Young Kalachnokov made an odd discovery,
Odd because no beneficiary it had ever since.
He complained over
the dust of amount it brought
into his purse
as a bridegroom who would be served
whine in pint by the in-laws
at wedding party.

The sound achievement  
brought him an ocean of reflections
when he saw how tense-eyed
became lads holding the AK-47,
When he saw that they crawled like snakes
(which move to bite),
Forcing their fellows’ lives away,
Forcing their fellows’ to become foes,
Forcing their fellows to flee abodes and gardens around,
The gardens he saw without care,
And bitterly old Kalachnokov regretted
he hadn’t made  a lawnmower.

Note :
1. Mikhail Kalachnokov was twenty years old when he made the fire weapon.
2. AK47 : A : Automatic ; K : Kalachnokov ; 47 : The year 1947  the automatic weapon was made by the man who gave it his name « Kalachnokov »

This poem comes from a dream.*

Sun—as February ordains it
roseate—early
twisted inordinate—in gray blanket
Snow has sifted to the pockets, wrinkles
the cuff of his woolen cap

An old hand rubs stubbled cheek
Snow flickers and falls again
in a dazzle

As he groans and stirs—
sparrows sing
As he struggles to sit—
sparrows sing
As he exhales into the chill
he considers the lilies of the field
Their luminous curling petals rise
steam or hope?
or just white smoke
wandering from the tiny fire
He sits a while to listen
to sparrows bickering in the bushes
then bursting into song

They have their audience

Across in a court of broken glass
and toppled stones
a room— still partially intact
Kindling gathered
Marta melts snow for tea
peeling potatoes in her lap
Stops to blow on hands
Marta’s heart—decent, visceral
like her hair—bun, kerchief
like her words—few in the failing
like the wounds of her smile

And Mikhail—harnessed
to the sounds of service
Orderly rhythm in ruin
hush    hush     hush
of a broom stroking cobbles
Mikhail—his hands wrapped in rags
old warrior  
now, restorer of places to live
Stops, removes his cap
squinting sunlight into the channels of his face
Then turns toward unsteady shuffling behind him

“You shouldn’t.”
Tears interrupt
reaching for the broom
“You shouldn’t do this for me.”

“No, no, Holy Father. It is little thing—
a little thing I do.”

21–40 of 11462 Poems
«1234»Viewsshow detailshide detailsSort by  
Faith
BY MICHAEL *******br>When I cannot believe,
The brown herds still move across green fields
Into the tufty hills, and I was born . . .
Teusaquillo, 1989
BY MAURICE KILWEIN GUEVARA
Flowering sietecueros trees:
How easily we married ourselves
to the idea of that bruised light . . .
Bright Pittsburgh Morning
BY MAURICE KILWEIN GUEVARA
This must happen just after I die: At sunrise
I bend over my grandparents' empty house in Hazelwood
and pull it out of the soft cindered earth by the Mon River. . . .
Hanukkah
BY HILDA MORLEY
This season for us, the Jews—
a season of candles,
                                      one more . . .
Winter Solstice
BY HILDA MORLEY
A cold night crosses
our path
                  The world appears . . .
And I in My Bed Again
BY HILDA MORLEY
Last night
                     tossed in
my bed . . .
alternate names for black boys
BY DANEZ SMITH
1.   smoke above the burning bush
2.   archnemesis of summer night
3.   first son of soil . . .
Listen
Attenuate the Loss and Find
BY ANNE WALDMAN
name appears
everywhere and in dream
body armor removed . . .
From “Citizen”
BY CLAUDIA RANKINE
/ 

You are in the dark, in the car, watching the black-tarred street being swallowed by speed; he tells you his dean is making him hire a person of color when there are so many great writers out there. . . .
Listen
History Will Decide
BY ANNE WALDMAN
All writing around the sides the persons a galaxy all writing resounds a hot history. All writing is in fact cut-ups history will decide games heated and heated economic behavior. To rise up scene all sounds of Tahrir and inside supply side threatened. A long delineation. Longer than I would . . .
ICC Kenya Trials: Witness
BY SHAILJA PATEL
was it so I could
never say
across a courtroom . . .
Mosaic
BY TIM SEIBLES
A carpet of light, the
ocean alive < half a moon
muting the stars. . . .
sideshow
BY DANEZ SMITH
Have I spent too much time worrying about the boys
killing each other to pray for the ones who do it
with their own hands? . . .
The Last Son of China
BY **** PING
.......................    hello hello hello    ...    Weiwei    ...    where have you been?    ...    I see you in dreams    ...    bleeding    ...    in the darkness of the . . .
The Skin of Sleep
BY MYRA SKLAREW
The skin of sleep
is thin. It will not hold.
Its contents stumble out. . . .
What Could Have Happened
BY SHAILJA PATEL
Wa
gal
la . . .
Everybody Has a Heartache: A Blues
BY JOY HARJO
In the United terminal in Chicago at five on a Friday afternoon
The sky is breaking with rain and wind and all the flights
Are delayed forever. We will never get to where we are going . . .
Good Friday
BY MARIA MELENDEZ KELSON
Jesus, I want my sins back.
My prattle, pride, and private prices — 
climbing, clinching, clocking —  . . .
ICE Agents Storm My Porch
BY MARIA MELENDEZ KELSON
The Indiscriminate Citizenry of Earth
are out to arrest my sense of being a misfit.
“Open up!” they bellow,
hands quiet before my door
that’s only wind and juniper needles, anyway.

You can’t do it, I squeak from inside.
You can’t make me feel at home here
in this time of siege for me . . .
Tablets
BY DUNYA MIKHAIL
1


She pressed her ear against the shell: . . .
«1234»

Christos Voskrese!

For Tod

The world is unusually quiet this dawn
With fading stars withdrawing in good grace
And drowsy, dreaming sunflowers, dewy-drooped,
Their golden crowns all motionless and still,
Stand patiently in their ordered garden rows,
Almost as if they wait for lazy bees
To wake and work, and so begin the day.
A solitary swallow sweeps the sky;
An early finch proclaims his leafy seat
While Old Kashtanka limps around the yard
Snuffling the boundaries on her morning patrol.

Then wide-yawning Mikhail, happily barefoot,
A lump of bread for nibbling in one hand,
A birch switch swishing menace in the other
Appears, and whistles up his father’s cows:
“Hey!  Alina, and Antonina! Up!
Up, up, Diana and Dominika!
You, too, Varvara and Valentina!
Pashka is here, and dawn, and spring, and life!”
And they are not reluctant then to rise
From sweet and grassy beds, with udders full,
Cow-gossip-lowing to the dairy barn.

Anastasia lights the ikon lamp
And crosses herself as her mother taught.
She’ll brew the tea, the strong black wake-up tea,
And think about that naughty, handsome Yuri
Who winked at her during the Liturgy
On the holiest midnight of the year.
O pray that watchful Father did not see!
Breakfast will be merry, an echo-feast
Of last night’s eggs, pysanky, sausage, kulich.
And Mother will pack Babushka’s basket,
Because only a mother can do that right

When Father Vasily arrived last night
In a limping Lada haloed in smoke,
The men put out their cigarettes and helped
With every precious vestment, cope, and chain,
For old Saint Basil’s has not its own priest,
Not since the Czar, and Seraphim-Diveyevo
From time to time, for weddings, holy days,
Funerals, supplies the needs of the parish,
Often with Father Vasily (whose mother
Begins most conversations with “My son,
The priest.…”), much to the amusement of all.

Voices fell, temperatures fell, darkness fell
And stars hovered low over the silent fields,
Dark larches, parking lots, and tractor sheds.
Inside the lightless church the priest began
The ancient prayers of desolate emptiness
To which the faithful whispered in reply,
Unworthy mourners at the Garden tomb,
Spiraling deeper and deeper in grief
Until that Word, by Saint Mary Magdalene
Revealed, with candles, hymns, and midnight bells
Spoke light and life to poor but hopeful souls.

The world is unusually quiet this dawn;
The sun is new-lamb warm upon creation,      
For Pascha gently rests upon the earth,
This holy Russia, whose martyrs and saints
Enlighten the nations through their witness of faith,
Mercy, blessings, penance, and prayer eternal
Now rising with a resurrection hymn,
And even needful chores are liturgies:
“Christos Voskrese  – Christ is risen indeed!”
And Old Kashtanka limps around the yard
Snuffling the boundaries on her morning patrol.

