poetry’s final way.



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



My verse is a blaze — not a prayer, but defiance,
A torch in the dark, not a tearful compliance.
This world must be burned, not mourned with regret —
Let poetry rise, a firebomb threat!



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



Through the Looking-Glass

I’ll never see a world where Truth and Honor
Defeat betrayal’s rotting, creeping blight.
This age, like leprosy, corrodes and hollows —
It feeds on those who burn the brightest light.

Only one lie holds any real dominion:
“Super-money” — that’s the god they trust.
It rules this rotting realm with cold precision.
The Stepan Razins vanished into dust.

Among the fools and crawling human weakness,
We drag our days, then die, then start anew —
And each rebirth — more hopeless, dumb, and bleakness!
The fools have multiplied — their grip holds true.

To see this once again? A fate far crueler
Than simple death — annihilation's best!
What grows is fear, and chains grow ever cooler,
In this warped mirror-world of filth and jest.



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



Mirrorverse Strike

This world is a mirror — cracked, diseased, obscene,
Where gold makes gods and truth dies offscreen.
No rebels left, just clowns in chains and smoke —
Let fire erase what mirrors never broke.



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



The Inner Realms of Soul

No bonds, no flags, no chains of duty,
No faith in lies — that’s how to stay a man.
Obey, conform — they steal your beauty
And herd you straight into their slaughter-pen.

Obedient cattle in foul enclosures —
That’s what they call “the state,” “the law.”
The proud, the bright face swift erasures —
The mind and spirit meet their final draw.

So some escape into the silence,
That realm within, beyond their reach.
New fascist masks, the same old violence —
The Goat now rules, and morals bleach.

The world grows poor, dives toward disaster,
The fiends accelerate their track.
Only within can one stand faster,
While filth and ruin flood the black.





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



Inner Strike

The world is rot — ruled by the Goat and chain.
They brand the soul, then flush it down the drain.
But deep within, where tyrants cannot tread,
The fire lives — unbroken, though half-dead.



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



Doomed

Without the Power that births Creation,
Tradition’s “art” is mere stagnation.
In this grotesque world, true form can’t grow —
What’s called “creative” lacks the soul to flow.

No spark of Source? Then all is murk —
Reflections warped with lies that lurk.
And so this doom cannot be shaken:
All’s off the mark — when Soul’s forsaken.

But true Creation — that sacred Flame —
Lives far beyond the fascist game.
Yet most still toil in dead routines,
Half-blind with fear, devoured by machines.

The slaughter by fascism floods every land —
Not humans now, but clay in demon hands.
They mold obedient beasts from men,
Through lies repeated again and again.

But Forces of End, of righteous unmaking,
Will rise to halt this global faking.
Beast-born decay will meet its close —
For Nature revolts where filth overgrows.

And Death will come — not as damnation,
But clearing space…
for true Creation.



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



End Before Creation

They burn the soul and call it “art divine,”
While beasts are bred by lies in every line.
But filth can’t last — the end ignites salvation:
Death clears the way… for real Creation.



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



"Elections"

You’ll choose a doctor or a pilot
With far more care and scrutiny,
Than you’ll ever give the “president” —
Clean-shaven, smiling wide, deceitful, "free".

He speaks so smooth, what’s more to say?
For the people, he’s the man, they say!
But when he blabs of “freedom’s” call,
And “democracy,” it’s just a fall.

He offers recipes, so grand,
To fix it all — yet they all fail!
Year by year, the “people” buy the lie,
For the man’s a clown, a swine who prevails.

Invisible, the swine is the one
Who set the test, and he has won.
The people, as always, fall for the fun,
And in the lies, they’re gone, undone.



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



The Clown’s Game

A clown in charge, the lies they sell,
While you pick doctors with care, oh well.
Democracy? Just smoke and mirrors —
A fool's parade, while truth disappears.



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



Control of Soul Over Mind

An impossible task, no doubt —
Luck won’t help, nor endless shout,
Nor the madness, tears, and cries —
Only inspiration, soul’s full rise.
But here’s the rub — the strength is weak,
Always fading, failure peeks.
Without the intellect to bind
The Spirit’s force, what will you find?
A mess, a drag, and endless bore,
Only nonsense reaching your door,
If the swine that lead the flock
Sell their souls for soup and talk,
And craft their lies so slick and sleek,
No truth will pierce, their grasp is weak.

