Spanish influenza
walking pneumonia
icepick headache
common cold
whooping cough
Diabetes
anorexia
getting old

flat foot
bad back
heel spur
heart attack
spasticus
autisticus
tongue tied
amb(i)dextrous

my weakness
is my forte
my sickness is  my skill
my illness
is my realness
it makes my life a thrill

Trying to fight this
bronchitis
gangrene
runny nose
frostbite
tooth decay
hat hair
broken bones

bed bound
shell-shocked
flea ridden
sinusitis
cholera
dropsy
eliphantitis
out-all-nightis

wom­b fever
winter fever
black water fever
remitting fever
ship fever
jail fever
camp fever
or schizophrenia

scarlet fever
tuberculosis
American plague
rock n roll
Wheezing
Paralysed
Got gas
In both holes

rabies
scabies
rickets
and SARS
man flu
bird flu
swine flew
from Mars

multiple sclerosis
tennis elbow-sis
stomach ulcers
and leukaemia
night blindness
hypothermia
lung cancer
sickle-cell anaemia

French pox
Lockjaw
Polio
Gout
Nostalgia
Dropsy
Knocked right
Out

Stuttering
Bellyacher
Anti-social
Leprosy
Sleep walker
Sleep talker
Absent minded
OCD

Tourettes, ****
Pyromania
tonsillitis
Conjunctivitis
Food poisoned!
Warted over
My Psoriasis
(Will I survive this?)

Measles
Malaria
Meningitis
Migraine
Scrum-pox
Worm fit
Water on
the brain

apparitions
seeing things
rattly chest
bad breath
la duzi
tormentation
inflammation
black death

measles
malaria
migrane
mumps
leprosy
lice and
leg bone
lumps

kleptomania
bubonic plague
black *****
feeling ****
bone shave
falling sickness
wanna stop
just cant quit

Huntington's and
Parkingson's and
Hare-lipped
Hay fever
Typhoid fever
Glandular fever
Night fever
And Hysteria

intellectual
dyslexia
dysfunctional
family
cancer crab
stillborn twin
bad blood
epilepsy

Parking spot
disabilities
all the wounds in
all the militaries
pity thee with
lost agility
lost babes or
infertility

ear infection
starvation
Hepatitis
E to A
smallpox
chicken pox
cow pox
what a day

tuberculosis
stuttering
panic stricken
star struck
scurvy
shingles
headless chicken
bad luck


paranoid
in the void
premature
*******
stomach ulcers
feeble pulses
chronicled
*******

autistic
gallstones
double-jointe­d
wrists and knees
consumption
bad digestion
quinsy palsy
ticks and fleas

amnesia
typhus
amnesia
heart failure
radiation
cholera
amnesia
bad behaviour

Hypochondriac?
By gosh, no!
Poorly are ye?
‘Fraid so.


nostalgia
        suffer me
wanderlust
suffer me
insomnia
suffer me
loneliness
let me be



god
complex
mother
complex
father
complex
ego
complex

­

its complicated
im superior
its complicated
im inferior
its complicated
im a short man
got ingrown hairs
got a bad tan



im suffering
ocd
im suffering
obesity
im suffering
jealousy
xenophobia
and nosebleeds



stokholm
syndrome
toxic shock
syndrome
got it down
syndrome
irritable bowel
syndrome

yellow nail
syndrome
stevens-johnson
syndrome
restless leg
syndrome
shoulder-hand
syndrome

lambert-eaton
syndrome
mi­ddle-lobe
syndrome
mobius
syndrome
pickwickian
syndrome

post rubella
syndrome
riley day
syndrome
straight back
syndrome
ulysess
syndrome



alcoholics
we are prone
drug addicts
we are prone
mind benders
we are prone
fortune spenders
we are prone



My illness, my illness
My illness is my realness

*Pick it up
Tide it over
Fight it off or
Cave in

Save it
Suffer it
Pass it on
When its Raining

bleed him
restrain him
shave his
head

he went from being
quite well
to being quite
dead.

Army men
City girls
Turned nurse

Hands held over
Slowly-contaminating
Breaths

Mason jar IVs
Cleansing white
Handkerchiefs

Masks
Yellow on white
Death in the air

Blood in my mouth
Hair
Lungs-everywhere

No new people
In months.
We know what it is.

We have Typhus
And it's not going away
Until it has ****** the breath from all of us

Until we are all dead
6 feet under
The ground

Let me climb the intellectual bandwagon of Chamara Sumanapala of the Sunday Nation in Sirilanka, to recognize a world literary fact that Taras Shevchenko was the grandfather of literature that paid wholesome tribute to Ukrainian nationalism. In this juncture it has to  be argued that it is ideological shrewdness that has taken Russia to Crimean province of Ukraine but nothing like justifiable law and constitutionalism. Let it also be my opportune time for paying tribute to Taras Shevchenko, as at the same time I pay my homage to Ukrainian literature which is also a cultural symbol of Ukrainian statehood. Just like most of the European gurus of literature and art of his time, Taras Shevchenko received little formal education. The same way Shakespeare and Pushkin as well as Alexander Sholenystisn happened to receive education that was clearly less than what is received by many children around the world today.
Like Lucanos the Greek writer who wrote the biblical gospel according to saint Luke, Taras Shevchenko was Born to parents who were serfs. Taras himself began his life being a slave. He was 24 years a serf. He spent only one fourth of his relatively short life of 47 years as a free man. The same way Miguel Cervantes and Victor Marie Hugo had substantial part of their lives in prison. Nevertheless, this largely self-educated former serf became the headmaster, the guru and fountain of Ukrainian cultural consciousness through his paradigmatic literature written basically in the indigenous Ukrainian language. He was a prototype in this capacity given that no any other writer had made neither intellectual nor even cultural stretch in this direction by that time.
And thus in current Ukraine of today, Taras Shevchenko is a national hero of literature and collective nationalism. But due to the prevailing political tension between Ukraine and Russia, his Bicentenary on March 9, 2014 was marred by hoi polloi of dishonesty ideology and sludge of degenerative politics. For many us who derive pleasure from literature and diverse literary civilizations we join the community of Ukrainians to remember Taras Shevchenko the exemplary of patriotism, Taras Shevchenko the poet as well cultural symbol of complete state of Ukraine.
There is always some common historical experience among the childhood conditions of great writers.  In the same childhood version as Wright, Fydor, Achebe, Nkrumah, Ousmane and many others, Shevchenko was born on March 9, 1814 in Moryntsi, a small village in Central Ukraine. His parents were serfs and therefore Taras was a serf by birth. At the age of eight, he received some lessons from the local Precentor or person who facilitated worshippers at the Church and was introduced to Ukrainian literature, the same way Malcolm X and Richard Wright learned to read and write while in prison. His childhood was miserable as the family was poor. Hard work and acute poverty ate up the lives of the family, and Tara’s mother died so soon when he was nine. His father remarried and the stepmother treated Taras very badly in a neurotic manner. Two years later, Taras’s father also passed away. Just in the same economic dint poverty ate up Karl Marx until the disease known us typhus killed her wife Jenny Westphelian Marx.
The 19th century Russian Empire was largely feudal, Saint Petersburg being the exception, just like the current Moscow. It was the door and the window to the West. Shevchenko’s timely and lucky break in life came when his erratic landlord left for Saint Petersburg, taking his treasured serf with him. Since, Taras had shown some merit and knack as a painter, his landlord sent him to informally learn painting with a master. It was fashionable and couth for a landlord to have a court painter in those days of Europe. However, sorrow had to build the bridges in that through his teacher, Shevchenko met other famous artists. Impressed by the artistic and literary merit of the young and honesty serf, they decided to raise money to buy his freedom out of serfdom. In 1838, Taras Shevchenko became a free man, a free Ukrainian and Free European.
As it goes the classical Marxist adage; freedom gives birth to creativity. It happened only two years later, Taras Shevchenko’s collection of poetry, Kobzar, was published, giving him instant fame like the Achebean bush fire in the harmattan wind. A kobzar is a Ukrainian string instrument and a bard who plays it is also known as a Kobzar. Taras Shevchenko also enjoyed some literary epiphany by coming to be known as Kobzar after the publication of his collection.
He was dutifully speaking of the plight of his people in his language, not only through music, but even poetry. However,  there were unfair and censuring restrictions in publishing books in Ukrainian. But lucky enough, the book had to be published outside Russia.