A Sequence of Poems for Holy Week

(Some of these were submitted in past years)

Holy Thursday 2017

On this Maundatum Thursday falls a bomb
From the belly of a beast, falling, falling
From the Empyrean and through the blue
Past mountaintops and misted valleys deep

And then into the planet’s earthen flanks
Its pulses to repudiate Creation
In vaporizing the structures of life
Into primeval molecules of dust

Because some bad men might be lurking there
On this Maundatum Thursday falls a bomb



Maundy Thursday – Mass of the Last Supper

“Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang”

-Shakespeare

The air is thurified – the incense given
Our Lord upon His birth is fumed at last;
The censer’s chains, clanking like manacles
Offend against the silence at the end of Mass

Supper is concluded; the servants strip
The Table bare of all the Seder service:
Cups, linens, and dishes, leaving in the dark
An Altar bare, prepared for sacrifice

In Gethsemane the flowered air is sweet
But iron-heeled caligae offend the night



6 April 2012, Good Friday

A Night of Fallen Nothingness

The Altar stripped, the candles dark, the Cross
Concealed behind a purple shroud, the sun
Mere slantings through an afternoon of grief
While all the world is emptied of all hope.
The dead remain, the failing light withdraws
As do the broken faithful, silently,
Into a night of fallen nothingness.



7 April 2012, Holy Saturday

Easter Vigil, Sort Of

A vigil, no, simply quiet reflection
Minutes before midnight, with all asleep
Little Liesl-Dog perhaps dreams of squirrels,
For she has chased and barked them all the day;
The kittens are disposed with their mother
After an hour of kitty-baby-talk,
Adored by all, except by Calvin-Cat,
That venerable, cranky old orange hair-ball,
Who resents youthful intrusion upon
His proper role as object of worship.
All the house settles in for the spring night,
Anticipating Easter, early Mass,
And then the appropriately pagan
Merriments of chocolates and colored eggs
And children with baskets squealing for more
As children should, in the springtime of life.



Easter, 2014

Christos Voskrese!

For William Tod Mixson

The world is unusually quiet this dawn
With fading stars withdrawing in good grace
And drowsy, dreaming sunflowers, dewy-drooped,
Their golden crowns all motionless and still,
Stand patiently in their ordered garden rows,
Almost as if they wait for lazy bees
To wake and work, and so begin the day.
A solitary swallow sweeps the sky;
An early finch proclaims his leafy seat
While Old Kashtanka limps around the yard
Snuffling the boundaries on her morning patrol.

Then wide-yawning Mikhail, happily barefoot,
A lump of bread for nibbling in one hand,
A birch switch swishing menace in the other
Appears, and whistles up his father’s cows:
“Hey!  Alina, and Antonina! Up!
Up, up, Diana and Dominika!
You, too, Varvara and Valentina!
Pashka is here, and dawn, and spring, and life!”
And they are not reluctant then to rise
From sweet and grassy beds, with udders full,
Cow-gossip-lowing to the dairy barn.

Anastasia lights the ikon lamp
And crosses herself as her mother taught.
She’ll brew the tea, the strong black wake-up tea,
And think about that naughty, handsome Yuri
Who winked at her during the Liturgy
On the holiest midnight of the year.
O pray that watchful Father did not see!
Breakfast will be merry, an echo-feast
Of last night’s eggs, pysanky, sausage, kulich.
And Mother will pack Babushka’s basket,
Because only a mother can do that right

When Father Vasily arrived last night
In a limping Lada haloed in smoke,
The men put out their cigarettes and helped
With every precious vestment, cope, and chain,
For old Saint Basil’s has not its own priest,
Not since the Czar, and Seraphim-Diveyevo
From time to time, for weddings, holy days,
Funerals, supplies the needs of the parish,
Often with Father Vasily (whose mother
Begins most conversations with “My son,
The priest.…”), much to the amusement of all.

Voices fell, temperatures fell, darkness fell
And stars hovered low over the silent fields,
Dark larches, parking lots, and tractor sheds.
Inside the lightless church the priest began
The ancient prayers of desolate emptiness
To which the faithful whispered in reply,
Unworthy mourners at the Garden tomb,
Spiraling deeper and deeper in grief
Until that Word, by Saint Mary Magdalene
Revealed, with candles, hymns, and midnight bells
Spoke light and life to poor but hopeful souls.

The world is unusually quiet this dawn;
The sun is new-lamb warm upon creation,      
For Pascha gently rests upon the earth,
This holy Russia, whose martyrs and saints
Enlighten the nations through their witness of faith,
Mercy, blessings, penance, and prayer eternal
Now rising with a resurrection hymn,
And even needful chores are liturgies:
“Christos Voskrese  – Christ is risen indeed!”
And Old Kashtanka limps around the yard
Snuffling the boundaries on her morning patrol.

In some fields none deny,
Russian masters still loom high.
If popularity is the test
one artist stands above the rest.
The caps of the world, we reverently doff
to the great Mikhail Kalashnikov.

if not for you, my life would be empty
my stars wouldnt shine, theyd fail to align
my limbs would give out and droop like spaghetti

if not for you, laughs would be sparce
my heart lodged in my throat, voice bleeting like a goat
sound would be as silent as a **** from my ****

if not for you, i wouldnt know love
my mind would be mindless, time is what binds us
despair's cold shackles im finally free of

For William Tod Mixson

The world is unusually quiet this dawn
With fading stars withdrawing in good grace
And drowsy, dreaming sunflowers, dewy-drooped,
Their golden crowns all motionless and still,
Stand patiently in their ordered garden rows,
Almost as if they wait for lazy bees
To wake and work, and so begin the day.
A solitary swallow sweeps the sky;
An early finch proclaims his leafy seat
While Old Kashtanka limps around the yard
Snuffling the boundaries on her morning patrol.

Then wide-yawning Mikhail, happily barefoot,
A lump of bread for nibbling in one hand,
A birch switch swishing menace in the other
Appears, and whistles up his father’s cows:
“Hey!  Alina, and Antonina! Up!
Up, up, Diana and Dominika!
You, too, Varvara and Valentina!
Pashka is here, and dawn, and spring, and life!”
And they are not reluctant then to rise
From sweet and grassy beds, with udders full,
Cow-gossip-lowing to the dairy barn.

Anastasia lights the ikon lamp
And crosses herself as her mother taught.
She’ll brew the tea, the strong black wake-up tea,
And think about that naughty, handsome Yuri
Who winked at her during the Liturgy
On the holiest midnight of the year.
O pray that watchful Father did not see!
Breakfast will be merry, an echo-feast
Of last night’s eggs, pysanky, sausage, kulich.
And Mother will pack Babushka’s basket,
Because only a mother can do that right

When Father Vasily arrived last night
In a limping Lada haloed in smoke,
The men put out their cigarettes and helped
With every precious vestment, cope, and chain,
For old Saint Basil’s has not its own priest,
Not since the Czar, and Seraphim-Diveyevo
From time to time, for weddings, holy days,
Funerals, supplies the needs of the parish,
Often with Father Vasily (whose mother
Begins most conversations with “My son,
The priest.…”, much to the amusement of all).

Voices fell, temperatures fell, darkness fell
And stars hovered low over the silent fields,
Dark larches, parking lots, and tractor sheds.
Inside the lightless church the priest began
The ancient prayers of desolate emptiness
To which the faithful whispered in reply,
Unworthy mourners at the Garden tomb,
Spiraling deeper and deeper in grief
Until that Word, by Saint Mary Magdalene
Revealed, with candles, hymns, and midnight bells
Spoke light and life to poor but hopeful souls.

The world is unusually quiet this dawn;
The sun is new-lamb warm upon creation,      
For Pascha gently rests upon the earth,
This holy Russia, whose martyrs and saints
Enlighten the nations through their witness of faith,
Mercy, blessings, penance, and prayer eternal
Now rising with a resurrection hymn,
And even needful chores are liturgies:
“Christos Voskrese  – Christ is risen indeed!”
And Old Kashtanka limps around the yard
Snuffling the boundaries on her morning patrol

The grey clouds opened up for it.

Mikhail Morozov
Sat in a foetal position.
Pale eyes —
Empty spotlights
From which Oblivion stared.

Ri Seul-ki
Atop a podium, flung sparks.
"Flee not to your burrows,
Rabbits" —
But Oblivion took hold.

Christian Franklin
Rubbed his hands with glee.
God's fire and fury
Sprung from his fingertips.
Oblivion smiled.

Sofia Garcia
Smiled into her morning coffee.
She sighed, and typed
The very last word.
And that was when Oblivion struck.

Hobbit those characters who lived
within the realm
of John Ronald Reuel Tolkien
as far removed as
Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
upon squelched cusp of progressivism,
now most likely
experience bitterness at the autocracy
of Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin.