An impossible task, you see —
To tame the soul’s own mindless steed,
“Intellect” — a ***** that’s bought,
These creatures know, and never fought.
In lies they drown, with every breath,
They smother those who challenge death,
And bend their minds to evil’s course —
Dogs envy their corrupting force.
They drown the talent, twist the truth —
A war, not brawl — a battle’s youth.
Lies ****, and truth is cut away,
Like CowID, that shows the way.
The fool, deceived by feeble faith,
Follows the beasts into their wraith,
Raising fools to mock the mind,
In total lies, the fools are blind.

The world is rotten — hell below,
The stench of media’s foulest glow.
They rot the soul, and steal the will,
And crush the brain, unthinking still.
But if your soul can master mind,
The beasts can’t touch, they’re left behind.
That’s how you save yourself from doom,
In a world of *****, filled with gloom.





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



Soul vs. Mind

The soul must tame the mind’s blind bray,
Or beasts will lead you far astray.
Lies **** the truth, and fools will fall,
But spirit’s strength will conquer all.



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



***** Colony: "Problem-Reaction-Solution"

A ***** colony in the sea,
The brain’s a trickle, ears full of dung.
Though not all is woe, it’s misery —
The sea of lies, the tears that’re flung.

Steamers bring their hollow lies,
A cargo of the baseless truth.
Misfortune grows, it never dies,
Their work’s just making pain, uncouth.

The twisted fools, their only aim:
To shove more problems in the frame.
Jokes forgotten, no more games —
No more dilemmas, just the same.

Stress. Oh hell! Prepare the plan —
How to hoodwink every man.
The ***** colony, decay —
If you believe their lies, you’ll pay.



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



The *****’s Lie

They breed the lies, then sell the pain,
Make fools of men, then shift the blame.
The *****'s game, a rotten scheme —
Believe the lies, you’re caught in steam.



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



The Howl of the War Propagandists

As a war propagandist,
You’re shot down, since you were born,
A different foe: “upbringing” —
Preparing you for slaughter’s horn.

This war herder, a stitched-up freak,
A devil’s trick above the meek.
In every pen, the world’s a shoot,
All our pens have turned to loot.

CowID showed the tale,
Not much left, too faint to hail.
The herd is driven to the camp,
Slaughtered by the twisted stamp.

War propagandist now —
He’s power, law, and shows you how.
The fools can’t see, they’re blind to note,
As they munch, they drown in hope.

And under crunching, howling din,
Those mad of mind will meet their sin,
The fiends of hell will wipe them out,
And history’s done, there’s not a doubt.





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



The Propaganda War

They feed you lies and call it law,
The herd is led, too blind to draw.
The fiends will feast, and minds will fall —
Propaganda’s grip, the final call.



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



Learn Not to Break

Learn from the cats — wild, streetwise,
Full of lazy grace and surprise.
Do they have fleas, or endless sin?
The lies of “warriors” are built within.

Just like sarcoma, deep and raw,
Who here is wise? No man, no law.
Satan’s their guide, they kneel to him;
To the beasts, slavery’s grim.

A tiny cat will chase away
The dog, to keep the pride at bay.
While lies corrupt and gnaw the soul,
They crush the weak — that’s their goal.

Where’s the insight like the cat’s?
The “dogs” are beasts, worse than that.
Mad and wild, their lies destroy
The meek and lost, they’ve no employ.





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



Master of Subtraction, or The Path Without a Path

Up the dust-choked rise,
Like climbing rays of light,
Though nerves may rot and die,
(But for all, I fight),
Not fooled by "Heaven's" lies,
I’ll flee from filth and blight,
Where souls have been destroyed,
I’ll flee the endless night.

No more to stay in Hell,
Not a moment more —
Like Don Quixote, I rebel,
Against the madness they adore.
Madness, filth — too little else,
So I rise with might,
Rejecting rotten thoughts,
That poison mind and sight.





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



Advice of the Old ****

Stress resistance comes from exercise,
While women and liquor — poison and lies!
And the steady run will help you through it,
Like a dynamo, it’ll charge you to it.

It’ll drive out the nonsense, that weighs you down,
The nonsense that kills — now, people are clowns.
Trust no one, relieve your stress, and hope,
Find your own way, laugh at the dopes.