Shevchenko continued to write and paint without verve. Showing considerable merit in both. In 1845, he wrote ‘My Testament’ which is perhaps his oeuvre and best known work. In his poem, he begs the reader to bury him in his native Ukraine after he dies. Not in Russia. His immense love for the land of his birth is epitomized in these verses. Later, he wrote another memorable and compelling piece, ‘The Dream’, which expresses his dream of a day when all the serfs are free. When Ukraine will be free from Russia. Sadly, Taras Shevchenko came to his demise just a week before this dream was realized in 1861.
Chamara Sumanapala wrote in the Sirilanka Sunday Nation of 16 march 2014 that, Taras lived a free man until 1847 when he was arrested for being a member of a secret organization, Brotherhood of St Cyril and Methodius. He was imprisoned in Saint Petersburg and later banished as a private with the Russian military to Orenburg garrison. He was not to be allowed to read and paint, but his overseers hardly enforced this edict. After Czar Nicholas II died in 1855, he received a pardon in 1857, but was initially not allowed to return to Saint Petersburg. He was however, allowed to return to his native Ukraine. He returned to Saint Petersburg and died there on March 10, 1861, a day after his 47th birthday. Originally buried there, his remains were brought to Ukraine and buried in Kaniv, in a place now known as Taras Hill. The site became a symbol of Ukrainian nationalism. In 1978, an engineer named Oleksa Hirnyk burned himself in protest to what he called the suppression of Ukrainian history, language and culture by the Soviet authorities.

My heart of papier mache, dissolved in tears.
                   From tired days
  and wearied years.

 Angelic writing,

I read her line.
An Enchanted diary.
I just felt our souls, intertwine.
Here's to a life,
                      without expiry.


I thought about
how lost I was. High,
                    on a cosmetic buzz.

I heard her voice all around.
Then, I heard it resound.  

But how was that? she's not alive,

She died of typhus,
                              spring  of 1945.

“However long we live, life is short and however important man becomes, he is nothing compared to the stars. There are secrets, dear sister, and it is for us to reveal them.”

The world was against her, right from the start,

Wrong time and wrong gender; a mother’s hard heart.

Typhus as a child, fever and chill,

And though unlike many, recovery from ill

She never grew much beyond four feet tall

Perhaps this is why she rose above of it all,

To become a groundbreaker, a real pioneer,

Caroline Herschel – the woman once here.



Denied education, trained only to serve

It was going to take some dedication, some dare and some verve

To get the hell out of 18th Century Germany

And join her brother William across the wide sea.

He was already the talk of the town,

With his songs and his concerts and his wig and his gown.

She joined in the singing but never did blend

Into life, society – no status, no friend.



But now was her chance to start to learn,

And now was her chance to start to earn.

A sibling as your tutor is a real mixed blessing

For algebra, geometry, trigonometry lessons.

He also taught her to sing like a bird,

But she felt trapped in his cage, and refused to be heard,

At any concerts that weren’t his own.

Blood thicker than water and loyal to the bone.



Soon the sky became William’s wanderlust,

Astronomy called, leaving scores gathering dust.

And although she desired to still share her own voice,

She worked to support him, did she have any choice?

She referred to herself as his “well trained pup”;

Doing as he commanded, as they both looked up,

To the stars and recorded whatever they found.

Through the telescopes he built and the lenses she ground.



In March 1781 he was victorious!

His superior telescope discovered Uranus!

It meant one last concert and then her voice no longer heard,

As he became court astronomer to King George the Third.

But it wasn’t just her singing that she felt had been taken,

But her own astronomy practice, as she was always making,

The parts for his scope – hours of polishing with care,

And climbing to fit them, fifty feet up in the air.

“I am much hindered in my practice by my help being continually wanted in the execution of the various astronomical contrivances.”



This Celestial Cinderella was told to ‘sweep’ the sky,

She found she had quite a flair for it; she found she had an eye,

For nebulae, comets, hundreds of stars no man had seen,

Sitting for hours in dark frosty fields with no other human being.

Then after years as his go to girl, events begin to change,

William fell for rich widow Mary Pitt – Caroline’s life was rearranged.

He moved in here, they moved her on, she’d lost her role, for now,

But when William died her nephew John took her back to The Observatory in Slough.



The first ever woman in the world to be paid,

For the contribution to science that she made.

Honorary Member was bestowed on she,

By the totally male Royal Astronomical Society.

They awarded a Gold medal in 1828,

The next woman had 160 years to wait (Vera Rubin fact fiends)

And in her 96th year, for doing her thing,

A Gold Medal for Science; from the Prussian King.



Buried with a lock of William’s hair,

The headstone of her grave declares:

“The eyes of her who is glorified here below

turned to the starry heavens” – yet though,

where other mortals just have granite to be remembered by,

Caroline has markers in the sky:

A place on the moon, ever dancing with earth;

A Comet of ice with a tail of fire bursts.

A remarkable woman, an inspiration to us

Who made her mark on the cosmos, without any fuss.


But there’s just one thing that’s getting me down –

Remembered in this universe, but not in this town.



I’ve minded the heavens, but now I must,

Return to the universe, once more to star dust.

A century of this life for me is enough.

The cosmos is within us. We’re made of such stuff.



anna jones ©2016

1
we ran outside
          gathering the hailstones

before they could return
        
to rain

2
spring thunder storms
        refreshed the

runoff ponds
        
the spring peepers
        chorus chirps


3
soon, to be Indra, Lord of Heaven,
        the God of War as well as Storms and Rainfall,
starter of war

a war which shall engulf
     the planet and

        perish all

4
in solid,
ice
       which shall melt

and drown the littoral lands
lands peopled in the
        billions
and so shall follow
disease plague typhus dysentery
death
         in its many shapes and sizes