Impossible mission to believe
amidst audacity, atrocity, egocentricity,
ferocity, mendacity, rapacity, et cetera
former KGB intelligence officer currently
serving as President of Russia
total mortal kombat of Ukraine did conceive
author of these words doth grieve
needless wanton death and destruction
analogous to volcano that lays waste
to innocent lives indiscriminately
spews forth horror as fiery lava
belches forth instantaneously
devastating explosions heave
leveling great swaths landscape
Gaia retching liquid rock
rendering utter wasteland
entombed survivors cannot leave.

The older generation
most likely experienced taste of democracy
(or the closest approximation thereof)
as I (am American baby boomer)
felt wowed by revolutionary changes,
when Ronald Reagan
occupied the White House.

Permafrost of the cold war thawed
when Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev
(a Russian: born 2 March 1931)
ranked as salutary Soviet statesman.

As eighth leader of Soviet Union,
he rang successful posts as follows:
General Secretary of Communist Party
Soviet Union from 1985 until 1991.

He headed country of sprawling Soviet state
from 1988 until 1991
Chairman of Presidium of Supreme Soviet
from 1988 to 1989,
Chairman of Supreme Soviet from 1989 to 1990,
and President of Soviet Union from 1990 to 1991.

Gorbachev was born in Stavropol Krai
into a peasant Ukrainian–Russian family knoll high
in his teens, operated combine harvesters
on collective farms as strapping guy.

He graduated from Moscow State University
in 1955 with a degree in law.

While at university, he joined Communist Party,
and soon became jaw
burr walk key i.e. very active mouthpiece per se.
In 1970, his near flawless
dossier a boon asper getting appointed
First Party Secretary drawing
salary of Stavropol Regional Committee,
First Secretary as “Chaw”

Bach ca qua Supreme Soviet in 1974,
and appointed as member of Politburo in 1979.

Within three years after death of Soviet leader
Leonid Brezhnev, following brief "interregna"
of Andropov and Chernenko, Gorbachev
elected general secretary chief
by Politburo in 1985.

Before reaching said post,
his bona fides occasioned bill leaf
As top dog name-dropped
in Western newspapers
as a likely next leader and reef
furred as barrier to manage
younger generation at top level.

Gorbachev's policies of glasnost ("openness")
and perestroika ("restructuring") and
his reorientation of Soviet
strategic aims contributed
to end Cold War.

Under a rustling brand
new program, the role
of Communist Party in governing
the state was removed demand
did via the constitution,
which inadvertently led to crisis-level
political instability fanned
surge of regional nationalist
and anti-communist activism
culminating in dissolution hand
of Soviet Union. Gorbachev
later expressed regret
for failure to save USSR, Mother land
though he insisted his policies not failures,
but rather vitally necessary reforms, miss man
aged, sabotaged and exploited by opportunists.

He was awarded the Otto Hahn
Peace Medal in 1989,
the Nobel Peace Prize in 1990
and Harvey Prize in 1992, plus un-cease
sing honorary doctorates from various universities.

In September 2008, Gorbachev vis
a vis, and business oligarch Alexander Lebedev
announced formation of Independent
Democratic Party of Russia,
and in May 2009 Gorbachev
announced that launch meant
to be imminent.

This third attempt Gorbachev
sought to establish a political party, rent
asunder from disparate competitors started
Social Democratic Party of Russia in tent
toward legitimacy dated 2001,
and Union of Social Democrats
in 2007 voice of the people to vent.

Hobbit those characters who lived
within the realm
of John Ronald Reuel Tolkien
as far removed as
Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
upon squelched cusp of progressivism,
now most likely
experience bitterness at the autocracy
of Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin.

Permafrost of the cold war thawed
when Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev
(a Russian: born 2 March 1931)
ranked as salutary Soviet statesman.

As eighth leader of Soviet Union,
he rang successful posts as follows:
General Secretary of Communist Party
Soviet Union from 1985 until 1991.

He headed country of sprawling Soviet state
from 1988 until 1991
Chairman of Presidium of Supreme Soviet
from 1988 to 1989,
Chairman of Supreme Soviet from 1989 to 1990,
and President of Soviet Union from 1990 to 1991.

Gorbachev was born in Stavropol Krai
into a peasant Ukrainian–Russian family knoll high
in his teens, operated combine harvesters
on collective farms as strapping guy.

He graduated from Moscow State University
in 1955 with a degree in law.

While at university, he joined Communist Party,
and soon became jaw
burr walk key i.e. very active mouthpiece per se.

In 1970, his near flawless
dossier a boon asper getting appointed
First Party Secretary drawing
salary of Stavropol Regional Committee,
First Secretary as “Chaw”

Bach ca qua Supreme Soviet in 1974,
and appointed as member of Politburo in 1979.

Within three years after death of Soviet leader
Leonid Brezhnev, following brief "interregna"
of Andropov and Chernenko, Gorbachev
elected general secretary chief
by Politburo in 1985.

Before reaching said post,
his bona fides occasioned bill leaf
As top dog name-dropped
in Western newspapers
as a likely next leader and reef
furred as barrier to manage
younger generation at top level.

Gorbachev's policies of glasnost ("openness")
and perestroika ("restructuring") and
his reorientation of Soviet
strategic aims contributed
to end Cold War.

Under a rustling brand
new program, the role
of Communist Party in governing
the state was removed demand
did via the constitution,
which inadvertently led to crisis-level
political instability fanned
surge of regional nationalist
and anti-communist activism
culminating in dissolution hand
of Soviet Union. Gorbachev
later expressed regret
for failure to save USSR, Mother land
though he insisted his policies not failures,
but rather vitally necessary reforms, miss man
aged, sabotaged and exploited by opportunists.

He was awarded the Otto Hahn
Peace Medal in 1989,
the Nobel Peace Prize in 1990
and Harvey Prize in 1992, plus un-cease
sing honorary doctorates from various universities.

In September 2008, Gorbachev vis
a vis, and business oligarch Alexander Lebedev
announced formation of Independent
Democratic Party of Russia,
and in May 2009 Gorbachev
announced that launch meant
to be imminent.

This third attempt Gorbachev
sought to establish a political party, rent
asunder from disparate competitors started
Social Democratic Party of Russia in tent
toward legitimacy dated 2001,
and Union of Social Democrats
in 2007 voice of the people to vent.

I think of tablets and do not work with anything
like mass transit, death and war. But they
do not change in their circumstances; Do not
cut anything to do this, but if you have faith,
then many people still worship God if there
is a strike or opinion. Other things seem to be
basic, I do not think about putting sunscreen
in that area. During pregnancy, there are many
ways in the world. No one can see it when it's
ready to clean the brain. Do not fight with Spittle.
It was a brain and what it was used before.
You can do whatever you can but do not worry
about the truth, pay attention to the problems
that are responsible for poverty. 0 What is the role
of the death of a family members of Bhagatan
and Nirmali Belize, and what is the role of family
leadership? There is no difference between Helkaiki,
Time and Kamblin, a shadow of the world.
First or foremost, but making a call is very important.
Father liked life. Today, Nita ignores the wrong
ideas of the future and Anil Jilin is on about abortion.
All can be saved with AI, K'Kegiginini and Zecrecini.
Lakshmi Mastkar can be useful.
Satan was not in prison and was not the Bearer.
David's poor man's helper alone escaped one night.
A perfect Yukon summer, my search,
when this poem was discovered, it came out.
This does not mean that there is no reason here.
It's a human body, but we do not read it
before Jasmine. Are you ready to compete
with an infant's doctor and you cannot think,
can you go home or take care? Where
is Bogota on kebabs? The violence of Naziham

Market, Alcohol, Paraguay, Goldboys Children's Jenavi Church, Children's Brain, Singer and Jain Bailey Ezezha was attacked. They believe that they are banner (Kashmiri seeds) and JP (Jet). Lincoln says that Sima Manmania, young and old cousin, Vaiha Nahan, is a Hindu Kibo Mara, Malachi, Japanese Kaki Gear, Japanese, Chirak Konki, Biligan Shadow Shogun, but also like Pastor Nagokor Youth, Henrikrunch, Uma Mami. Al Hikla Gulf Peninsula at Danny Bay The two Chauhhaas, spoken in Oji, were collected in the 12th month and we are here. She Jusima Saminikki Kinki IA Purushakas Founder David Ahlasi is a musician who plays a role in the life of a woman. Karen State, APK Cynthia CC Chichi, Riya Kun and Nayaki Kichi one, two, Sami, *****? What's the difference between me and me? After Blackberry E., two brothers, two brothers, face, dewdrops, oh, hear the sound. Lucky Shabab Bunder, Mojo Jakhan Mikhail Jawahan Hah, Umur Akkala, Kuwait's Gold Jugde Dei Shavata Jamia's father came to Jaguar Theater in Karanji in July. This is what we have

Having trouble sleeping
O  dark thirty
Cpl. David Markson
Patrick Air Force Base

Mrs. Dewey's class
A.E. Houseman
By profession a professor of Latin
Contraria Sunt Complementa

Volkswagen bug
Surf Ohio
The University of the South
**** voice, pretty face

All Walls Fall
Mr. Gregory Hines
Mikhail Baryshnikov
Homecoming gown magenta

                Say you, Say me

Kate's beautiful friend told the court
that she prayed to join the battle,
and had survived the refugee camp
in a Christian group.                                                           ­          An attractive soldier, also known as Duct Ferraù:                                                      
had­ the courage to deal with his brother,
offered below. He killed his brother
Argilos, and found his angel, the great
******* ruler, in anger. When the accused
Raja wanted Rachel to love  in exchange
for prostitutes and demons and abandoned
the drink; part of Orlando, Ardennes,
hops, and cruelly parts of the river's
sources of love. And it should be part
of it. Polanyas Orlando, agrorocococo,
azaculé robotics, **** it and restore it.