Increase your critique, trust your instinct too,
Reject the filth, let their madness stew.
With a sharp mind, you’ll crush all the vile,
In this world of madness, daring is the style.

Seek and dare. The run will aid the fight.
Sneeze at the filth — let fools chew their bite.
Fight fascism, genocide — show them no mercy,
Or chaos will reign, and you’ll be their prey, a tragedy.





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



Swallower

They spew their lies, with force and heat,
To distract from questions we repeat;
With filth they cloud the vision clear —
Thus roars the furnace of Hell’s sheer.

From questions, who these fiends may be,
And who they serve, whose goal they see?
In lies, like frying oil, they stew,
No crack of light in Hell to view.

In lies, they’ve wrapped it all up tight —
A perfect seal to block the light.
Their souls, their minds, they've nearly killed,
Like targets shot through, pierced and drilled.



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



Luciferian System, or Paper Money

"Risen" in the market trade,
But to the depths, they quickly fade.
Paper reins and lies so vile —
A tide of filth, a wicked mile.

You ride in circles, round and round,
Forgetting life’s true, deeper ground.
You’ve harnessed dreams to chase a lie —
Paper’s all that’s left to buy.

Spiritual fire, flashes of mind,
Consumed by greed and wealth you find.
Money spreads like pestilence,
A curse that makes no recompense.

The System built a flea market show,
What use are memes in a fool’s woe?
Cash and thrills, that’s all they crave,
While reins decay and people slave.



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



Whom You Encounter...

You meet the dulled, the brainwashed, the misled,
Their bloated pride divorced from any reason.
They're fed with lies and fears inside their head—
The kind that nourish falsehood, hate, and treason.

The worst of it? The state-bred fear campaign,
Where fools parade as rulers of the nation.
If fear and evil thoughts infect your brain,
They rot your soul and wreck imagination.

Ideas — that's the root. And evil feeds
Them to the crowd as "values", grand but hollow.
New dogmas rise — and new insane misdeeds,
With beastlike minds too dumb to doubt or follow.

A frenzy of delusions, lies, decay,
And fear plus fear, then fear again — in layers.
It ends in death, though priests will try to say
It’s "life"... just dust dispersed by final prayers.



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



Fear-fed and hollow, beasts obey—
New creeds arise, and minds decay.



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



The Beyondness

“Seek not the Truth —
just drop opinions.”
— Zen Patriarch Sosan

Seek not the truth —
just slay belief.
The truth is Spirit, calm and brief.
Burn down your fears,
stop pouring lies —
The truth has fled this world of slime.

A global rot,
a fascist game,
With media dulling every brain.
The sane are few —
a scattered spark
In seas of madness, sheep, and dark.

The fools are meek,
the thugs are loud,
And lies spread thick — a toxic cloud.
All views are false
when soul is gone,
When Spirit’s light is not turned on.

Look deep within —
no fear, no fakes —
There, Light will rise as silence breaks.
It won’t be easy —
sloth runs deep,
And thought itself is sick with sleep.

Only intuition
can make you whole,
It is the compass, it is the goal.
Truth isn’t near —
it’s beyond the known.
And you will reach it
once ego’s gone.



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



Truth won’t be found through thoughts or lies —
**** the ego. Let Light rise.



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



Flickering

They brand you fast — a clan, a trade, a land —
The tribal mark stamped deep into your mind.
Thus, Primal Thought is stripped by sly command:
A global fraud, sensations redesigned.

Names flash like ads, while chains of “values” cling
More tight than shackles iron ever could.
And so, the masses worship everything —
Obedient, blind, and stupid for “the good.”

Cunning and cowardice take up the space
Where truth and spirit used to stand with grace.
A rotten trick, compensatory shame —
Each wave of fools breeds more of just the same.

They swap the labels, but the game’s the same:
Fascism dressed in every kind of name.
Be it ******, or Mao, or Churchill, or Tsar —
One filthy pack, and the filth’s still in charge.

The real beast hides — it rules from the fog,
While global “Tao” is madness in a clog.
Fear doesn’t grow like flowers in a field —
It’s sown, then fed, its harvest pre-concealed.

They grow it with care, they groom it with flair —
That’s what “real politics” always declares.
The zombie-screens flash jesters and ****** —
So rulers need not whip you anymore.



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



New masks, same chains — the plague is old.
They breed us blind, and sell us gold.