5
in drops
       flows from your eye


6
according to religion
        holy water

on the tier of £110 an hour with a fence
of £10 fee of entry for the brothel,
at £110 an hour you don't get *******
actresses; you get reality / basics,
one ******, ONE, with a bulgarian *****
after she echoed ow for millennia,
after the chubby puerto rican one
took to being aloud with ******* screams
with the window open
in amsterdam looking at the wind
gazelle like for a face of a lover remoulded,
asking her small afro pageboy to get more beer for me
and ******* into a tarnished bowl -
no ***** actresses on the £110 tier of enslaved bodies
like catacombs of ancient egyptian everyday
i wish to absolve history of study;
i learned the etymology of the ethnic categorisation
word of SLAV my own way, and i wish it upon
no other creature.*

supermarket oddity,
here goes,
an audacious thief returns to the same
place twice, but the villagers mind
the second time - the first time a rural
populace becomes an urbanity
that borderlines a natural circumstance of
anonymity;
i went in,
on the menu five bavaria beers
and a 70cl of whiskey,
i usually keep the receipt in my wallet
or in my pocket,
i went in, german army shirt and hood,
black trousers
and green matching shoes,
to the self check out automaton of
pre-recorded voices
i almost felt i was on the serpent
that said 'mind the gap' between the echoing
twirls of iron between liverpool st. and bank
on the central line;
i gave the a.s.b.o.s. tagged bottle of whiskey
for the person minding self-service,
took the crossword basket back to the stack,
came back;
i remember the 5 pence charge on utilising
elongated plastic bags...
hence my backpack...
but the receipt i also remember dating of late
the 12th of january last...
i don't remember buying the five beers i
drank while walking in the wind chill of minus
five degrees, or the whiskey...
i'm just bewildered in a cartesian sense of
that sense of coupling thought with doubt
rather than denial,
but the odd thing is that i felt like i felt stealing
queens of the stone age album from w. h. smith
and then returning it...
but the odd thing is, is that that i stole it in full
view, the sigma fifteen pounds and thirty pence
under supervised eye, paranoiac in me created
a rebellious worker for a corporation,
a real tight blue collar worker, and honest,
above all honest; but the reply to my goodnight
sounded odd; and that's hardly an artist's fascination
with the orbit of mars: it just takes a supermarket;
i glorify such days, where no philosophy is invested in,
but simply an ingenious act of theft -
where the thief is doubtful of the theft, rather
than idiotically denying it.

p.s. you heard of natural selection, beauty in the eye
of the beholder, cloning true on paper with identical
genes, but untrue in fact because of historical events
that would never provide a clone's re logic of the disparity
of events sculpting a different identical you,
so too with this weird, this weird emergence of
natural memorisation, fed schooled memorisation
of pythagoras, typhus and python,
but memory comes back, modelled upon the
unconscious / automation, it's its own self,
selective memorisation, where the child despised once
more speaks, and even though conscious of thought,
certain memories come back, to orientate thought
of one's self in a different darkening: or should
there be one akin to narcissus, as he who fell in love
with his shadow, and instead of a metamorphosis
into spring's fluctuating bloom, instead into abstract
of geometry?

Vernarth says: “Nocturnal mutism, nocturnal stuttering, goes from the fragile phrasing, peripheral phrase, hovering last word, where my loudspeaker hits, dissonant Sagittarius, I must prepare my denarius, not but, beforehand, cheers of hope to Zion, who among the bush of the millionaire wind that travels from Pluto to Mercury, each day that we map ourselves, trying to be more earth than in its own flowering. Paradiso Omega, nap of the oldest dream, adobe path. My  to fly Anne genuflects her heart towards Mariah from Heaven, in the title of hundreds of throats and gargles of the pyogenic sediment rambling. Oh so long night!, so clear firmament born of the fallen ether of the great Heaven so clear and enlightening Compass 37 on the quilt of God, three by three towards one, linking above the easy pit and dreams, dying Paradiso, Agonizing Horcondising, a fragile mass disoriented, discouraged, with numeral letters and quadruple letters, stone after stone of forage falling on the cinnabar sky "

Joshua de Piedra from the high pinnacle exclaimed…: “Stone after stone in its correction is born of a new silence eternal bond. It eats it during the day, it eats at night, just like the galaxies licking the frivolous awakening from a starless night, but being the substance of stars liquefied with a whip. Pilgrimage or Path of the Cross, on the stony ground of Uncle Hugh's house, in the other similar, my Anne's house, further on in the hidden and clayey chaos, the last Indigenous in Western clothing, working and stuffing the wells with green size, distributing alms for his apprentices, I keep looking from the high hill earlier. Kaitelka the whale and a Dwarf Leviathan; steward of the unnameable, perhaps of an unknown Cyprian squirrel censoring Noah in his animals empowered to tell him about a magnificent episode.  Each species balancing its essence to make the most grandiloquent dossier in the world, to join them and value them towards the unknown peasant world. The big apple to go, with its tailcoat worms, well dressed and united by the march of the rock sentinel Evangelus. Kaitelca alpha and omega cetacean, fluffy with bast for all the most lost seas of the watery world. She so down cetacean, she throws herself into the sea in fears in this gloomy space, exhausted warehouse, lifesaver between lives of lives, like wishes without delay, to beat the divergent period, falling on the flat ceiling. Enter to sail through the mud of Iodine, of this great Parnassus of all iodine, the Messiah was squeezing his robe of love all over the upper margin of the face, Jesus light, loving great pilgrims who helped me to urbanize the skeleton of this great demolition, of a great geyser on its oceanic back, distributing gifts through the tangled brow of the Horcón and Cantillana massif.  Freshwater meringue, fluffy flowers, incense, fuchsias, and Calypso smoke migrating from house to house in Sudpichi.  Adelimpia, holding the cord of the axis of the fatigued planet, Queen Anne restored the acute respiratory meridians, which moved her heart from the sinister side encompassed, cursed globe moving to another galaxy towards its 9600 years of expansion. The stumbling of the sun's rays, crowded on the back of the Jacinta, which multiplied on her bank of meek ideas, to reside above all the assemblages of millions of benefits, since the world is an improper world. The world has no end, God is a beautiful mute world, where we make mistakes every day believing that we are ..., being less true. Rather, we are the waste of the almost noise that tried to leave us as a legacy of the first noise of creation that was felt wandering, perhaps it was its breathing, of its lipped wise crater, in the most irresistible protoforms, devoutly preparing turgid liquids for driving through every dinner, without stars tasting their multi-polygonal sandwiches. Memory is a raging waste, every time we try to get to lick his honey-like him, we run out of a famished minute of life not lived”

Says the spirit Leiak:

“Without a doubt, without drooling, without Buddha… the tendrils of the universe flamed, like rolling pickets within his hearing sea ear.  Striped with wounded marks in zigzag, by the middle row between the unarmed infidels.  Filled with the greatest amazement, massacred with laughter riddled with the non-shining meteor. From temple to temple, without Buddha close to him, he continues lost on the path of valleys among several, by the waves of chimneys like the snout of a mastiff with typhus, infected badly that detonates a thousand times, circular or macrocosmic chemistry in submissive grounds, to drink, where no one is wrong. Pendency of the lymphatic jellyfish, among the meek otolith of Kaitelka, almost deaf, of so many prayers of impious savages to hunt her ..., she continues begging for mercy as a species, she shakes and shakes as if eliminating the supposed flea jellyfish in whirlwinds of babies in her ears of children's stories. Anne came out of her basket as if she had been picked up from the Nile, but in reality, she was close to Chocalan, Popeta, or Polulo, lit up like coal from a steppe oven. I continued walking shirtless on an insomniac night, waiting in the decimals of the full moon, some indebted Solaris of the evangelist, in a space that slowly locked the crooked tongue of sleep, locked by the treacherous luck of doubt. Plague and doubt, plague and nail, which opens the vast sea, unsanitary radio, from the messianic ****** of the muses to Botticelli blaspheming. Anne, a diva of the division of past lives, does not die in misapplication against all odds like a thousand sperms of an ensign, making her stipends simple, to buy sensitive chaste little flowers in suitcases of her super-saucy folds ..., there is no probing look similar to the ocean Cousteau's journey, through which the lost retina drains, lies the selective gaze, covered by the Guardian, who looks before the denigrated sap unfolds, which wears away scarlet fever, the gaze of substance, in front of thousands of sayings, plagiarizing Tramontane rumors "