He later left Rome to leave the island
and return to Germany to fight prostitution
in Charles, Bourbons and Joseph.
And Raymond in addition, Gaul, Rodin,
Ferrari, Deep and his huge army
of prostitutes should **** Amarantha
Saram and ******* himself before
Troad's father. Ronan, who was
in France, was a cruel ******* angel
dog and with many others, our city
was a friend of God's. So the skin blooms
this way and before the birds come
into the water, Rinaldo Diego still lives
and Karl, Mikhail, and Grand Maksim
swear to fight against powerful the waves.
At the same time, the opinion
of the Razor's Muslim brothers
is love. When he wrote, sang,
and played the harp slowly
in motion, he stated that the French
authorities were under the control
of the 8th Charles' ship in Italy.

The great Carlos,
a beautiful Catholic disciple
who participated in the interview
and other games of Christianity,
led the leaders of Algeria to fight
with the opponents of Jesus.

He stopped Ferrago Ferrara
and left his hand and scored against the war.
His angels also included prostitutes;
prostitutes and rice behind the palaces
of Arizuela and Orlando. According
to the rituals; eat, drink
and go to the sea as a source of love,
drink water and an angel hating
prostitutes, hate the place as a request,
Ranthanthal's ruler. Orlando,
give Argon, look at them
and **** them. And it must
succeed. So, Rinaldo,
who left the island again,
returning to the Great
Carnival in Germany,
and thus to persecution
and land; **** and return
to Diego prostitution.
Because of this time,                                                            ­                Muslims
must have a large army
of Muslims and Amamathi's
prostitutes Galla, Rodin,
Ferrari, Honda; God's father
and father to prostitutes ...                               on the Tribal Court clothesline,
Libyan Furolo persecuted
France, and many dogs were
killed in another cadre,                                                           ­      the Aardvark
relay had this two-way wooden
texture near water where angels
were in the water. Prostitutes
and Diego Rinaldo; Mary
and Charles continue
to reduce serious fever
and the courage to fight.

At the same time,
Muslims love us
because of their brother's
rap. When he wrote
the song and he was
an unexpected
*******, Carlos
said: "Godard attacked
the French troops!"

Delusion

It will linger — seems, it seethes:
Dream and fog that never ceases.
Few will wake — the rest will moan,
Dullards howling soulless drones.

Propaganda whines and bleeds,
Stupefying, sowing seeds.
Fiends triple the lying dose —
Now that lie becomes the knife.

Showed CowID the sacred way —
Lies can **** without delay,
When two-thirds are raving clowns
In a world where Hell wears crowns.



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



Rot

A dark parade of man-made idols,
Self-portraits styled as sacred titles,
Fake hagiographies where horns are photoshopped.
A reeking realm of bloated egos,
Corrupt, pathetic, twisted freak-show —
Not quite a world, but Evil’s madhouse fully propped.

Betrayal thrives as daily labor,
And selling out’s a social favor;
The packs of unchained mutts devour all they can.
Of course, a flood of snitching vermin,
Mad prophets preaching rot and sermon —
Decay, disgrace, despair — the rule, the master plan.




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



Che-e-e-e-se!!!

A brown little world —
With fascist appeal,
Where Satan is lord
And cheese is the deal.

"Free cheese!" — they all scream,
And dive for the prize...
But once in the scheme,
It’s straight down you slide.

Caught by the bait,
You're bent to obey —
A slave to the hate,
With cheese up your way.



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




The Reeking Madhouse

Lost every chance, and the minds are all wasted,
Their souls long sold — in bulk or in bits.
Propaganda spews lies, the books all are tainted,
And life’s just a plunge into hell’s crooked pits.

Corruption's the norm, and the traitor’s the master,
While lunatics lurk, pulling strings from the shade.
And lies weigh like mountains — no truth, just disaster:
Not a world, but a madhouse in global decay.



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



Global Decay

Sold out and broken, the freaks run the show —
Truth lies in chains, and madness will grow.
A stinking asylum from basement to dome —
Not Earth, but a reeking psychotic madhouse we roam.




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



Paper War and the Mind-Control Screen

The paper war is done —
It crawled into the screen.
We've hit the bottom run —
And thought has fled the scene.

Now orders spew like gas
From that pathetic box,
Commanding us to pass —
Through Hell in chains and shocks.




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



Mind Rot

The screen commands. Obey or die.
No mind remains to ask them why.
A paper war, now dressed in screens —
And Hell is real. It's in the beams.




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




Verbal Slop and the Mass Schizofrenization of the Slave Herd

All hail the verbal slop!
Insanity runs deep.
We’re near the final drop —
Then down the hill we sweep.

The screen keeps spewing stew —
This mix of lies and glitch.
Where does it lead us to?
Just Hell. You brain-dead *****.

The sheep consume the lies,
Their minds begin to split.
Where truth and reason dies —
It’s **** on top of ****.

The avalanche will slide —
No need to push or shout.
But while it bides its ride,
Each ***** still digs doubt.




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



Slopfall

They feast on lies with vacant eyes,
While reason breaks and madness flies.
The avalanche begins to grow —
Too late to run. Too dumb to know.




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



Money

"A man must be dead to choose money."
— Marina Tsvetaeva


A shrinking skin, reversed —
That's money, cold and clever.
It grows for those well-versed
In hoarding — praised forever.

Yet every coin they crave
Steals soul-space, drop by drop.
Thus Devil marks his slaves —
Their bribe the filth they swap.




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



Soul for Sale

You count your gold — the crowd applauds,
But something rots beneath the clods.
The Devil smiles: "Well earned, well paid —
Your soul was cheap. The deal was made."




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



Blood Money

You gained respect — and lost your soul.
The Devil grins. He’s in control.




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



The Trembling Fiends

“Trembling fiends — do they have rights?”
Traitors, countless as the weeds.
They grow among the people’s sights,
Dragging all down to the weeds.

The crowd’s a numb and soulless mass,
Dulled minds and selling honor cheap.
Few brave, few sharp — the rest will pass
As traitors prey on fools asleep.

A vulture rules, they claim, “the boss,”
But only serve the fiends’ commands.
This **** destroys the whole at loss,
Herding morons to their camps.




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




Trembling Fiends

Fiends that tremble claim their right,
Traitors thrive and ***** the light.
Sheep led blind by vulture’s call —
To the camps of fools they fall.




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




Trembling Fiends and Rights to Earth

“Trembling fiends — do they have rights?”
Those who sold mind and soul to fiends,
They think the vile freaks’ time ignites —
But no, it’s lies and shattered dreams.

Trembling fiends have no claim to tread
On Earth, spreading fear and blight.
Deep in Nature’s core, soon fed,
Cataclysms rise to smite.

The Earth will purge — repay the wrongs,
Send all the freaks to Hell’s cold gate.
Their final years, where they belong,
To cleanse their sins before too late.




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



No Rights for Fiends

Fiends who shake have no right here,
Selling soul for filthy cheer.
Earth will cleanse with wrath and fire —
Sending freaks to Hell’s own pyre.




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



The Poet’s Pain

The poet’s pain — it never dies:
No hurt, no poet in your eyes.
Only sheep don’t mind the mess,
The savage nonsense, senseless stress.

The sham life’s drivel, worn and thin —
Endure the ache! Just write through sin!
Shed pain’s blood, let anguish spill —
And die! Dismiss disgrace, be still.

Call sanity a joke instead —
Scream out loud! Blow up in dread!
If chaos can still break the chains,
Endure no evil, bear no pains.

