Man had wept
as he watched the fall of Lucifer,
not so much due to the tragedy itself,
rather than the cutting, crystalline
beauty of the Icarian descent

After the absence of three hundred years
since the forgotten burning of Magdeburg(1),
when the Devil had returned to Europe
from the smoldering ashes of
South Africa(2),
Namibia(3),
and Congo Free State(4),
the soft hills of Picardy were
embroidered in gold
with roses and clematises

And since our girl had been fed with naught
but the shimmering positivism of Auguste Comte
from a silver spoon manufactured in Manchester,
beneath the charmingly moorish face of a lover
and a Prada he wore
quilted with railway, nation-state,
Art nouveau, electricity,
and liberal democracy,
never in her wildest, most horrendous nightmares,
-one of which was mere few dozen Jews dying in pogroms-
could she possibly imagine
His robust fingers,
so caressingly wrapped around her neck and cheek,
concealing the bayonet claws
of mustard gas and industrialized massacres

A god whose name we only knew
and whose warmth we only read of,
had called for the blood sacrifice of utmost purity,
to be fed to its altars for the promises of salvation

As the Devil ravaged her body frozen as the Siberian gulags
and her soul smoking away to the chimneys of Auschwitz,
he raked his nail to her cheek seized by the throat,
lasciviously whispering,
‘Here, this,
This is the kiss of progress
You have thrown so warmly your arms around’

Ninety-eight years had passed
since that fatal kiss of a lovesome late June,
though the summer days had returned in Picardy,
roses and clematises
no longer bloom on her hills
except as tributes for silenced youth
which petals lay as a civilization’s tears
as shroud over a massive bomb-crater of La Boisselle(5)

And never again, could she fall in love,
notwithstanding all the lover’s whispers
of the rational organization of human society
or the ultimate liberation of the working class,
for in her heart have always lingered,
the shadow of the Devil
whose chilling warmth of the Lubyanka cells
and the fiery dearth of the crematoriums of Poland
we had shared as whole, consummate days of youth

For there lies a tragic aestheticism
in deflowering of a rose just about to bloom,
for one delirious sense of snapping off the stem,
we had burned away all ardor of love for a century

---------
(1) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/SackofMagdeburg
(2) Concentration camps were first used as means of civilian incarceration by the British against the Afrikaaners during the Second Boer War
(3) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HereroandNamaquaGenocide
(4) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/CongoFreeState#Humanitariandisaster
(5) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lochnagar_Crater

His dead!

I suspect Nietzsche did it in morality with a book;

I suspect Platon did it in birth with stillbirth;

I suspect Machiavelli did it on Ruling with the ends to justify the means;

I suspect Darwin did it in Galápagos with birds;

I suspect Scientists did it in laboratories with stem cells;

I suspect Romans did it in Golgotha with a cross;

I suspect Jews did it in Gethsemane with Judas;

I suspect Christians did it in Spain with inquisition;

I suspect Muslims did in New York with a plane;

I suspect Adolf did it in Poland with gas;

I suspect Stalin did it in Siberia with gulags;

I suspect United states did it in Hiroshima with a bomb;

I suspect United nations did it in wars by looking away;

I suspect God did it in Heaven by suicide;

I suspect I did it here with a poem
I suspect You did it.

Beer is my bottle of sleep,
and I drink enough sleep to forget,
that I'm all alone
I don't have a home,
and my soul will just die when im dead.

Just another scared boy waiting in his casket
or acting a part
its either action or nothing
the mind is divorced

bodies are useless
why accumulate them
in a sack of skin, the cage created
by a skull cap glass brains are wrapped in

transparent and thin
a sleep sheet sewn
by rapid eye movement

encased in bones
the alcohol is sediment settling in the bottom bodies brave colony, of other owners that forage for a loners last remnants of his ostomy.
cavity.
Bags of excretion excrete his thoughts, like lead does to mass graves of forties gulags.

Hes lost all compassion, extinguished all hope, hopes a disease the defectors misquote, cause cadavers decay, minds atrophy as muscle, senescence affects all and with age we buckle, the pressures too great, mans heart is too weak, the blood is no longer pumped to his feet, as he falls to his knees, the earth says “we are one”, as the worms eat the flesh of the casket they've dug.