Queen Anne rolls up her sleeves, collects ashes from the ill-fated victims sifted, by the tobacco, a very good service from the fumes of venerable lost in disbelief, this painting becomes vague and with a sordid diametric image and silent cataclysm. The confine of evil godson in a duo and verse of the Universe, of the concrete displaced with pieces of the tobacco, has been spoiled. Joshua de Piedra with filings in his stomach was with hundreds of particles tickling the metaverse on the beards of extraterrestrial comets. Heaven and Hell, interrupted sleep, fatal nap, draconian wind, Ultrasensitive Glory of austere forces, as long as you are alive, you are prey to it. Ignorance continues to spend the night in the empty vapors of the valley of chaos, duels of masses of sleeping consciences underlying the erosive *****, Queen Anne, is gathered at a gallop by Joshua de Piedra, blindfolds him so that he does not numb more body incense and set on a spring flower. By the knees, they are incinerated, but sometimes they are half-burned, burning like incense with Joshua in reversible adulation, of the rawest exquisiteness of essence of escapes of blossoming in chains, with the drama of carcinoma petals in anti-carcinoma times and of eternal life external. At the Post Office, the postman envelopes the new vignettes, new gardens of relevant highlights. The friend Joshua links the trough of flames escaping from his domain, at a faster pace for other readings, varying in shreds of first-time, delineating, and walking breaths that are lost in the misty vividness.

Says Leiak: “After making a round, Adelimpia with Hugh and Bernardolipo, restart their adventure, almost at the top of the Horcondising massif, collecting riches from between stranded galleys, and vaults dragged by the cataclysm towards this consistent mountainous ..., The amounts of coins from different origins were countless, from all those wealthy who stole from all their belongings, the tainted and intrepid wisdom, getting rid of everything before confronting the thunderous flashes of the Guardian, to subtract intelligent action from the oppressive limit in maintaining the Gnostic parallel. Adelimpia saw how the thousands of nausea cleaned themselves, before liquids and gastric ills, of which they are the bad residences, deciding to die acidly or spiritually towards an alkaline light.  Karmic oppression, anhydrous bubbles, carbonating every breathing capsule of compassionate life. Every day there is more foul-smelling hunger in men of acid rust, for the good spirits of the dipsomaniac in the diet of the most lost undefeated blind, a universal record of walking impoverished at the end of his objectivity. Adelimpia…., And Carmina; maiden of the extravagant silence is linked to the ox Xenon, master of his pumpkin ox, collects bubbling fragments from their stomachs of acid and fragmented, with unfortunate applicants to obtain him, all of them exalted before his prayers, as well as that fleece that the other possessed ox; Cricket that was grazing in the radiant spaces of the grasslands, ruminating lost ties for the good of all and being able to observe in the distance going beyond all sensitive imagination, being me Leiak, the spirit of Vernarth who looks over where he does not it does, sometimes incomprehensibly because of its purging. "

Joshua de Piedra says: “Horcondising, land of Spa, of beautification to correct your beautiful osteological inhabitant, your beautiful pro-lieutenant inhabitant, I believed that wealth would flow from my hands to finance my own poverty. Horcondising, is my nurse Luz, tracing with her blood the route of the Talami reign, everything continues without direction, the lustrín lost his paste of ruby cream and powders, of the conductor who governs their destinies in my hands ..., and it is required. Horcondising, badly and fearfully I say genuflected, here are my riches, but I swear by the most sacred, that I never thought I was so poor at the same time, in the presence of the almighty. Karmic planet, you come like bread and honey from a dazzled bee, you come to fill us with light through the horns of the cat, mounted on the back of the rooster, mounted on the roan bovine. Horcondising ... What a memory! When I was running fast through good waters and Sudpichi, I saw in line some swindlers in uncertain Faith, loudly dismantling the stunning consciousness of possessing without letting those who do not have know, and what it is to lack, what is the love of the slightest doubled second, until it brings honey and milk to the mouth of the beggar and with new clothes, around the circular saffron, the light of isolation and God's judgment on Hommo Sapiens. Baba, Vrja Ananda, I know that to ascend you have to put clean, white clothes on the wind, lavender with druid purple and stuffed on the petioles that fell on the stumpy back of the little elephant. I never got tired, I always laughed and the manly wind stretched my cheeks of purple roses, to laugh at the feminine world like a new man being born from the darkness of loneliness, in a new man, with a new life, in a deranged valley of Solitude, gaseous, ulcerative and asphaltic soil, of Horcondising, in the blaze of a fierce virtuous lantern ..., lying with its lost light on the rich and poor, entangled in resin from a hopper and a villain with feet tired from walking. As immeasurable to act I continue, although there is too much, among which nothing was ever forbidden from an ominous advance. But more awaits me, whoever wants numb oppressive anti-libertarian oppression, I will continue to ruin myself after this world, in the jaws of the rogue armchair of emptiness, with strong and pious prayer, strong and pious karmic augury to ruin the ruffian, that he holds and looks at you like a kitchen log in his dispensary. Karma comes to without and are, with are without are, with dream sounds, hallucinated sounds to realize the truth of accuracy. I have no vocabulary when I am hungry or thirsty for Faith or equanimity, but rather, more than all the power of the high massif to fall on the despotic ripper and cutthroat, accursed beings of the night darkness! I decree worse evil than all the bad curses to which it provokes by a glance, and stuns you like an ant in the fragrant countryside. Karma, baba nam kevalam, anti-karmic, to anyone who doubles your life, to **** you more than three times, without falling into the arms of Forgione or a Buddhist Monk tired of getting tired, self-love and improper Karma from now on everyone and all who with their deeds and gaze invade them with disloyal flatteries and evils, the true triumph of Truth and Equality so that it is equal to all resigned, looking less like the worldly offering of goodness, but rather bad at last of counts. Francesco, are you coming right...? Here I wait for you, low-cut I will also get in line to be supplanted. My story will be vital and oppressive, full of capital, anti-charitable because I have never been able to understand it. I know that powerful affiliations will come, and I will be in your lap, and all those who process your consummation and death will fall, a bad omen of their whim like any piece. Force the spirit that outside is evil, always yours, Master...! I am going, I am going, each one who looks at me as his prey will have to govern and feed him, for better or for worse, and otherwise, I will be eternally burned along with all his progeny in the Horcondising. "


So Joshua spoke when making a wooden whistle. He cut his index finger with transparent grease, and saw a viscous bleeding liquid fall into the constant complaint, from each head of frustrated saboteurs, and mercilessly squandered by those who aim at you every day to finish you and beg your entire eternal psychic substance, without Numbers or paternal letters, Vernarth and the Hexagonal Birthright, attended with great enthusiasm this regression, knowing that he was in their nation and domains where their mythological beings accompanied them beyond all vision. They all remain normal; doing everyday things, but Vernarth's voice accompanied them from an altar in a vivid voice and with great clarity in the voice that expressed their pilgrimage.