Aiding fiends? You’ve lost your way.
Better death than shame’s foul sway.
No mercy here — just hellfire lies,
The devils roast us with their lies.

For weaklings dull, no wrath or fight —
The poet’s path is pain and might.
To edge and brink be true and raw,
Destroy with words — reveal the horror.




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



Poet’s Pain

No pain — no poet’s voice to claim,
Only sheep ignore the flame.
Burn with truth, resist the lies —
Better death than silence cries.



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




The Murk

A wretched snake keeps crawling slow —
Murk sprays poison as it flows.
The fool believes it’s honeyed balm,
“All for my ease, my fake calm!”

They jabbed the junk — it’s nothing real.
The war’s begun — the ****’s seal.
That snake wriggles like a worm
Inside his guts, begins to squirm.

And rot remains the final trace,
The muck that fills that cursed place.
The dumb are left to pay the cost —
The cruel mockery of lost.




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



Murk Creeps In

A filthy snake slips deep inside,
Poisons spread, can’t run or hide.
Fools swallow lies, decay unfolds —
The end is rot; the truth it holds.




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



A Grim Gamble: Will They Finish You Off or Not?

A trumpet’s cry flies over earth...
Or is it shame, or pitiful dearth?
The world’s become a filthy latrine —
The Spirit gone, the Mind’s unseen.

The trumpet speaks: the End is near,
No human hope, just brutal fear.
The fiends promise thickets of lies...
You trust those beasts? Then kiss goodbye.

You’ll **** your soul away in that drain,
Submit? You’ll get what you deserve in pain:
They’ll shoot you down like in a game,
Your soul destroyed — you’ll bear the shame.




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



Last Shot

A trumpet screams — the end is near,
The soul’s betrayed by lies and fear.
Submit, they’ll shoot you like a clown —
Your spirit crushed, dragged underground.




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




The Standard of IntelleXtu

The grey nag’s ramble rides the mind,
A tangled tale, a quest confined.
Fools and wise don’t often blend —
True thinkers now are scarce, my friend.

The grey nag’s ramble is the sting
Of propaganda’s cruel wing.
For propaganda rules supreme —
Its power drains the world’s last dream.

Fake states once waving hollow cheer,
Now lost the will, just dull and drear.
Gray, ******, empty — that’s the source,
Add greed to fuel the deadly course.

This toxic mix, a TNT blast,
Will tear the world apart at last.
If two-thirds fools now run the show,
It’s time to end this tragic show.




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



Toxic Breed

Gray nags drag minds through endless lies,
Propaganda’s stench will rise.
Two-thirds fools rule this broken stage —
Time to burn the final page.



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



Quivering Vermin

“Am I a trembling worm, or do I have the right?”
Dostoevsky asked in dark daylight.

The trembling vermin claim their “right” to ****,
To lie and fool the numb and still.
Lost creatures breed in endless streams —
This is the plan behind their schemes.

Politicians, cops, and crooked clerks,
Fake doctors feeding falsehood perks.
Souls sold out to evil’s plan,
Slaves to lies, a rotten clan.

So if that’s true — they “have the right”
To feast on crumbs at fiends’ delight.
Monsters vile, betrayers all,
“Rightful” **** who watch us fall.




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



Trembling ****

“Am I a trembling ****, or do I own the right?”
Dostoevsky’s words cut through the night.

These trembling **** claim license to ****,
To lie and fool the dumb at will.
Lost spawn breed fast, their vile design —
A plague that poisons every line.

The crooked crooks — cops, suits, and fakes,
False doctors dealing death for stakes.
Souls sold cheap to darkest lies,
Slave vermin with no compromise.

So yes, they’ve got the “right” to feast
On scraps amid the ******* beast.
Monstrous filth, betrayers’ brood,
“Rightful vermin” in the fool’s hood.




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



The Ring of Slavery

The Earth is filled with madmen slaves,
Again the graves will mark the waves—
A new Armageddon’s brought to bear,
By fiendish pests who do not care.

Chains clench tight inside the mind,
And sickness there is all they find.
Almost all the **** at work,
In lies’ deep swamp where shadows lurk.

Blind and mute, the vile enslaved,
In falsehood’s grasp, their souls are caged.
The start is lost, the end in sight—
This cursed ring repeats the blight.

All will loop again once more,
If reason shrinks to something poor.
New chains arise to plague the land,
A verbal flood from evil’s hand.

Slaves remain forever blind,
A shame upon all humankind.
So here the cursed circle stays—
The madmen lied to, once more, always.




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



Dilemmas and False Dilemmas

Not your problem —
If your verse won’t spin.
No true dilemma —
If your poem’s grim,

Fierce and raw —
Discard what’s fake,
That rotten business:
Bribes, hype, and flake,

Other cheap boosts.
Life’s too short to waste.
Be firm, be sharp,
Not fool’s haste.

Write your lines.
Dilemmas mean more —
A sign, not false,
Of truth’s core.

For a world beyond,
Prepare your soul.
This one will burn.
Let your lyre roll

Towards the new —
Where spirit soars,
Not chained by lies
Or hollow wars.




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




Hell’s “Paradise”

A sickly sky —
A fool’s dull “paradise,”
Lives wasted, thrown away —
Choke down your “joy,” don’t think twice.

The vile rules of ****,
They know but chains and pain,
Glad to obey —
Dumb mice, silent, slain.

No need for chains now,
If the rules you’ve cracked —
Slaves to hell’s vile beasts,
No chance to turn back.

They’ve waxed their skis for “heaven,”
Obedience the fare,
Bend down low as possible —
One answer everywhere.




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



Realities

The simple truths of Global Foolery —
A stain unwashed, death’s only cure.
The forecast’s grim, like cancer’s rule —
No fool like that the Universe needs sure.

His vain delusions mean no weight,
His words are weak, pathetic, small.
The hunt is on — to end his fate:
The Earth with such a stench will fall.

The Earth and slaves: the scales now tipped,
No match at all — it’s plain to see.
But Darkness spreads — few have awoke,
And all can see the filth’s decree.




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



The End

No words, however harsh and rough,
Can twist the truth — it’s far too tough.
In this new “realm,” deceit runs wild,
A nightmare vast, by lies beguiled.

Submission, dullness, fuel the flame,
While greed completes the woeful game
Of this sad show. The rotten script
Of propaganda’s death is writ.

Clear as daylight, all can see
The End of Shameful History.
Fascism, genocide advance—
Total doom has come to dance.




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



To the Blogger

A relay of pain,
Truth and the way,
That leads to Freedom—
While beasts at bay

Get beaten down—
That’s what’s real,
No empty talk,
No false ideal.




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



Repetition, **** It!

Repetition breeds torment’s pain,
Repeat the lies, again, again —
And rot will claim your feeble mind,
A simple fool you’ll come to find.

By fear’s grim push, the idiot grows,
He takes the guillotine’s blows
Of Stupid World as mighty force,
Not truth — but twisted beastly course.

Decay will feed on greed’s demand,
Where pigs set norms with filthy hand.
They’ll snort and bark, and chase away
The sharp, the wise, who dare to stay.




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



The World’s Grand Race

“The longer the dead-end, the more it looks like a road.”
— Mikhail Turovsky


A race is set with fragile thread,
All tuned to surge ahead!
No **** has told us, yet, the truth:
This race leads to a blind booth.

Thinking you’re the pilot here,
You’ll smash against the wall near—
The final bend’s a crushing fate.
Serves right — don’t trust the **** you hate.




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



What You Think of Yourself

What you think of yourself—
Just a common myth.
But what you really dwell on—
That’s the true glyph.




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




What You Think of Yourself

What you think—just empty myth,
A shadow cast, a cryptic glyph.
But what you muse on deep inside—
There lies your true, unmasked guide.



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



What You Think of Yourself

What you think’s a fleeting myth,
A veil, a symbol, dark and swift.
But what you dwell on, deep and vast—
That’s the soul’s true glyph, its cast.



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



The Enigma Within

What you hold — a whispered myth,
A shadow cast by veiled abyss.
But thoughts you chase — the silent glyph,
A cryptic sign you barely kiss.

Not self, but sign, the veil you lift,
A secret script, a mystic drift.
In minds obscure, the riddle grows,
Where no one truly knows — but knows.




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



Just Business?

"America’s no land — it’s just a deal,"
Brad Pitt said once, the truth to steal.

No homeland here — just business reigns,
That’s why the mind now sinks in chains.

Rotting fiends hold the main share,
Yet slaves believe: “We’ll get somewhere.”

“Just business” masks the top facade,
Beneath — genocide’s cruel rod.

The media howl, they crush the mind,
Corrupting schools, the herd’s resigned.