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



Combat Psychotherapy

To "adapt" your mind to hell —
That’s their treatment plan. Oh well.
A cheerful donkey in the bin,
While the global madhouse spins.
Reason? Gone. And Spirit? Dead.
Conscience? Trampled, left unsaid.
Is this tale or tragic farce?
Chekhov wrote of such a ward —
Number Six. But time flew past...
Did we change? Or lose it fast?

No — it’s lost. And lost for good.
Mass hypnosis, poison food.
Schools of idiots, screens that lie —
Churn out drones, and truth must die.
When the crowd is ripe and mad,
Then the blast of mass psych spasms
Wrecks all minds, makes reason shatter —
That’s the core of war-born patterns.

Beasts now rule this stupid Earth,
And why war? To prove their worth?
No — it’s bait. The perfect cheese
In the trap that drops with ease.
Poisoned souls? That’s not enough —
Darkness breeds more devil-stuff.
Freaks in rags of thought and power
Train insane in every hour.

Adapt the madness for the war
Against the soul — that’s at its core.
And fate, with all its twisted jest,
Grins cruelly at this loony quest.
They’re no pawns — more like disease,
But they’ll wipe the board with ease:
Kings and pawns, and every fool —
All consumed in madness’ rule.





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



Adapt the soul to serve the fight —
And call it healing. Pure black light.



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



No Film Today

No film today — the director’s a fool,
The script was sold to some corporate tool.
What’s left to show? A slop for the sheep,
So foul it reeks of rot too deep.

Flush it straight down — that’s all it earns.
This “projector”? Just a toilet that burns.
The world’s gone septic, sunk in waste,
And “critics”? Coroners. No taste.

They poke through corpses, call it review —
Of rot and stench, they always knew.
And still the ****-flood won’t be stopped,
Since media thrones can’t be topped.

We gulp down lies as sacred truth —
The end? A crawling, mindless brute,
Obedient, vile — a soul long dead,
Who feasts on filth and bows his head.



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



The film is dead. Long live the slime —
They sold your brain to filth and crime.



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



Those Who Shatter Worlds

The ones who crush this world to dust
Don’t do it blindly — no, they must
Correct the odds, direct the flow,
So herd-like minds won’t even know.

The crowd obeys “desire’s path,”
But that’s a rigged and charted math.
In Hell’s Domain, the laws are clear —
Obey, consume, and disappear.

It’s not just greed — it’s full control,
Propaganda scripts your soul.
“Education” forged in vice,
And monsters rule us — cold as ice.

A beastly gang now grips the Earth,
Their puppet-master mocks all worth.
Name him plain — the Demon’s mask,
While idiots still fail the task.

They rule like fools, but still they burn
The world again — no will to learn.
The sun blazes brighter still,
But not by some demonic will.

The darker things become each day —
The closer you’re to void and grey.



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



They rig the odds, then torch the sky —
Obey the lie, prepare to die.



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



Division and Unity

"To bring the many to the One — that is the root of beauty."
— Pythagoras, 6th century BC


Not to unify — but break:
That’s the path of fake "progress."
Love the fragments, for their sake —
Crushed and stamped beneath the presses.

Then forget the whole you were,
Lose yourself in cheap consuming.
Rot in fear, obey the slur
Of media filth and soul-assuming.

And thus the world comes to its end —
A camp of digits, cold, controlled.
Division breeds the final trend:
A nightmare forged in lies and code.



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



They shattered One to sell us dust —
Now chains are built from fractured trust.



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



On Methods of Curing Cretinism

A sheep-brained, virus-ridden clown,
A zombie soldier — this is End.
Where fascist beasts have seized the crown,
And madness reigns — their perfect trend.

The bottom’s gone — the hole is real.
The idiot now leads the crowd.
For beasts, such fools make perfect meal —
Just feed them lies, then flush them loud.

The world’s digested, flushed in lumps,
A giant **** of “civil thought.”
What’s left to serve with these dumb chumps?
Some brains — but most are sold or shot.

So few still think, and less each day,
As rotten minds infect the stream.
Regression screams. The sick will stay —
No cure for them but fire and flame.

To save the Spirit’s last remains —
That is the task, that is the aim.
A Cataclysm shall break the chains —
Burn cretinism. End the game.





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



No cure for this — just holy fire.
Burn down the swamp of brute desire.