Vernath says with an infernal tone: “The Horcondising rack runs out of people benches, to attend to their requests the sky has become convex and unattended, to walk down the fragile plateau crouching down, weightless trees rub their bruised roots on the scrubbed Living spirits over each parlor, each present master along with his present consort seemed like perfect strangers, each separated by name in their new and uncertain divided destiny. All by putting the hand where the ulcer makes intermittent unhealthy purulence, on whether we are and correspond what we are or those who manage to have in this twisted life without a surplus, and what would it be if we had surplus ...? Rows of speakers and auditors are compressed, trying to want to be understood, but the words are keys and conclaves of high architecture sifted, of the wild despair in which we are beasts escaping from an eternal safari of thunder and cannon, vaping fumaroles of ancestry and drinking Bourbon to the thunder of the steely ***** on the orphanage of looming. Here Fray Andresito unfolds his body, you know it here is…! Right here he aimed at the weakest, the strongest, perhaps being a slave. What a difficult word to define... This cell without adjoining limits, called Atman, or female soul engendering another female soul, in the arms of the sorcerer, whose packaging and the serial knot would be made by a novice, who did not know if it was tightly closed, so as not to know if it would be fine in the future and reopen it with light in Gandhi's eyes, or by a child in care appointments without his arms to approach his mother cradle, perhaps being ivy or algae that sway his breaths vain…, from the flickering of the dotted throbbing of the Sun in flight through the lost night of the altarpiece, putting silicone because it comes out of the picture. Today a being was born in the arms of the almighty, a being anointed in the placenta of golden liquid and augrum, filling everyone and everyone leaving them speechless… ”.

Its ancestry of eternal way comes from mutual funds, equivalent prices in promoting values, on falls and rises, in franc growth, and various financial statements to beat dividends. The lines of people obediently migrated to the Horcondising, they never thought that they would be a great family, all in chains of multicolored and endless shapes, all in the high mountain at more than three thousand meters, and no higher, because in this Age again life, I cannot count more than thousands, in which the hundreds stay up late every day on this streetcar called the alliance. Branches of salty puree and ammonite soups with coriander, in the transversal valleys, to the southeast, with verve envelopes and their large moral excess on their backs and their hope of leaving all their treasures on the sidelines, before entering the muddy showers. when swarming with turbulent regrets and losing all ego money, highlighting a new epidermis, with an unprotected but opulent soul. Each being devoid of the word and thought, was trans walking through the heavenly ranks, with buzzing in their hearing aids attenuated and a smelly shanghai screeching, nothing would be left to pour into the channels near the almighty, the one who picked them up from the ground satin in some small sulfur coins and bleeding hollow, nothing will charge to their accounts or in their excess pride, only white skin in dark skin, and dark turning to dawn gray dermis, for exclusiveness, only lost in the jungle of ignorance shipwrecked tundra. Grandmother Adelimpia cleaned with sweepers and pine feather dusters, wormwood trunk and molle, and with the ceiling. My Anne, swept the flat floor with her wedding dress, years ago seasoned ..., Hugh and Bernardolipo laced some wines pigeonholed in the devil's segment, so as not to lose track of the high hill, which could be seen falling on the witnesses of the fallen Calvary Before the world ends for many, but not for the Huasos. The auction continued; Anne still had an end-of-the-world fever, with so many degrees…. Don't worry Anne, a Mapu aboriginal boy; the one with the sinister ..., brings a good herb to improve you, it is said that he comes from less to more, with his face like a beautiful farm landscape, stream water that quiets fevers and ills of charm. Have faith, says the elder Sylph Angelita Huenuman, reborn to Anne…: “The bark of that oak will be demolished and crumbled to cover you from evil and worse evil charm. Tomorrow on the high snow-covered peak, sweet cakes will fall steamed with berries and flavored almonds in your Word, which always deserves to smile to the limit, you are the omega star stele that will know how to smile, you will see it just like your Joshua de Piedra; which is an eternal incense of ruse, you will be dressed as a coco channel between aromas of eternity like spring light and first communion, between your snowy new garland of sap and in which you are always like a web-footed dreamy bird, moving away from the Aculeo lagoon, away from the giant hermit emerging from a nucleus of water and its pool, sobbing on each step of lake light of ascending sketch and of a lagoon avoiding new despised damage "

20th Century dawn.
Typhus Virus took human shape,
was named 'Typhoid Mary',
infected and killed many.
Perhaps deadly microbes believe like her,
'We are harmless'.

1st September,2017.

Anne Frank
I am ANNE FRANK
I liek kissing bois
And touchin them

I have a sweet secret
SWEET SWEET SECRET
The gas tastes nice
So does typhus fever




It smeels liek chicken





It smeels like Anne Frank up in this torture chamber

It's a downer to express the largest-scale tragedy of my lifetime

over and over again.

I've combed through 10,014 medical malpractice reports of young people who had been strong and without complication up until receiving the one-eyed technocratic snake bite that supposedly has nothing to do with their suspicious deaths,

I've gone through 25,117 autopsy reports (not every report: I scanned bunches of 250 reports in 10 groups of 25 reports or 25 groups of 10 reports at a time for very specific details, though I've read some of the reports 5 or more times) of elderly people who had survived world wars, epidemics, pandemics, and many outbreak and spikes, only to succumb within 72 hours of receiving whichever junk SGT inoculations that have nothing to do with their untimely deaths—

that occurred in North America
over a 2 week period.

I'm not supposed to talk about it.

I'm not supposed to express anything
other than expressions of agreement
that Delta variants and the unvaccinated
are killing the vaccinated

or express nothing at all.

I'm not supposed to express that I know the ingredients, and the processes involved to source ingredients, on chemical, molecular, cellular levels; that I know the MSDS and LCSS documentation, and patents, involved.

But, I do express it, just as I did again above.

When someone claims that their significant other didn't die from the shot that they had received within 24 hrs of dying,
I'm supposed to agree with the cheap, disloyal, dumbed-down, brainwashed, bootlicking, unscientific, pseudo-intellectual, spineless coward

who is hurting from losing a loved one.

I'm sorry.

I'm not supposed to express that we've known since 1991 that the synthetic chemical digitized mRNA, that isn't really mRNA, causes the host to spin-off variants of multi-drug-resistant and multi-vaccine-resistant super microorganisms—subtype variants of virions and bacteria that are often variants of variants of variants.

I'm supposed to stay zipped-up
or—encourage!—offer support
and congratulations to people
who are suiciding and committing
****** and euthanasia

without proper informed consent.

Be positive about it. Smile. Nod.

Have it be whatever you want it to be.
Use mockingbird skills to make it real— abracadabra!—it's en vogue, all the rage
to parrot percentages of efficacy,
to virtue signal over standing with
trillion $ industries and special interest
against Earth and humanity.
Insert cash money and mirages
into the soul-******* jukebox, baby.

Rage With The Machine.
Rage For The Machine.

Yesterday's false-positive
is today's false-negative.

Thomson Reuters will fact check you
into a cancer case to vindicate delusions, stubbornness, and negative pride.

I'm not supposed to express that within the principles and disciplines of medical ethics and the Hippocratic Oath, it's ethically corrupt and illegal to use political and emotional coercion, especially while simultaneously dangling fear over the intended target, to enforce/push any drug treatment, regardless of situation.

I'm supposed to use dope and *****
and a movie
to switch tracks
from my passionate obsession.

I watched a movie that included
a medical health scam to entrap the people
in a fashion similar to when the Germans believed that they were receiving vaccines
that helped to defend against typhus.

If we ever find ourselves in opposite sides
and positions as we are currently,
please offer proper informed consent
to the people.