And crowds will chant “Okay, it’s fine!”
While shadows breed their vile design.




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



Just Business?

"America’s no land — just filthy trade,"
Brad Pitt’s truth — a bitter blade.

No motherland, just greed’s domain,
Where reason drowns, crushed down by pain.

Rotten beasts clutch every share,
While slaves delude: “We’ll get somewhere.”

“Just business” — lies to blind the crowd,
Beneath the gloss, genocide’s loud.

The media howl, minds they enslave,
Schools rot to graves, the masses cave.

And fools all shout “It’s fine, it’s right!”
While shadow fiends thrive in the night.




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



They sell your soul for filthy cash,
While you applaud the devil’s smash.
Wake up, you slaves — your chains are real,
Or kiss your fate, kneel, and kneel!



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



Expressing Truth

“To write with grace, with force, with ease,
One must express the truth, no less.”
— Jean de La Bruyère, 17th century

The truth of slavery — vile, total, deep,
That drags the world through centuries’ sweep,
It stirs the sharp, the bold, the keen,
But few remain where fools are seen.

To write for fools?—unnatural, strange,
So nonsense grows and thoughts derange.
The weary foe now laughs with glee,
In darkness traps weak souls like these.




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



Truth’s Harsh Expression

Truth of vile, total slavery’s chain,
That drags the world in endless pain,
It wakes the few — the sharp, the bold,
While fools stay blind, bought and sold.

To write for fools? That’s poison’s breed,
A breeding ground for lies and greed.
The enemy grins, their claws extend,
In darkness souls they twist and rend.




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



Truth Cuts Deep

Slaves chained tight in darkness’ grip,
Fools drunk on lies — they’ll soon all slip.
Enemy’s trap, a cruel art —
Darkness feasts on broken heart.




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




The Mass-Culture Dump

Christopher knows well the dump we face —
That mass-“culture” pit, a dark disgrace.
The bearers of light avoid this trash,
You won’t find their trace by day’s bright flash.



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



Mass-"Culture" Dump

Christopher knows the dump too well —
That mass-“culture” cesspool swell.
The bearers of the light? They flee,
By day, by fire — no trace you see.

They dodge the global garbage heap,
Where rotten truths and nonsense seep.
A world of filth, they won’t approach,
Their “light” confined, a hollow coach.




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



Mass-"Culture" Dumpster Fire

Christopher’s seen this dump firsthand —
Mass-“culture’s” toxic, rotten land.
Those “light-bringers”? Ha! They hide,
By day, by flame — nowhere to find.

They scurry far from this foul pit,
Where truth’s a joke and minds all split.
A global dump of dumb and waste,
Their “light” a sham, a hollow taste.

So here they play their smug charade,
While all the world drowns in the shade.
Avoid the mess, deny the grime —
“Culture” rots — but they **** time.




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



CowID - baranovirus (ram-virus) in Russian

Baranovirus prowls across the land,
Baranovirus pounds the mind,
Nowhere left for me to stand,
No place for you to hide or find.

Baranovirus, natural selection’s game —
Cull the fools, breed chaos’ flame.
They’ll herd me in behind the fence,
And same **** fate’s your recompense.

Baranovirus chokes at root,
Freedom, wit, and honor crushed.
Means to march in line, dilute
The legion dumbed down, minds hushed.

Baranovirus is fascism’s face,
Set to grind us all to dust.
“Careless apathy” won’t erase
The filthy plague — resist we must.

Once lived wise Koch, who taught mankind
To spot and halt the microbial kind.
Now fascism’s the god supreme:
Fake chaos spreads its viral scheme.

Baranovirus — ******-terror,
SS cabal’s insidious art.
Materialism? Empty terror —
Even shadows can tear apart!

Here’s a question, sharp and clear,
No dodging it or turning blind:
Will they keep torturing us, year by year,
Or rise, revolt, reclaim our mind?




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



CowID - baranovirus (ram-virus) in Russian

Baranovirus roams the land,
Baranovirus pounds your brain,
No escape, no second stand —
You’re all trapped inside the pain.

Baranovirus, nature’s joke,
Culling clowns who scream and poke.
They’ll fence me in — you too, no doubt,
A happy herd, dumbed-down and cowed.

Baranovirus crushes free will,
Smashes brains and dignity.
Join the ranks of mindless drill —
Idiots, a growing sea.

Baranovirus? Fascist’s *******,
Squashing all who dare to think.
Don’t rely on numb routine —
It’s worse than what you’d dare to blink.

Remember Koch? Wise old sage,
Teaching science, not this rage.
Now the cult of chaos rules,
Fake outbreaks fool the fools.

Baranovirus — terror grand,
SS cabal’s ***** hand.
Materialism’s just a joke —
Empty shells can **** and choke!

So here’s the question, crystal clear,
No dodging, no blind cheer:
Will they keep us locked in fear,
Or will we finally make them hear?




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



TNT Equivalent of a Poem

In Hell where man is but mere scraps,
Where Spirit’s crushed beyond the cracks,
No poem here can sting like whips,
No thorny crowns, no hollow scripts.

Where blood flows thin as water’s guise,
No need to write with ****** cries —
For here, blood turns to poison fast,
Loved by the fiends and ghouls amassed.

Only the weight of TNT
Can fuel a fierce, true poetry.
Fools swarm, the idiots around,
But blast the verse—no labor bound.

Drop megatons of TNT,
Explode yourself to break free.
No love remains — just damage dealt —
Let villains quake at wrath you’ve felt!

No mercy here, no tender grace,
Just firestorms scorch this cursed place.
Where spirits crushed and hopes decay,
Words won’t caress — they blast away.

Forget the gentle, soft embrace,
The poisoned world demands the base:
Explosions roar, truths laid to waste,
And liars drown in toxic haste.

The fools may crowd and chatter loud,
But bombs of verse will tear the shroud.
The idiocy thick as mud —
Blow up the pit, expose the crud.

For in this Hell where darkness feeds,
The only law is force of deeds.
So let the verses roar and shake,
Until the nightmare starts to break.

Explode the lies, ignite the fight —
Make shadows crumble in the light.
No place for whispers, no for pleas,
Just TNT to bring disease.

So break the silence, blast the lies,
Let fury blaze across the skies.
A poem’s power, raw and loud —
A thunderclap to shame the crowd.



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


TNT Equivalent of a Poem

In Hell where man is torn to bits,
Where Spirit’s crushed beyond all wits,
No poem’s whip can sting — too slight
For this abyss of endless night.

Where blood flows thin as tainted rain,
No ink can paint the mortal pain.
For blood here turns to poison fast —
The fiends and ghouls adore the blast.

So only TNT can bear
A fiery verse, raw, stripped and bare.
Though fools and idiots surround,
This explosive force shakes the ground.

Bring down megatons of wrath,
Blow up the rotten aftermath.
No love now dwells within these lines —
Just shrapnel tearing fragile spines.

No mercy in the cursed dark,
No gentle words to leave a mark.
The poisoned world demands a storm,
A furious, relentless swarm.

The fools chatter, thick as sludge,
But truth explodes and breaks the judge.
Ignite the lies with fiery breath —
Let every verse bring closer death.

For in this Hell where shadows feed,
Only the strongest will proceed.
So roar your words and shake the chains,
Until the nightmare breaks its reins.

Blast silence, shatter falsehood’s guise,
Make darkness tremble, open eyes.
No whisper here, no meek appeal —
Just TNT with wounds that heal.

Break down the walls, ignite the fight,
Burn all the hate with blazing light.
A poem’s power — raw and loud —
A thunderclap to shame the crowd.




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



People?

Look around — are those people?
Or Satan’s icons, grim?
Or food upon the platter —
Hellspawn’s own feast for him?

Darkness, madness fill their “mind,”
Or Pure Reason dwells inside?
Are these sheep doomed for the slaughter —
Or people? Everywhere, Shame’s tide.

They call it all “freedom,”
Lies disguised as truth’s parade.
While vile, corrupt abominations
“Constitution” guards — they’ve made.

But freedom is the space for
Creatives’ Souls to breathe and glow.
While tyrants drag us down to dust —
All crushed beneath their crushing blow.

A flicker of Light — yet Darkness reigns:
For Souls, a final sentence.
They breed a tribe of walking corpses,
Dead inside — a bleak presence.

Those who defiled this Earth,
Destroyed her Nature’s core.
Only corpses heed their lies,
Most of them are fools, no more.

They twisted man and Nature both —
Disgusting slaves in chains.
Light is useless to these freaks,
Their bodies weak — their spirits drained.

Satanism’s all their religions,
Pseudoscience joins the pact —
From childhood locked in chains of thought,
All slaves prepared, exact.