I am a refugee from the City upon a Hill.

My homeland once a resounding light to the nations; has become a convulsing black hole, threatening to devour any semblance of civility.

My City, once a radiant promontory of enlightenment, its illumination of liberty’s searing torch revered, it’s practical striving for democratic wisdom shaping the long arc of the moral universe emulated by people of good will across the globe; now lies in state as a mordant corpse, serenaded by a funereal chorus of laughing griffins, a dead patriarch surrounded by the ruins of a once opulent now sacked city, a bygone home to the scattered disassemblage of a once noble people.

I recoil from the rancor of extreme partisanship, the gerrymandered apportionment of citizenship rights, the buoyant vindictiveness celebrated by small minded ignorance.

The blind allegiance to jingoistic nationalism, the adulation of Blueline authoritarianism, the fealty to imperial militarism and the dangerous trajectory of it’s awful consequence yet to come, enthralls me with dread.

Compelled patriotism enforced by threats of faux patriots, amoral ammosexuals, their small hands stroking quick triggers of long guns, genuflecting in mastabutory glee to the preeminence of 2nd Amendment atrocities, angling crosshairs of resentments to firmly fix a promise of ghoulish body counts, a rationalized apocalypse a captive people must suffer to underwrite profiteering gunrunners who blindly defile the constitutional tenets of life, liberty and happiness, the blood splattered keystones of our true exceptionalism.

Xenophobia and racialism, are stoked and celebrated by the City’s chief executive, his impish smile mouths Blood and Soil sloganeering, he solemnly salutes the Confederate flag while cheering torchlight processions of enraged White Nationalists marching to the drum of the Grand Republic’s midnight dirge along the once hallowed trail of Jeffersonian Democracy and a sacred place of secular enlightenment and higher learning. His gleeful decrees tweet the destruction of families and his police agents mouth holy scriptures to justify the imprisonment of children.  These vandals rhapsodically paint images of phantasmagoric nightmares trampling and mocking democratic ideals, resurrecting long settled conflicts, terrible tests a once great City rose to extinguish, now swelling numbers of craven citizens ardently embrace Klansmen, insurrectionists and ****’s as righteous brethren.

The madness of chauvinism and racial supremacy has fully metastasized within the body politic, polluting the mind, infecting the bloodline with a virulent strain of a white blood cell disease coursing through the veins of republican citizenship.

A City stolen from the Native inhabitants, ethnically cleansed and its former inhabitants remanded to the prisons of reservations, a City constructed on the backs of chattel slaves, erected on the graves of exploited wage laborers, provisioned by the ruthless denigration of the earth’s bounty, law and order mandated by criminalizing the marginalized, repressing the civil liberties of outliers and subjecting women to a perpetual status as the second *** underclass; has failed to repent and steadfastly refuses to make reparations for its sinful past has made the City uninhabitable.

The embrace of tolerance and diversity is the balm, the curate that can salve the oozing sores crippling the City. Nativist prejudice is a long protracted path that City citizen’s find impossible to exit. The malevolence that consumes the mind and moves the soul of a desperately spiteful people, who take delight and find it necessary to dehumanize and imprison alien races and creeds to maintain vapid notions of superiority, profane the ideals of a republican calling. They ruefully ignore the beacon of light warning of the dangerous shoals that lay ahead. The ideals of the great democratic experiment on course to be dashed on the jagged rocks of ignorance, fear, and anger. The doomed City has set a course that endangers its embargoed citizens. Travelling in steerage, a captive body, believing they are on a course for the rebirth of the City’s greatness are emboldened and chained by the delusions of their self destructive steadfast resentments.

My home City has become unknown to me.  I have become a stranger in this strange land. What was once beloved has become insufferable. What was once treasured has become burdensome. The familiar has become fully alien. A terrible avenging apparition haunts and mocks people of good will. My heart is disheveled. My spirit bruised. My body literally aches from the wounds exacted from the deconstruction of my beloved metropolis.