Does this machine **** Fascists?  Probably not
Unless it bores them to a yawning death
Through soporific clichés crudely imposed
Upon a few poor, battered chords that twang
Like the barbed wire of an Arctic gulag
Where happy comrades
          Shiver in the snow
          Wither in the wind
          Starve on slops
          Burn with typhus
          Rot in the tundra
As they build the future upon mass graves
While the anti-Fascist cashes his checks

i owca syta: a więć i wilk też...
   (and the lamb satiated: therefore the wolf too

i like this new dynamic:
i have "simply": quiet simply forgotten all
about ms. amber...
or mr. let me make you see clearly
of *****...

beer takes too much time...
at the same time you can't mix it...
and drinking beer with ice-cubes:
can be done... but it doesn't exactly look sassy...
warm beer is dogs' ****...

wine wine: more wine!
the first bottle is to impromptu me:
what sort of life can there be
without having a chance to reflect upon it?
day to day: day-in... day-out?
what sort of life is that?
investing in old age when it:
"perhaps": ha ha... that might of all "might"
happen?

the first bottle is for reflection...
sitting at the end of the garden
with a snail squiggling from one
end to another of a shed...
do snails have ears?
the first bottle and the clepsydra
of the grand travel annals of snails...
i gave him my left shoulder...
behind my head through to my right
shoulder: the time: about an hour
to "suddenly" disappear...

the first bottle of wine is for reflection...
the second bottle: i haven't started it:
is for lubrication...
nothing to speak of...
but enough to break my fingers on...
on this... canvas:
why am i not a painter:
i'd abhor being constipated with...
colours... forms...
it would be a pain to draw a face...
since i'm prone to the phenomenon
of pareidolia...

ever since having my bicycle undermined
by some ****** humour of
loosening the clamp on my front wheel...
if only the wheel came off
on the Gallows Corner Roundabout...
that would have been funny...
i had enough: ever since i have systematically
undermined all the knobs and bolts
throughout the frame...
the whole thing was going to fall apart:

psychological warfare...
there was ever going to be one cure for this...
a sharpshooter...
i didn't care what it might taste like...
half of gin... a quarter of whiskey...
a quarter of tequila... some pepsi...
it didn't taste that bad...
2 litres of water...
and a most pristine route...

up to B1459.... through to lower Bedfords Rd
onto Noak Hill Rd
Chequers Rd... Coxtie Green Rd...
through Pilgrims Hatch... onto Ongar Rd
into Brentwood...
past the Brentwood Catholic Cathedral...
or... Bishopric... ugly pseudo-Baroque "thing"...
all the way on the A128 via Ingrave
turning into Bulphan...
  and then... on the flatlands of Thurrock...
toward Upminster later Hornchurch...
eh... a marathon in terms of distance...

i can still listen to Kasabian's West Snyder Asylum
album if the mood is right...
like the time... my own time...

i took a sharpshooter on this bicycle ride...
a bit like the British drunkards
vs. the amphetamine charged Luftwaffe pilots...
or Isis state fighters...
who were also on amphetamines...
i wasn't going to disbelieve my bicycle
because one silly ****** thought it would
be funny to loosen my front wheel...

come night and thoughts about ***...
prior to... you are bound to cycle past...
a man... of similar age as yourself...
walking a little gremlin of an offspring with him...
look on his face?
it's hardly content... it's engaged...
most certainly...
such authority... such conviction...
hell... no... such responsibility...
but such a distance at the same time...
after all... if a woman were to ask me:
you don't want to have children:
you don't want more meaning in your life?

it didn't take me 2 years to read Kant's
critique... i own a 2 vol. copy...
i read the first vol. and subsequently, "subsequently":
"lost" the 2nd volume...
have children...
Kierkegaard's either / or...
in the environment when my dementia-riddle
grandfather was still alive...
a blessed month... i managed to squeeze in
Maldoror to boot...

have children... or read philosophy books...
oh that the days can be filled with:
whatever is already left available...
it doesn't have to come down to waning in the vicinity
of movies...
i'm stiff going to punch myself
in the face for not having acknowledged Rousseau sooner...
i once did that: punched myself in
the face until i woke up with a black
eye...
i once counted how many knuckles
i had by putting out a cigarette on
each of them...
i think i came short...
the scar on my ring finger knuckle is
more pronounced than on the other knuckles...

muddles: i had something in my mind
prior to all this:
i'm not going to compete with Bukowski
over achieving old age...
he only started scribbling his poetic doodles...
right about when i'm at now...
that i can't escape admiring him:

an itchy memory:
in an Our Price record store
in an almost ancient Victoria Station...
when my uncle was still relevant
as was his knowledge of music...
he suggested i buy
the Prodigy's music for the jilted generation:
i said no...
i wanted the Molasses of En Vogue
to sing me: don't let go as a single...

i think of love i drink wine: this is... supposed
to be... blood... i think of love
i start conjuring up vampires and
werewolves... i can be so unforgiving...
but it only took one ******* to attest that:
i'm a good man that i forgot to date...
or inspect the matter further
in the sandpit of dating games...
just give me the clarity of transaction...
i'll be back for more...

the next hour: the only hour with this
Turkish nymphomaniac...
Khada... just this next hour...
i'll promise myself the next half worth's of
a decade to pass me by sexless...
she already finally cured me of
the memory of Ilona of Siberia...
of St. Petersburg...

never before had i experienced a woman
who would tell me
to keep my hands of my phallus
when her hands... and mouth were
performing: "miracles"...
finally! i wasn't a pawn of expectations...
for the first time i was on
the receiving end of whatever it is that's
***'s about...
a bit like... i had to find a doppelganger...
TEANNA TRUMP...
Caribbean Mulatto *****-Queue-of-a-Queen...
and it's not even like she's hiding
her prowess as sending men:
dumb on their ways...
but she's hardly going to compete with
the songs of Solomon...
even with his count she's not going
to bother itching with some proverb:
she'll just advertise so more...
until...

but she's good at what she does...
why take it way from her?
i've been prone to have wasted
£120 on an hour's worth on a timid *******
when i should have only dripped up
£60 for half an hour's worth of:
limp ****, kisses & cuddles...
that's why i need to spend an hour with Khada...
because the last time i only spent £60 on her
for half an hour's worth and...
perhaps i'll sign my self-published poo'etry
in katakana...

never a a sort of ******* that might make
you want to finally forget a past
relationship?
**** me... if it only cost me £60 per half an hour...
that it might cost me... £120 per hour...
and she'll be so ******* base about...
timid ******* is something for quasi-paedophiles...
i don't like my libido undermined
by games of: you're in a brothel
and she's a ******* stiff...
you end up teasing at necrophilia...
what has suddenly immobilised her...
you later turn up and she's donning pigtails...

i could have had children:
i didn't want to...
not in the current climate...
   the current climate... have daughters...
let them... stress that... anti-racist anti-patriarchal
narrative... a N / // / //' PLAYGROUND...
by the boat-load...
i'm tired of wanting to excavate this:
mythological blonde from the depths of
her...
give me the Turkic ol' raven haired
witch...
                         but there still are:
mythological blondes... most probably
jogging around the flatlands of Thurrock...

supposedly "good" people never, really:
do anything good...
well... the only "good" they ever achieve is...
stressing the golden rule of Confucius
to the point where they become
solipsists... they never do any good as
the supposed good of:
avoiding people deemed to be a metaphor
of typhus...
the good of avoiding the ***** colony...
a lot of good that is...

to do supposedly enough good but end up:
decrepit - old - a solipsist?
how many prostitutes would it take
for me to kiss before:
the fire... the judgment inflames my blood
to give earth a stomach a mouth
a hunger... before the disgruntling sound
of "hunger" might be satiated:

are we the moral fathers and mothers
of the free will of these automatons?!
less the vote: these autocrats in democracy?
how much freedom is not enough
freedom for: not having children:
i'd abhor the need to put on a leash...
while at the same time watching myself
put on a muzzle...
bring into the fore a cage!

the bicycle and the *******...
for that sort of ***...
i am awarded a spell of amnesia from a relationship:
finally freed after coming close to a decade...
she has already been married: twice since
i last saw her...
bandaged right arm... stupid *****
decided to slice it up along her vein routes...
she was still playing video games...
ever since she prescribed me
Bulgakov i was already reading Kundera...