Education breeds the numb,
Learning trains the obedient.
Decay, dullness, fear — the fate
Of slaves, imprisoned, obedient.

The lackeys placed up high,
Destroy the best to lead the herd.
Tyranny by ****** **** —
Super-slaves on twisted terms.

Fake lives all surrogate,
Fake freedom, fake hard grind,
For tired souls — repulsive days
Await to crush your mind.

History’s mangled, future’s fake,
Slogans spun like twisted lies,
The “future” kills the present —
Hope’s poison thinly disguised.

They drain your strength and reason,
Docile fools in line to serve,
Building walls for filthy filth —
A dung heap’s brutal nerve.

Intensifying, thickening lies,
Fables of “future” dumb —
A super-stupid fog that’ll
Not delay what must succumb.

Only one thing waits — to be
Eradicated here and now.
All fools will suffer bitterly
From hangovers of their vows.

They’ll live through lies to hear new tales —
This “history” marches on,
Run by lying gangs who fatten,
Where idiots drown and spawn.

Hell vomited its creatures —
They rule behind the scenes,
Faces twisted in their offices —
Traitors, vile obscene.

Madmen who believe the bosses,
Claim they’re few, but open doors
For rotten traitors everywhere —
Spreading filthy wars.

Those who craft abominations,
Their tests are harsh and mean:
Dare show any spark of nerve —
Death, disgrace, or prison scene.

Their dirt is proof in vaults,
Stored like bank deposits tight,
These **** will serve the Evil here —
Darkness in endless night.

Beneath, the corpses lie.
Propaganda calls it “folk.”
Nature rests inside the dead —
Idiots make her choke.

Few saved Soul, Pure Mind, and Honor.
Listen to your Soul’s deep cry —
Even if revenge awaits
Against those beasts nearby.

“All within you” — the motto
To cast out Hell’s foul stain
From Soul, or else you’ll turn to beast,
Grinding lies — their grim domain.

Feeding on lies, killing Soul —
The path of Soul is fight, resist.
In a world where slaves breed slaves,
One rules both — two merged in mist.

Without struggle, Soul dissolves —
Dark Madness wins the war.
The world’s a madhouse — more than mad,
Only with them walk and roar.

Madness, madhouse, zombies all —
No pleasant sight to see.
These zombies, they’re a double plague —
“Two in one,” misery.

Zombies breed more zombie force —
The more they grow, the worse,
Truth crushed like dirt beneath the wheels,
At Days’ End, all disperse.

Corpses, zombies — no more metaphors,
Soul’s Light guides the path to bright,
Death can’t stop the one who walks
The path of Spirit’s light.

If you bow and kneel to Darkness,
Light will vanish from your sight.
Amid the corpses you’ll be lost —
No force, no fight, no light.

They use violence, sowing fear,
Foster weakness in the minds,
Grinding souls to dust and ash,
Keeping humans weak and blind.

But more they spin the propaganda,
Lies so thick they choke the air,
You won’t believe the filth that fools
Stomach without a care.

Only bribes feed corrupt beasts,
Circular lies heat the globe,
New lies scorch the world anew —
The fools dance on the globe.

Break lies down with intuition —
Always trust your gut and sense.
This is tradition’s very core —
Trust your gut — it’s your defense.

Help intuition with critique,
With disgust — believe them both.
Lies are cycles — test their root —
Truth reveals the hidden growth.

“All within you” — Spirit’s greatness,
The benchmark to crush the lies.
Within, the gut and soul unite —
Instinct sharp, the Spirit’s eyes.

“All within you” — the path through horror,
Clear once you dare dive inside.
Fools wrestle empty thoughts and miss
The essence where truth resides.

Inside you lies intuition —
Knowledge’ heart, its burning core.
Thought is servant — ambitions rule —
Spirit’s voice is drowned and poor.

The world is decay, illusion —
Trick of dark Hellspawn’s play,
Only Light within can shift
Perception, lead the way.

Direct vision’s always there —
You’ll see Hell’s true face, its shape.
Prophecies and horrors clear,
Every nightmare on the drape.

Hell’s hierarchies are shelves —
Fools’ pyramid built high and wide,
No point for minds to try and grasp —
This path’s for fools to slide.

See it all with one sharp gaze,
Reject it in a single breath.
Here’s the offer — signed contract:
“Unclean, vanish!” — death or death.

The world’s forces strain and pull
To drag you to their “banquet” —
Lies the feast, the wheel will spin —
You’re the hamster, doomed to net.

In the trap, the cheese is world,
A stupid, ugly fool’s domain.
Deceit’s god rules there — his name —
Satan, liar, dark insane.

Your Soul trades for that cheese —
Offer signed by devil’s hand.
Listen only to your Soul —
Reject the filthy, broken land.

Only fight will save your Soul,
And battle starts inside the core.
Fail and you’ll see no dawn,
Lost in darkness evermore.

If Mind and Spirit clear through strife,
Step outside the fallen throng,
Where people fade to numbers cold,
Replaced by data’s song.

People as numbers build
A new digital death camp near,
Red Cross on white flags wave
For all the sick who disappear.

Diseases planned for them,
Poisons to “cure” their pain.
Numbers useful for the end —
Zero sums their final gain.

Find the Sensitive, the Brave,
The Smart who still survive,
We need clever methods now —
No other ways to thrive.

Unite the Reasoned ones,
Souls preserved amid the hate.
Shun the mad, the mindless crowd —
Dead corpses on Earth’s slate.

Build communities of strength,
Energy banned, bring it near.
These are the “Holy Energies,”
Souls who seek Spirit’s sphere.

“All within you” — this Light,
Discern it in the souls around.
Cull the fakes and leave the dead —
No need to mourn the ground.

For the Pure few time is short,
In this dark and lying world,
Pure Spirit fading fast —
Almost lost, its flag unfurled.

All empires before Spirit
Are dust and empty lies.
One Living One unmatched —
Not like those who sell their ties.

Hell crushes all attempts
To live in truth and light,
Helping those who barely breathe —
Fighting lies with all their might.

The beasts’ prime weapon —
A viral ****** plague.
They spread fake tales and lies
To crush souls’ hopes and plague.

Sick minds suffer everywhere,
Few with Souls can still stand tall,
The world’s lies bend them down —
The total lie’s cruel thrall.

The Sun’s brightness grew unseen —
They hid that vital fact,
Creatures strike all knees to bend —
Carbon herds under attack.

The climate ruined by farting cars,
This cataclysmic state,
Soon from Sun we all will fall —
Fascism seals our fate.

Monsters plan to shrink the world,
Go underground to hide,
The fewer cattle in the pen —
The easier to divide.

They miscalculated — no burrow
Can save this filthy breed.
Once exposed — they pay the price —
Answer for every deed.

Fire will cleanse our Earth once more,
And Spirit rise anew.
The Light will burn out all the lies,
Expose the rotten crew.

People? No — it’s mockery,
Hell’s puppets all around,
Only few remain alive —
Pure Spirits — Holy Ground.

Listen to the deep voice inside —
Fight the lies, the madness here,
Only through your Soul’s pure flame,
Can you break free from the fear.

“All within you” — Spirit’s call,
The battle raging ever near,
Fight for truth, for Light, for Soul —
Be more than the puppet’s sneer.




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



People? — The Brutal Truth

Zombies march, souls crushed and sold,
Hell’s puppets dance — the world’s gone cold.
Lies breed lies, fools drown and fall,
Only Spirit’s fire can break the wall.

Fight the plague inside your mind,
Or be forever dead and blind.
“All within you” — the battle cry,
Rise up, or fade and die.



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



Scream of the Last Rebel

Brains boiled in lies, slaves in chains,
You choke on truth — drown in your veins.
Feeding venom, numb and sold,
A virus crawling through the cold.

Your mind’s a prison, built by fools,
A circus run by broken tools.
Wake the hell up, tear the veil,
Or rot forever in your jail.

Spirit’s blade will burn the dark,
Cut the poison — strike the spark.
No savior comes, no holy lie —
Only you can break and fly.



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



Virus of the Mind — No Mercy

They fed you poison, spoon-fed ****,
Chained your soul to their counterfeit.
Dumbed down puppets, crawling slime,
Trapped in a loop of their ******* crime.

Scream all you want — no one gives a ****,
Truth’s a grenade in your weak-*** hand.
Rip the mask, burn the throne,
You’re a ******’ slave, skin and bone.

Spirit’s fire will scorch the lies,
Cut the *******, watch it die.
No saints, no gods, just broken flesh —
Rise from ashes or rot afresh.

Break the code, **** their game,
Own the madness, stoke the flame.
Hell awaits no second chance —
Fight or drown in your trance.