I stand stranded at the border of incivility. Bewildered I peer through a protective wall of concertina wire, eyeing the imprisoned haughty souls of fully enfranchised citizens, bellowing self righteous psalms, singing interminable lamentations of terminal ignorance.

Condemned by their belief in the salvation of violence and recrimination, secure in their faith that their moat of self righteousness shelters them from the gulags of perdition they eagerly proclaim for others, feeling recused from the bane of sinfulness by meager tithes, tumidity and scriptural specificity and the sweet delusional conviction they are the chosen tribe of God’s favor; their aspirations viscerally dashed in blizzards of metaphysical illusion strewn like meaningless confetti onto a passing parade of barbarians who have taken the City as its grandest prize.

Sadly I must withdraw from my beloved City. I retreat to a refuge where the barbarians dare not enter. Their ignorance and stasis weds them to a place far from my sanctuary of choice. May my sanctuary restoreth my soul!

I find refuge in the temples of jazz. I sing arias of lucent improvisation. The freedom of unbridled expression reinvigorates the mind, alighting the emanation of our better angels. The music calibrates my soul with the syncopated beat of an irrepressible life force, the humanity of my welling heart swells on the sonorous oxygen of a lyrical free spirit.

I take refuge in our vanishing mountain wilderness. The natural world offers a solace of solitude, a unrequited impression of scale and a transcendent communion immune from the trampling cacophony of gleeful vandals running rampant through the streets of the City. In winter the summits are capped in crowns of viginal snow, spring awakens a dormant flora, autumn leaves shout the chorus of a seasons glory and summer flowers bloom in multitudes of brilliant colors marking a startling contrast to the fifty shades of gray tattooed onto the City’s restive souls by the purveyors of power.

I find respite on the friendly banks of rivers and breeze swept ocean shores. The perfume wafting along a rivers streaming eddies or a briney snort gulped from the foam of a cresting wave invigorates the lungs, strengthens the heart and clears the mind. The flow of living water heals lifes wounded spirit. It quenches a thirst for justice and nourishes the hope of freedom for all incarcerated souls. The ceaseless roll of the ocean waves prove the enduring power and inevitability of liberty.

I find a good refuge in books. Here I discover a fleeting glimpse of our forgotten love of knowledge and pursuit of truth and rational thought. Enlightenment is the plot of every storyline.

I take refuge in art. I escape into the multiple dimensions of aesthetic beauty trouncing the twittering banality of fad, pornographic affectations and consumer fethishism. Glimpsing beauty while beauty is there to behold and the diligent practice of its creation is an answer to a higher calling.

I take refuge in my dog. Unconditional love and trusted friendship are values at peril in a transactional world; virtues nobily demonstrated and freely given by our canine and feline friends.

I take refuge in late night comedy. Working the midnight shift, whistling past the graveyard with a hearty laugh helps to while away the desperate hours. The rancid fruits of our labor leave a bitter taste in our mouths, humor is the bread of life that clears the palate and makes the terrible sufferable.

My lasting sanctuary is the stronghold of faith, forbearance and tolerance. I trust the long arc of justice will bend toward the righteous and offer a pathway of redemption for all desecrated souls.

I take refuge in the Blues. Let my lamentations turn to songs of joy and deliverance.

I take refuge in prayer. May my places of exile restore and heal my denigration. May God deliver us to a good destination. May our generational wanderings in the desert of desolation end in the discovery of a good place of habitation.

In the solitude of prayer may I experience catharsis, may my petitions find an open ear, may I achieve clarification, may my pious supplication be genuine , my conviction firm, a direction found, a decision made, a call to action clear.  May I become a healer of the breach.

May Your grace be sufficient for me.

I declare my exile over. I will return to my City. I will attempt to rekindle the extinguished flame of liberty to dispel the darkness enveloping my City.

Selah.

Mark Almond: The City

Puyallup
6/30/18
jbm

Consider the background to this war in the Ukraine, consider the effects of the accumulation of generated rage over the decades?