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



“History” — Penned by Hacks

"History repeats because we lack historians with imagination."
— Stanisław Jerzy Lec


It’s all written by hacks — that’s law.
Even “history” gets their flaw.
A villain funds some myth to spread —
A sellout scribbles lies instead.

No honest mind will take the bribe —
He knows that trash will twist his tribe,
And choke his children in the end —
Let Evil warp what truths depend.

The media twists “what really was,”
Distorts the world for filthy cause.
Today or yesterday — it’s hell,
And ruled by one who hides it well.



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



Lies write the past, hacks stain the page —
And Hell returns in every age.



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



The Cleansing to Come

"The lesser evil must be praised as good."
— Niccolò Machiavelli


Evil grows by its own plan —
The “lesser” soon becomes the grace.
Each step down, it fools the man,
Till rock-bottom hugs his face.

And now we’ve hit it — CowID
Made it plain for all to see.
What do maggots call “the good”?
Whatever keeps the price tag free.

They crave cheap junk, a stable rate,
They plug their ears, deny the loss.
But Earth is gone — it’s far too late.
The filth will burn beneath the gloss.



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



The world is lost — enjoy your screen.
The purge begins to wipe it clean.



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



I'll Build a Castle in the Air
Crowned with a Tower of Delirium.
A carefree life — beyond despair —
With rules I wrote, my own Imperium.

But orderlies came in a pack,
And with them marched a cop in tow.
They dragged me off — no coming back.
The law is clear: No dreams. Just woe.



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



Dreams are banned — the world’s decree.
Build a castle? Welcome, psych ward key.



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



“Victories” and “Change” Beneath the Yoke of Satanism

"Many triumphal arches were later worn as yokes."
— Stanisław Jerzy Lec


When Evil wins, the **** proclaim
Another “triumph” in its name.
And soon the herd is yoked once more —
A different chain, the same old war.

Each “victory” is just disguise:
One yoke removed — another flies.
“Change!” scream the screens with fervent glee —
While necks are chained more zealously.

The Media howls: “A golden age!”
As lies replace the iron cage.
From yoke to YOKE — the people fade.
Their gods are dead. The devil’s paid.



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



From triumph arch to choking yoke —
The “change” is real — now bend and choke.



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



Socialist Realism

Chapaev, Petka, Anka — all
Are cursing through each bitter brawl.
The commissar? Their “guiding light” —
A live reproach, a holy blight.

“Freedom” thrives by feeding lies,
They build a camp — with “socialist” skies.
The grand experiment won’t last —
Their commissar’s a clueless ***.



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



They built a camp, they called it “bright” —
But filled it full of flies and blight.





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



The Universal Lie

"To lie is to insult myself more than the one I lie about."
— Michel de Montaigne


Self-inflicted pain,
The world pushed to the brink.
Truth is slaughtered once again —
And lies are what we drink.

That’s why the masses rot:
Defective minds, diseased.
So many “holy Sundays” bought,
So much delusion pleased.

They need their daily dose
Of fiction, fat, and ease —
To fill their guts with empty hopes,
And rot in Global Lies and grease.



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



They **** the truth, then cheer and feast —
The global lie now breeds the beast.



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



The “People” Rose — So They Were Told

“The people rose!” — or so they claim,
A puppet screamed the noble aim.
“Stand tall again!” — the order sticks,
Then off they go to **** for kicks.

Not for a flag or sacred land,
But medals, cash, a ****** hand.
What’s rising here? Just swamp and fog —
Centuries deep in filth and slog.



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



They “stood up” straight — with boots in gore,
Still sinking deeper than before.



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



The End Draws Near

The end is coming — can't you tell?
But reason’s jammed, not working well.
Fear-fogged lenses smear the view,
So nonsense passes for the truth.

Through rot and lies and veils of dread,
The herd denies the doom ahead.
They call collapse a minor glitch,
While media bark, whine, curse, and pitch.

The people “live” in fairy tales,
Wearing delusion like chainmail.
And those who speak without a leash
Get crushed by fools in helmets — each.





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



The world is burning, blind with fear —
And cowards jeer when truth comes near.



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



Poisoned Lines

These lines are laced with venom — pure.
But **** won’t read; they seek no cure.
To strike the proud, to break the wise,
We crush their fear, unmask their lies.