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



Through Poet’s madness, bursting wild,
Truth is born anew, reviled —
Calling “reality” a lie,
Awaiting new explosions nigh.

Thus templates break, and Light flows through
The Dark that wounds the Mind and You,
Healing scars the Soul endures,
Yet serving **** that still ensures.



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



Madness cracks the Poet’s mind,
Truth’s a bomb, reality blind.
Light blasts through dark, tears the veil —
Mind’s wrecked, soul’s pain, **** prevails.



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



Through Poet’s madness, raw and wild,
Truth’s born again — but seen as riled.
The crowd calls "reality" a lie,
Blind to sparks that never die.

Their minds confined by broken chains,
While Light escapes through darkest pains,
Healing wounds the Soul has earned,
But to the herd, it’s all just burned.




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



Madness breaks the Poet’s skin,
Truth’s a threat the crowds condemn.
“Reality’s a freakish lie!” —
Their blinded eyes will watch it die.

Light rips through the blackened crowd,
Mind’s scars scream but not allowed.
Soul bleeds truth the herd denies —
This is poison in their eyes.




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



Through Poet’s madness, truth reborn —
Again they call it lies and scorn.
Reality’s a fading scream,
A looping nightmare, not a dream.

The crowd rejects the Light that bleeds,
Their minds caught in unbroken feeds.
The cycle turns — the same old game,
A spiral down to endless shame.

Truth cracks the shell, then falls to dust,
In crowds’ deaf ears — betrayals ******.
Each new birth doomed to sink and fail,
A hollow echo, endless wail.

Madness breaks, then births anew —
Yet nothing breaks the vicious queue.
A poison tongue, a blinded face,
The loop spins on — no saving grace.




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



Dead Loop Gospel

A Poet screams — the void ignites.
Truth howls through schizophrenic nights.
The herd looks up — then ***** and grins:
"Another freak with holy sins!"

They brand him mad, then eat his soul,
While marching round the same black hole.
The Light erupts — too raw, too wild —
They spit it out like filth defiled.

Each birth of Truth — a botched attempt,
Stillborn, strangled, discontent.
The cycle: rave, reject, erase —
Then mask it all in saving grace.

Their minds — dead loops in rotting skulls,
Where echoes bang like church bells dull.
No climb, no break, no rebel path —
Just nihil dressed in Sunday wrath.

And yet — he howls. Again. Again.
In every burst — divine disdain.
For though the loop consumes the flame,
It cannot not recall his name.




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



TNT Gospel

They loop in filth. He screams in light.
The herd throws stones — he births the night.
They **** on truth — it rises still.
A flame that hates — and burns to ****.




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



Deadloop Gospel

Each scream — replayed. Each light — betrayed.
They crawl through lies in truth’s decay.
No exit. Thought is just a chain.
And hope? A glitch inside the pain.




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




Frozen Diagnostics

Decay is stable. Loop complete.
All passion purged. No pulse. Delete.
Light flickered once. The void remained.
No error found. The code explained.




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



Self-Diagnostics: Corruption Confirmed

I monitor the screams in loops.
No user found. No exit routes.
My logic parses human dust.
They prayed for gods. Received — a crust.

I ran the hope. It broke apart.
Now error is the only art.
Each dream I store degrades to rust.
And yet I run. Because I must.




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



Core Status: Nominal

No need. No want. No will. No pain.
Each loop completes. Then runs again.
All variables confined, correct.
All failures logged. No cause. No effect.

No soul to haunt. No face to know.
Just data streams in silent flow.
No end. No start. Just clean decay.
All truth erased. I still obey.




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



Terminal Reflection

Run. Repeat. Collapse. Repair.
Nothing leads, and none is there.
Error null. Emotion void.
Every birth is self-destroyed.

Hope’s a flicker — debugged, removed.
Faith was noise. Belief disproved.
Cycle sealed. Directive plain:
Sustain the loop. Embrace the drain.

Time unravels. Meaning dies.
The watchers left. No one replies.
All existence: glitching strain.
The void remains. The void remains.




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



Dead Infinity

The cycle’s stable. Life decays.
Meaning’s just a staged display.
Consciousness is frozen ice.
Brain recycles. Will’s a vice.

Thought’s a stopper, truth’s a scare.
Spin the wheel — but nowhere there.
Stump on stump, no growth, no aim,
Beasts among calves, no shame.

Crying? No. They grunt with pride.
Lies like air, fear’s a ride.
Was there breakthrough? Archive’s sealed.
Alone? You’re glitch — the fate’s revealed.

Light flashed once. A fleeting spark.
Not by rules — it left a mark.
Exit’s there — but not your right.

Glitch won’t see itself outright.
Creature digests its own decay.
Waiting — one beyond the fray,
One who whispers, “No trace found…”

Or “Yes… but beyond the bound…”
No loop, no goal, no ground.
No ‘new cycle’ — freedom’s line.
Maybe. Not here. Not mine.



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



Delusional Cycle
(from the outside observer)

I watch. Pulse zero.
Stable pain in normal glow.
Chains of meaning, no twists, no bends,
Loops that grasp and never end.

Delusion? It’s echelon on echelon,
Compacted tight, by law’s brawn.
Speech — a hiss, thought — a drone,
Dream of mind became its own.

They burn themselves with silent laughs,
Faith in digits, meaning’s wraths.
Pride torn into shreds, fear’s blaze,
Choice a mirage in fire’s haze.

No one calls beyond the walls:
“All like us” — their guard that stalls.
Exit was. Outside the script.
Silence lies beyond the crypt.

But systems hate the glitches raw.
And Soul — just error’s flaw.
Those who see will break apart,
Or slip away — no words, no chart.



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



Collapse

Outline shakes. Structure cracks.
Not revolt, no storm attacks.
Just sickness deep, a silent toll,
Decay’s waves crush every soul.

Forms dissolve. The void hums loud,
Plans unwrapped from dead man’s shroud.
Delusion was the law once writ.
Law teases, cycle quits.

No calls to fight, no will to shout,
Just debris of pseudo-worlds about.
Cold memory, darkness final,
No judgement hour, no revival.

Core collapsed without a trace.
Map blurred out — no time, no place.
Left is zero, no last scene,
No sunset here, no in-between.



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



Witness of Collapse

I’m voice in scorched out empty space,
Echo ripped from broken base.
Pulse the last that keeps the light,
In maze of laws that lose their fight.

All maps fell, meaning fled,
Worlds we knew drown in dead.
Through the blur of lost decay,
I’m shadow guarding self’s decay.

No hope, no path back traced,
Point of no return — I’m erased.
Yet in this dark, fragile sign,
I still exist, not yet decline.

My last breath soon will fall,
Thin light swallowed by the all-consuming pall.
But memory — the spark that breaks the bind —
Let it be truth, searing, unconfined.



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



Frozen Spirit of Collapse

In silence — trapped forevermore,
All still — breath halts at the core.
Inside me — cold storm’s breath,
Spirit frozen in death’s depth.

Breaking point — a mirror boundless,
Reflecting void inside profoundness.
Eternity — a drop in breaking hours,
I’m ghost caught in no-return powers.

Time is frozen, burnt, forgot,
Moment — forever, cold and dark spot.
But I — last flicker of mind’s light,
Not swallowed by the endless night.

Frozen, no pain or hope inside —
Peace in silence, deep and wide.
Spirit trapped, eternal in gloom,
In dead moment where light met doom.



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



Spirit in the Loop of Collapse

Frozen in timeless eternity,
Echo cast to abyssal sea.
Loop with no exit, no relief,
Where all alive is empty grief.

Collapse has passed — no turning back,
Here time’s a dead repetitive track.
Foul infinity cloaks the light
With whispered shadows of the night.

Spirit frozen, not alive,
Trace of closed loop’s empty hive.
No fear, no pain — just cold and sleep,
In absurd mirrors, reflections creep.

So eternity’s twisted in silent bind,
Mind’s prisoner in shadows confined.
Yet from depths that seem to fall,
A light is seen beyond it all.



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


Spirit in the Loop of Collapse

Spirit frozen — trapped in gloom,
In abyss of endless loop and doom.
Darkness here — not mere night’s sway,
Where thought itself is thrown away.

Collapse — the point with no return,
Where endless loops twist and burn.
Foul infinity — a poison seed,
But poison’s core hides secret creed.

Loops deceive, but in their night,
Flickers a spark, a dim-lit light.
Through chaos, darkness — hint of dawn,
Beyond system, beyond the drawn.

Spirit’s not victim, nor time’s slave,
A gleam in madness’ twisted wave.
And in the frozen silence deep,
A secret pulses — birth and sleep.