20kg slimmer... no stretch marks on the stomach:
i took my time...
concentrated on the cardiovascular domain:
all beef: no jerky...
i'm not here for the abs...
i still find it quirky seeing
a beefed up pancake with all that upper-body
poised for looks...
a body that couldn't do 100 press-ups...
strutting... on chicken-thin stilts...
they're not legs...

******* moralists...
1st bottle of wine i reflect with...
in the damp end and all that's night
of a garden's worth...
2nd bottle i lubricate...
eyes, fingers... the unspoken tongue...

next time i fool myself to cycle into
central London...
for all the grit... the **** and scratches
of particles...
do i really need to see so many faces?
content with discontentment:
discontent with contentment...
do i really need to see how important
these people are?
or will i again relive the nerve...
to cycle into the countryside...
explore Essex some more...
and peer into trees and the bushes
and pretend to be looking for a mirror
or some... demonic voyeurism?

if the western women are not worth defending:
there's hardly a continuity clause:
hey! presto! playground!
fly solo my dear! fly... solo!
i won't be choking on... how Turkic women
elevate their harem...

what *******! what...
i have no freedoms to cherish: no love to give:
they have become:
fizzled out... ashen... slob and slither...
my kingdom of ash...
come to think of it:
there's nothing worth keeping:
all of it needs to be revised...

i'll start the fire: i'll just pretend you have
the water...
let freedom(s) become fully exhausted:
it is required spectacle "knowledge"...
let freedoms come,
let freedoms go...
if you won't be dipping you silly ***** into
some wet oyster pouch (punch)...
so be it... take some time to do...
at least with prostitutes you will be
standing on bricks rather than on
sand... lies... masquerading... face-offs...

we're not here to start families...
we here to hope that...
we grow old enough; senile enough...
so that our libido dies...
content with t.v., cricket...
su doku or crossword puzzles...
a teenage girl exposing herself:
my insomniac libido: my forever present
hard-on?
oh sure: as long as she still thinks it's just
a "tease"...

i'm waiting for my libido to die off...
then i'll concentrate on my liver
and kidneys... but by then i too hope
it might be a classic case of
"too late"...

       last time i heard: it's now... jetzt!
hier!
                i don't need a lie...
i don't need an unforgiving English maiden
to tell me what's god from good...
or do-evil from evil from devil...
               i have:
this here land...
and the exploration of upstaging
the momentum first arrived at via
walking...

  these are not... my... women!
     i've wasted their credibility of motherhood
on the shoreline of prostitution!
i'm not willing to have to be forced into
an argument of: what's to be kept!
the whole forest needs to be ploughed:
it needs to be burned down...

in England over 20 years and they're still only
giving it to blacks and abusive Pakistanis...
where did they think i'd go to for:
"compensation": among the Turkic ol' raven haired
types....
lassen: hölle: regel: selbst!

Human soul matrices aside, the headiest head head lice infiltrators itch to be understood by lice-infested typhus victims. In order to maintain membership in the *****-Suppression Club you must master the art of *****-suppression. Who was your ****** last week? ~ Was I your ****** last week? ~ I'm confident that I wasn't! ~ Who'll be your ****** next week? ~ Not me because I'm lent out to be someone-you-don't-know's ******! ~ Isolate my ******-*** for isolated-******-*** fun! ~ Stick it to my ****** and await my holy pronouncement!

Apricot kernels is the cure for cancer? Au contraire! Apricot kernels abound in hydrocyanic acid! Hydrocyanic acid in its industrial form is prussic acid (a druggist prudently refused to sell prussic acid to Lizzy Borden); prussic acid as a fumigation agent against typhus it was commercially marketed as Zyklon B and used in concentration camps throughout Europe during the second world war. Incidentally, apricot kernels cure sickle cell anemia; apricot kernels moderate blood pressure. AND polystyrene, commercially marketed as Styrofoam, is known as ****** & ****** B when sprayed on the hapless citizens of Vietnam, Laos, Thailand, Japan, Iraq, Afghanistan  & Cambodia.

✪✪✪ ALL Facebook cancer sites are pity parties. People are beat down by a disease that afflicted 3% of the American citizenry in A.D. 1900 to a projected 50% by year 2020. A fact that few people know: a cancer patient who dies from an opportunistic infection during immunologically-suppressive chemico-/radio-/cryo-ablative "therapies" is statistically a cancer-treatment success story. Currently cardiovascular disease & cancer alternate as #1 & #2 in regards to leading causes of death. Unsurprisingly, folks who succumb to heart attacks, aneurysms & strokes had cancer while those who died of cancer were cardiac patients taking prescribed blood thinners & statins. It's a mad dash to the grave between these 2 diseases of malnutrition.

On my grandfather's deathbed,
The one I sleep in now,
Which he shipped back from Detroit City, on a freight train in the
Nineteen thirties, when his father died
From typhus and he became head of the family here in Western Kentucky,
I remember his wavering lucidity
Through a past midnight thunderstorm,
How he asked us to sing
Rock of Ages and
When we had finished said
That was terrible, which it was.
Who could sing,
At a time like that--
His son, my father's bass voice
Quavering as it never did
In church, but there we were,
And then the last words I ever
Heard him say--
How do they count the time?

The hollow weight of this pathetic earth —
It rots within, a joke devoid of worth.
A "two-in-one": free cheese and pitch-black lies,
With maggots squirming where the truth once dies.

It’s full of holes — collapse is drawing near,
Deserved decay, corruption crystal-clear.
Not just poor taste — it's worse than one could dream:
This CONSUMER shames the cosmic scheme.




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




Flowers of Evil

"The city's coming, surely.
The garden soon will bloom..."
But when the **** rule poorly,
You harvest steel and doom.

The **** have built before us —
The Soviets made their bed.
Now new betrayers swarm us,
Like Judas, born and bred.

They’ll plant their seeds and gather
A camp — for human clay.
But now they lie and slather
Without a hint of shame.

With CowID came the slaughters,
Then war — their great delight.
To sink us in black waters
Takes lies, not even might.

And at the sunken station,
They’ll raise their camp once more —
Red cross of degradation,
And dumbness by the score.




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



Corruption as Core

Corruption crowned as greatness —
That’s what this world adores.
While mind and truth and straightness
Are crimes it now abhors!




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



Corruption reigns —
And courage chains.



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



The "Yum-Yum" Herd

The "Yum-Yum" herd is easy to erase —
Just dress a Goat in fleece and twist the phrase.
He screams out "Wolves!" while grinning through the lie,
As bloated beasts keep feeding till they die.