They're filled with dread, with rot and shame —
Few walk the world still clean, still sane.
This realm is ruled by fevered cries,
Where Darkness thrives on global lies:

Lie, and threaten, crush the meek,
Till minds are cattle, dumb and weak.
Submit — and you become the swine.
That swine’s the Darkness by design.



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



Submit to lies — you rot inside.
The swine of Darkness wants you tied.



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



The Frailty of Mankind

Serve the Eternal — nothing less.
No “human warmth” in that abyss:
It’s fleeting, weak, a dying breath,
For Earth today is ruled by death.

The human now’s a devil’s brand —
An icon of a doomed command.
CowID, rashism, fear and lies —
We “live” beneath the final skies.



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



Mankind’s the mask of Satan’s game —
The end is here. And we’re to blame.



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



The Old Optimist

The youth, a fool, is led by smiles,
His mind is pure — it runs for miles.
But fear would break him, tear his heart,
So lies and delusions play their part.

We raise the false, and blind his eyes,
While shame is buried deep in lies.



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



The lies lift him, but truth would break,
His mind is weak — too lost to wake.



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



The Lone Wolf

Are there rules, or instincts wild?
How many lies, how much denial!
Here fear and howls and vicious barks,
The world is drowned in endless dark.

If you’re outside — you’re cast aside,
To beasts you’re mad — they’ll take no pride.
They’ll show the pack, just what’s at stake —
The mind is dead, they howl and shake.

The lone wolf’s path is few and rare,
From them alone, some truth may flare.
For all the herd — they bring no gain,
Just stupid noise and endless pain.



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



The pack is weak, the lone wolf fights,
The truth is born in lonely nights.



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



Madness Strikes Like Machine Guns

Madness mows like machine guns' fire,
Crossing flames, no chance to tire.
The infantry’s fate, it’s set in stone,
No matter how tough, you're on your own.

Generations march to those same guns,
From every squad, just one survives.
It’s no coincidence — the mind’s undone,
For the beast’s will, the goal deprives.



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



The guns are deaf, the truth is mute,
The beast controls, the mind’s pursuit.



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



The Global Cockroach Darkness

The darkness in the cockroach’s lair,
Is hard to grasp, it’s everywhere.
In fascist filth, where lies abound,
The beasts will lie, without a sound.

Few minds remain, so sharp, so pure,
In wars of blood, or thought demure.
And if one’s found, they’ll crush the soul,
In battles where the mind's the goal.

It’s not the Dark, but Fear that reigns,
And in its wake, the filth remains.
The world of traitors, lying ****,
It stinks of death — the horrors come.

Sanitation, that's the key,
To cleanse this filth, and set us free.
But time is short, the rot’s too strong,
The stench has lingered far too long.





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



The rot will burn, the filth will fade,
The beast shall fall, the mind’s crusade.



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



Personality or Schizophrenia

Is a lie the core of self,
Or is it just schizophrenia's stealth?
A different thing? Isn’t it clear?
This question’s simple, never fear.

Yes, schizophrenia!
For the self to vanish,
When the mind dictates,
And the soul will diminish.

No book will tell you this truth —
The world’s gone mad, there’s no proof.
Only a few will fly like birds,
Not writing books, but breaking words.

They won’t write pages —
To sober up the sages.
Maybe I gave too much,
So bury your mind in a crutch...



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



The mind is blind, the soul decays,
Only truth can clear the haze.



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



Dead Flesh

They yap — ignore it!
They lie — ignore it!
The world’s got no grace:
Lie bolder,
Be colder —
Among the “kings” who...
...decompose.

Alive? Move ahead!
Leave the rabble,
All the lies of the BEAST—
Away from decay!
The Spiritual Path
Goes through the fright
Of the dead-“men.”
Ignore! Ignore!!!

"Other worlds,"
Gifts of the mind,
And beauty’s find
You’ll reach, my friend,
When you LEAVE,
Then you’ll drive the nails
In the coffin of lies and diseases—
Or be gone,
Not worth a cent.



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



Lies and death — they rule this land,
Only truth, when you take a stand.



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



Drive Fear and Nonsense Away

The death of the heart’s a way to hide,
To escape reality, and crush the fear inside.
So they drive QUESTIONS from the mind,
Fill it with nonsense — that’s the way they find.