Russia has historically subjugated Ukrainians since the 1930s when Stalin, motivated by racial prejudice and a desire to dominate, implemented a policy of extermination which systematically starved the largely rural population to death in the phenomenon known as the"Holodomor"... and forbade any complaint being uttered by the suffering peasants with the penalty of being frozen to death in the gulags of the wilderness of Siberia.

With the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, Ukraine became an independent nation by popular decree. This was not received well by  Russia nor by the Russian speaking populace of the Donbass region in the East.

In 2013 revolution occurred in the Maidan Square in Kiev where protestors revolted against the thuggish government of Victor Yakunovych who had implemented, in the face of Russian pressure, a forced decision against the popular choice of the people for the Ukraine to join the European union.

The Maidan revolution resulted in the collapse of the Yakunovych government and his forced sudden retreat to Russia. Pro Russian separatist forces in the Donbass supported by euphemistically titled "Russian Military Advisors" in February of 2014, attacked loyalist forces of the Ukraine in  the self-declared Donetsk and Luhansk republics. Military escalation continued through to 2018 including artillery exchanges and the decision by Russia to militarily invade and annex the Crimean peninsular.

An undeclared war began between Ukrainian forces on one side, and separatists intermingled with Russian troops on the other, although Russia attempted to hide its involvement. The war settled into a static conflict, with repeated failed attempts at a ceasefire. In 2015, the Minsk II agreements were signed by Russia and Ukraine, but a number of disputes prevented them being fully implemented. By 2019, 7% of Ukraine was classified by the Ukrainian government as temporarily occupied territories, while the Russian government had indirectly acknowledged the presence of its troops in Ukraine.

In 2021 and early 2022, there was a major Russian military build-up around Ukraine's borders. NATO accused Russia of planning an invasion, which it denied. Russian President Vladimir Putin criticized the enlargement of NATO as a threat to his country and demanded Ukraine be barred from ever joining the military alliance. He also expressed Russian historic views, questioning Ukraine's right to exist, and stated wrongfully that Ukraine was created by Soviet Russia. On 21 February 2022, Russia officially recognized the two self-proclaimed separatist states in the Donbas, and openly sent troops into the territories. Three days later, Russia invaded Ukraine. Much of the international community has condemned Russia for its actions in post-revolutionary Ukraine, accusing it of breaking international law and violating Ukrainian sovereignty. Many countries implemented economic sanctions against Russia, Russian individuals, or companies, especially after the 2022 invasion.

The Russian genocide handbook was published on April 3, two days after the first revelation that Russian servicemen in Ukraine had murdered hundreds of people in Bucha, and just as the story was reaching major newspapers.  The Bucha massacre was one of several cases of mass killing that emerged as Russian troops withdrew from the Kiev region.  This means that the genocide program was knowingly published even as the physical evidence of genocide was emerging.  The writer and the editors chose this particular moment to make public a program for the elimination of the Ukrainian nation as such.

Legally, genocide means both actions that destroy a group in whole or in part, combined with some intention to do so.  Russia has done the deed and confessed to the intention.....and incidentally, recently Ukraine geophysicists discovered vast gas and oil deposits in the, then, Ukrainian administered segment of the Black Sea. These deposits would have had the capacity and potential to render the Ukraine, not only independent of Russian hydrocarbon dependence but also capable of being developed into a major commercial supplier of oil and gas to the European community. Russia's annexation of Crimea and the recent military occupation of the Eastern corridor effectively opens the door to Russian monopolization of these deposits...and closes the door to Ukrainian aspirations!

Ukraine bleeds, Russia’s Putin must live with the guilt of the suffering and destruction he has caused for the rest of his living days. Emotions are running high on the vast steppes of Central Asia, whatever the outcome of this turmoil, decades of hate and resentment, violence and vengeance have been wrought by this action, the birth of this animosity shall grow and pervade, unhindered, for centuries in the heart of the angry denizens of this poor, tortured land.

Ukraine, Ukraine...Cry the Beloved Country

M.
20 April 2022

She is a third world girl
Living like a timid squirrel
She needs hair, to live safely

Ghettoes, Gulags, Auschwitz at every nook and corner
Acid is boiling in disguise of hot tea
Her dignity lies in her silence
She has to bend her head to walk proudly

She is a gazelle
Not allowed to take a leap
Hyenas had gifted her chain of freedom

And there are posters in the streets: “A female terroristwanted…dead or alive”
She had planted bombs of desire
On her bare hands and visible legs.