A cocoon is formed with rotting core inside,
It’s death, but alive — now it no longer hides!
Yet to the BEASTS, you’ll be but a pelt.
This ostrich world will sink you to where it’s dealt.

The bottom’*****. The zombies walk, wretched and slow,
No future for the living, just a hollow, dead flow.
Freaks without hearts, the judas, they cheer,
But the film will end with death’s final sneer.

Dead to the dead. And for the living, awaits
A mockery of paradise, a quarantine of fate!
If the heart still beats, it’s bound in this cocoon,
So drive fear and nonsense away, and make it gone soon!



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



Why is the Pseudo-Life Suspended?

The thread’s been snapped? Or just a whim?
You hang by nothing — lost within.
A life so wretched, just “for show,”
That’s why you’re here — and just a shadow.



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



"The Distant Light"

With sorrow deep, the Soul is veiled,
For by the "distant light" betrayed,
The fools rush on, deceived and blind —
To Hell they race, no peace to find.



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



Victory on Paper

"Of cheerful good" they write,
Yet in the ravine, you’ll find,
The traces of the game —
That evil leaves behind.



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



Boxing Nonsense

Mini, ****,
AI, proxy —
In nonsense, it’s all fused.
The world’s insane:
With boxing’s game,
It’s turned to rage, abused.



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



Restoration of Strength

As much as needed —
So it will be,
To the brink —
Then they’ll return to me.

Save yourself?
No need for that —
"Life" becomes the noose
For the rat.



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



Furnace of Rage

I’ll heat the furnace white-hot,
And to hell with it all;
In the Dark, I've reached the spot:
Only Fire can end this rot.



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



Smash This Hell

Smash this Hell —
Or you’re a rat.
If you’re pleased with scraps,
With sheep in your pack,
And the master’s your media,
Your goal’s in the past —
You’ll never escape:
The rats will eat fast.



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



Oil Painting, or Global Injections

"School" — life’s tonic: no pill
Can describe the madness found,
Add some shots to **** the fools,
And it’ll paint the scene around.

An “Pre-heartattack” picture forms,
What a mess, it’s all a wreck!
If idiots believe in Evil,
Then the world’s on its last check.

Few are not these idiots —
A drop within the sea,
It’s all gone, it’s all lost,
The end of Thought and Liberty.



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



Pomegranate, Gift of the South

The pomegranate, southern gift —
A life-giving delight.
If health is sinking, swift,
Try this fruit to make it right.

You’ll feel it in an instant —
The nectar pure and sweet,
It drives out the resistance,
And turns the tide to feast.

Healthy? It won’t harm you,
There’s nothing better, true —
It gives you strength anew,
So take it in, it’s due.



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



Harvest of Darkness

The world’s a pit of fear and lies.
You stand alone — or you will die.
The mob is filth. Their leaders — worse.
Each breath they take, a deeper curse.

The wise don't beg, don't sell, don't bow.
They fight — or rot with cattle now.
The **** ride slaves, then drown in shame.
The time has come. The blade — the flame.

No gods, no dreams — just war and dirt.
No second chance. No shield. No hurt.
Stand hard. Stand fierce. Or rot away —
The Harvest reaps who fall today.





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



The Traditional Vile World

"Lost in words, confused in concepts,
Man loses the scent of truth, the taste of nature.
What strength of thought one must have,
To suspect this moral stench —
And with a spinning head rush out
Into the fresh air,
Which everyone around is taught to fear!"
Alexander Herzen


Born in a Hustle-Bustle Bedlam,
You're drowned in fog of empty words.
At first, you trust your dad and mama,
Delighted by their fairy worlds.

As years go on — more myths, more stories —
Fake science shines like Perrault’s tales.
Yet slowly darkness claims the glories:
Through lies and fear, pure evil sails.

They drug your mind — “morality” they name it,
While daily bread enslaves your soul.
You spend your life just stuffing stomachs,
Oblivious you're losing all.

The media’s constant foul persuasion
Will rot your heart without a trace.
You won’t perceive your own damnation:
A ****** fool — a soulless face.

Thus "traditions" are constructed —
A tool for Darkness, bold and broad.
Through "sacred customs," souls corrupted
Are shaped into an empty horde.



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



Overstrain of the Creator

The artist’s fatigue is beyond all measure—
Words miss the mark, and toil brings no gain.
And “life,” as it does, flies past without pleasure,
A tangent, indifferent to beauty or pain.