I can remember people strolling down the damp streets
The smell soup gliding in the wind, what a sweet mixture
Potatoes and parsley tickling your nose
People wrapped up in torn shawls waiting in line, but content they were.
I can remember the clattering of teeth, the movement of lips
The expressions of ideas, so different in all,
No one was afraid to criticize, to call out.
People had a somber mood, no doubt about that.
But it was better than what was to come.
It was so much better.

I can remember the end of ‘29.
The dismal fall of our state, of our home.
Suddenly my walls were painted with bills of despair,
A cruel reminder of our payment that we can’t pay.
Since the Weltkrieg, I was told to hate those Amis.
They destroyed our Economy, and I know they wish they didn’t
Because in that vacuum arose a grim beginning
And in ‘33 our world as we knew was to crumble at our weak feet.
But I can remember the future was foggy, so we decided to walk forward,
Yet that walk was instead a sprint to ultimate death of ideas,
And a sprint to the death of peace.

I can remember the deterioration of our lives and freedom.
Nothing was being spoken of the crimes we were committing.
Our friends were being hauled away to not be seen again,
But they were not our friends, they were only to blame, we thought.
I can remember the bitter september of  ‘39
When we took our east neighbor’s home and called it our own.
Not knowing what we had started, we trudged forward
Handing 20 year olds by the millions gas masks and guns.
But they could not ward off the sins yet to become.

I can remember hating our deeds,
It went against every good and heartful moral.
My words were to suffocate in my own mouth.
Too afraid to speak up, but of course I was.
The harassment and suffering that would follow
Would be so emance I would lose all hope
Of a life that was worth living,
If I still had one.

I can remember the clearing of the smoke and gas,
The rising sun of September ‘45, a gleaming metal of promise.
And we ran out to the streets and cheered on our loss.
For our loss was our liberation, our emancipation.
And while our state layed dispersed and in ruins,
We were more put together than ever before.
Yet all good things must come to an end, don’t they.
And Berlin was cut and split once more.

I can remember the change in my street,
Named after that soviet hero, known as Marx.
His named controlled the Allee, and it was the farthest we could go,
Until the officers shoved us and forced us to turn around.
They say the sun rises on the east, but it really only shines on the west.
And this lack of sun drove our leaders fridged.
Calling for a blanket to insulate us in.

I can remember how cold it became in ‘61
The year our ‘needed’ blanket was made.
155 kilometers it spat on the pure soil of our destroyed home.
And when my neighbor tried to cross it, he was shot down
Blood of a friend tattooing the wall, ink spilling over like a broken pen.
Writing the grim truth of our situation, the lies trickling as a river.
If I could of protest it, I would of, but all those who did didn’t last long.
And if the hand on the trigger was not to pull it,
Gulags were to be our next home.

I can remember hating his deeds,
It went against every good and heartful moral.
My words were to suffocate in my own mouth.
Too afraid to speak up, but of course I was.
The harassment and suffering that would follow
Would be so emance I would lose all hope
Of a life that was worth living,
If I still had one.

“...Open this gate! ...Tear down this wall!”
The words flowed past the barrier into our ears.
A second liberation, a second emancipation.
Please freedom, please drag us by our head and force us to stand.
Let us stand with our brothers and stand until our knees buckle.
I can remember the arms around me, the arms of my lost son.
Pulling me up from the depths of the east, until I was standing on the wall.
The crowd cheering beneath us and cheering beside us.
Free, this is free, I am free, we are free.
But nothing lasts forever.

Many years later, many years have gone through time
My memories linger, dancing in circles
Reminding me of the pain and suffering we went through
To figure out what it means to be us.
I can remember the days when everything seemed lost.
I can remember the days when we were a disgrace
A mistake in world’s code, an horrific accident that was never meant to happen
But time has fading upon itself
For a brief moment we knew who we were.
And then we remembered all that has been done in our name
Now we insist on cleaning ourselves.

Destroy us. Rid us of all things that make us us.
Vacate the room of all bad, and get rid of all good too.
Nothing shall remain of us. Nothing good can last in our name.
At least that's what they want me to think, but I can’t and I won't.
I lay here, alone, abandoned, dying against my will.
My words suffocating in my own mouth.
Too afraid to speak up, but of course am I.
Silence is what keeps me alive.

I can remember being told to be silent
My mother whispering in my ear, “I know, Don’t say it.”
“If they hear you, you could be sent away.”
I can remember disclosing to my son through the thin black wire
“I can’t say it, they can hear it, and I would sent away.”
And now I lay in the skin of the scared man I have always been
Too afraid to fight back, too afraid to say my truth.
Unable to alter the past, and no control over the future.
No one is here to listen to the wise, to listen to those
Who have suffered through forced silence twice over.
But we are Germans, silencing is what we do.

A hammer and sickle to tickle them
cries of, 'it's Stalin' to ******* them, then
silence on Red Square.

Dacha's popping up everywhere
communism like evangelism
gathers the money in

holiday plans.

There are true ***** drinkers
thinkers like
Solzhenitsyn
gulags
and the rags of
Moscow.

I won't go

to the palace where tells of a ****** or
on the long road that tells us of more.

The KGB
a resident family of the community
are looking for me via Odessa.

I've gone to Sweden to lead 'em astray, can't stay in the concrete connivance no way, but
I end up in Siberia wearier than the dogs who run with the pack.

Looking back at the back of it
there's a lack of it, but I'll manage it and a carriage would help a bit to carry me home .

Take me to the place I dream of,
Where the main word is teacher,
And that’s whom all the hymns are for.
Where a boy’s first hero and a girl’s
First love’s a random upper-class kid,
And that’s whom all the poems are for.

That’s where we hug in public
Because the trend for hatred
Never got resurrected after dying in gulags.
That’s where I don’t feel pain
When we don’t meet for months, as the trend for loyalty
Came from the east and didn’t leave no place for gags.

the flowers
broken from the stem
have been vibrantly colored and trampled
on the sidewalk for weeks
withstanding days of passersby,

a despotic government in town
and citizens so filled with their jodi arias kind of love

knowing nothing of
their coming gulags
or how they can only fail

because the dumb mob is the city
the streets of the city
the boarded up windows of the city,
the defunded police department of the city,
the shattered glass of the city and the ****
in the streets of the city

it is only important to who might as well be no one,
but not to the men who will never be men
but not to the women who will never be women
and definitely not to the men who will never be women
a generation hated from all direction
failed before they even began, they will never begin
there will never be anything in it for them

they totalitarian so much totalitarian
not exactly wild or stallion
just sickly miniature horses
tough as owned prison ***** bronies

no hope
for the plastic garbage in the ocean
plastic garbage intended to pollute the ocean

never a time to get over things and move on
in an intellectually inferior time zone,
never a time to teach or learn about mao zedong.

It snows and keeps on snowing.
It is late October, not mid-March.
Ice ages of the moment, you left
me frozen and in chunks. My
home is the gulags of your
leaving, no longer your
embrace that was my warmth.
Sixty below is beyond
bitter, but nothing is as cold
as winter of the heart.

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



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



Hopeless idiots, and most of them...

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

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



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


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



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


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



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


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

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



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



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



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



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



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



Journey to Nowhereville

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

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

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

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

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



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



The Toady Folk

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

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

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

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



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



Puppet Politicians and the Sheepish World

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

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

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

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



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



The Puppets

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

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

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



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



The Death of Natural Farming

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

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

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



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



Mouse-Sized Happiness

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

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

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

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

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



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



The “Magic” of Propaganda

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

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

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



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



In Their Service...

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

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

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



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



The Rule of Satanism

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

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

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

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

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



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



Slavery

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

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

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

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

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



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



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

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

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

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



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



Train to Hell

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

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



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



To Hell

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

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

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

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

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



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



Woodworking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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



Sheeplevirus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




--- Total 22 poems. ---