Alone? Of course. That’s the toll and the treasure.
A curse for the fools—but a crown for the few.
He’ll squeeze out his blood on the canvas with pressure—
No tears are allowed. There's too much to do.

No whining, no meekness, no crawling submission—
That’s filth for the fakes, for the weak and the bored.
It’s rage without end, and the ruthless ignition
Of strength that exceeds what the flesh can afford.

And what does it yield? A result that is tragic:
No help—unless lying becomes your new voice.
Through darkness you walk, without hope or with magic—
But after you die, you may finally rejoice.



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



Bleed or Be Nothing.
No tears. No pleas.
Just burn through the darkness
On shattered knees.



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



For Whom the Bell — and Other Tiresome Crap — Tolls

For whom the bell — or school bell — tolls?
For whom drone sermons, grunts, and rolls?
For all. But deaf and dumb remains
This world in chains, too bored for brains.

What sings the clown upon the stage?
Of myths — the “truths” of every age.
The herd just loves that fairytale,
It masks the rot, the stench, the jail.

When noise assaults from every gate,
Our ears explode — it's all dead weight.
It’s time to think — but droning floods
Will drown each spark beneath the duds.

There’s just one law: endure and crawl,
And trust the talking heads — that's all.
These idiots won’t wake until
The world breaks loose from Bedlam’s will.

The Global Bedlam soon will split,
Collapse into a screaming pit.
But now — more lies, more talking heads,
More “songs” to rot your mind to shreds...





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



The bells all toll — and still you snore.
They feed you myths, you beg for more.
But Bedlam cracks — and when it falls,
No lie will prop these rotting walls.



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



The sky will scream, the earth will tear,
The myths will burn in poisoned air.
The bells will toll — not one will hide.
The Beast you fed will now decide.



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



The bell is cast. The end is near.
The age of lies dissolves in fear.
The sleepers fall. The blind shall see.
What was — shall burn. What is — shall flee.



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



And lo — the voice like thunder spoke:
“The chains shall snap, the veil be broke.
The night shall rise, the proud shall drown.
The lie shall wear the iron crown.”



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



The Traditional Rotten World

"Entangled in fake words and notions,
Man loses truth’s and nature’s taste.
How strong must thought be, through the poison,
To fight the stench and flee in haste!"
Alexander Herzen

Born into Bedlam's filthy spitting,
You're drowned in smoke of rotten lies.
At first, you trust your parents’ fitting
Of fairy tales for shut-down eyes.

The myths grow thicker, filth grows faster —
Fake science dressed in Perrault’s grin.
Yet creeping through this bright disaster,
True Evil plants its roots within.

They **** your mind — call it “morality,”
While bellies rule your toiling life.
Your days dissolve in ******* —
A breathing corpse, devoid of strife.

The media’s foul streams will bind you,
Corrupt your soul and rot your core.
You’ll never feel how filth enshrines you:
You’ll stink of death — and ask for more.

That’s why they sing of "noble traditions" —
The sludge through which the darkness spawns.
Through sacred lies and dumb submissions
They mold a herd for future dawns.



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



Harvest Time

Fear and lies — the world's disease.
Bend your neck — or die on knees.
The herd obeys; the **** command.
The last of men make their last stand.

No dreams to chase. No gods to pray.
The blade is near. The hour — gray.
Stand hard. Stand sharp. Stand all alone.
The Harvest comes. Protect your own.

Amidst those dark, uncharted times,
when leaders locked the planet down,
A stag leapt from his woodland home,
and took a trip around the town.

In centuries past, this centre was,
the verdant playground of the deer,
A meadow of Elysium,
and fragrant flowers blossomed here.

This stag, of gentle-footed step,
was full of soft-eyed majesty,
In fustian coat with, on his head,
a crown of rugged ivory.

And tall and strong and slow of gait,
just like an emperor he trod,
Along that concrete boulevard,
where once the kings of France played God.

In days of old they would, no doubt,,
have hung him on a palace wall,
While courtiers dined on quail and swan,
inside some sumptuous, draughty hall.

But now it was as if he were,
upon a glittering victory march,
As we, the vanquished, watched him stride,
beneath the vast, Triumphal Arch.

And gazing on the silent street,
I felt about to burst as I,
Stared like a parrot from a cage,
at laughing birds all breezing by.