Their “minds” are wrecked — it’s fear and fake control.
With lies and dread, you dominate the whole.
Goats proved it well with fake CowID crusades —
This world now chokes in shame the cosmos hates.




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



Lies

Degenerates, decay, disgrace —
Behold the "new world" in your face.
Lies are money, bold and bare —
Truth can’t even breathe the air.

Lies now rule the power game,
Lies alone will bring you fame.
Lie a lot — you’ll rise, you’ll thrive.
Tell the truth? You won't survive.

If you don’t lie — down you go.
This world’s a sewage pit below:
The bigger the ****, the higher the seat —
The filth floats up. That's their elite.

The pressure builds — pure lies, pure stench,
A nonstop stream from every trench.
Not a day without that spray —
It grows. It floods. No plug, no way.

With no more clogs, the filth now flows
Above our heads, it overthrows.
Now EVERYONE has hit the floor —
And this rock bottom? There’s no more.




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



The Worship of Mammon

Forget all nature, truth, or sense —
Mammon now earns reverence.
Refuse to cheat, refuse to steal?
The beasts will call you weak — not real.

The **** all bow to Mammon's name,
Their god of greed, their holy flame.
What rules the world? Just cash and lies —
In megatons, beneath gold skies.

No truth remains — just fraud and fog:
Behold the Throne of Lies — their ******* log.




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


Stupidity and Sloth

Sloth and dumbness.
Dumb and slack.
And again! Again!! Attack!!!
All it breeds is rot and shame —
A world disgraced, a crawling flame.



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



Sloth! Stupidity! Encore!
That’s the rot they all adore.



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


Stupidity’s Old Game

Dumbing down is nothing new —
Idiots made, that’s all they do!
Once the pen, now cameras choke,
Spewing filth with every stroke.

For the masses, "info" lies,
"Education" — foul disguise.
Only few still guard their mind,
While the herd goes dumb and blind.




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



More Insight

More insight, less “thought” —
Other minds’ nonsense caught
Feeds decay — rot’s embrace,
This world’s logic’s fallen face.

Logic reigns — the world’s in dust,
**** sow lies and fear and lust.
They preach their rule, they cast their spell,
While media breaks the mind to hell.

But heart is insight’s spark,
Mind’s decay is cold and dark.
Heart and mind in strict command —
That’s salvation’s final stand.




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



Doubt Means Enemy

Who doubts is always labeled foe —
That’s how all lousy “-isms” grow.
Built on lies, a twisted scheme,
Communism’s no rare extreme.

Each “-ism” hides a fascist core,
******’s second layer, more and more.
At base it’s pure idiocy —
Human ****, a travesty.

It’s all around, the bottom line,
And soon we’ll burn this cursed spine.
But not by “-ism” shall it end —
Some other fate will break and mend.




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



The Earth’s Disgrace

Man who babbles,
Wildly patient,
Is he truly wise?
Among the evil,
Dull and complacent...
He’s the Earth’s disgrace — no lies!




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



The Weight of False Knowledge

The weight of learned lies drags down,
Or pulls you to a sinking ground.
But once you ditch that nonsense whole,
You’ll find relief for body, soul.

That ******* haunts — a second pit,
Where sharpness dies, where senses quit.
By day and night it weighs you down,
A plague of “sciences” that drown.

These ticks have latched, they cling and ****,
So cleanse yourself — get free, get struck
By truth instead — break off those chains,
And leave behind their pointless pains.




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



The Zoo

From birth you get your "gifts" in heaps,
All useless, like dead men’s keeps.
Consciousness lost, a vacant shell —
For many, fools who sink and dwell.

The mass is dumb, the schizoid’s might,
A fascist stronghold, ruling blight.
They pour their filth with force extreme,
A torrent drowning every dream.

This pressure sweeps the soul away,
A sentence passed we bear today.
From birth you got these "gifts" galore —
Throw them out! They’re zoo fodder, poor.




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



The Global Pleasure Grinder

They grind their taste buds day and night —
The “elite” in sellout’s spite.
Hours spent in fancy halls,
Is this elite, or just their thralls?

The world’s drowned deep in murky slime,
That rotten realm drags us in time.
Honest, brave — a rarity,
But Grinding Pleasure’s law we see.




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



Dumb Boxer in a False Fury

In welterweight, a dumb brute fights —
“Average” heights provoke his sights.
His vision’s clouded, lost in haze,
From many blows that blur his gaze.

The ring’s soaked deep in raging lies,
You didn’t walk — you fought for prize.
Evil set the trap in youth,
Hooked you in with stolen truth.

Run off the ring before they strike,
An uppercut, a swinging pike.
Lies punch hard, they never quit —
Total falsehood’s brutal hit.




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



Average Temperature in the Asylum

The fever’s rising through the ward —
From here comes pain you can’t afford.
A nightmare haunts us all in sleep,
But waking’s hell — too dark, too deep.

Is this a mental ward? It snores,
Farts stink, it breathes foul stench outdoors.
A madhouse? No — it’s no delusion,
Call it what’s true: a place of Ruin.




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



Tedious,
Nasty, vile.
Is it hard?
No — just hostile.
Dull and poor,
Sickening, sore.
How wretched all,
So base, so small...
No god here?
Is He dead?
Or never near?
Or mad instead?
Evil reigns —
The final thread.



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



Europe

Is it rotting, burning bright,
Scorched beneath the furious light?
Few can grasp the whole truth clear —
Dulling minds grow year by year.

Once, kids painted suns in red,
Yellow rays above their head.
Now the sun’s a pale white ghost —
Last days come for all the lost.

And the dead here crowd the skies,
Chaos calls — to dust, all flies.
Those alive, with souls not mice,
Soon will stand before the vice.

After death, a rising flame —
New world where the Spirit claims.
Before the end, resist they must —
This alone remains in trust.



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



Ambitions, "Honor"

Ambitions, “honor,”
Desires, striving,
Positions, pride—
Claims colliding.

Around, there’s empty space—
Hands drop down low.
But not just giving place—
They break from boredom’s blow.

There’s only one way through,
One feat to own:
Deceive your fate,
Keep moving on.




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



Analyzing Your Failures

To analyze your fails is key—
Only then can flight begin.
In this bleak, corrupt debris,
Fools repeat the same old sin.

They step again on traps well-known,
So sort your own, and others’ too.
Or else your sharpness turns to stone—
Without it, madness breaks through.

The mind becomes a plague instead,
Deceived on every side and bent,
Fear drives beasts to wars they dread,
Dumb sheep to slaughter, blindly sent.




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



Maximum Intensity

The plague of this wretched world
Will **** — no chance, always so:
Your consciousness raw and uncurled,
Intensity almost too low.

Intensity plus reason’s strain,
Years long, all else just a haze —
The only way to break the chain:
Beneath the crust, the horror stays.

Only few can bear this weight;
Chance is fickle, many fall—
Like seabirds lost to oil’s fate,
Trapped within the toxic sprawl.

The plague of this broken sphere
Spreads like oil across the ground.
Free cheese from oil they engineer—
We’re taught to suffer, chained and bound.

Evil trains us from the start,
Calling it good as it grows.
Intensity’s the sole true art
To keep us from becoming those.




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



Another Road to Another "Bright Future"

Another road
To "future"—so hollow!
Got a headache?
A quick escape to follow!

The herd, they’ll bait —
That’s how they control.
A fool like a mule,
With blinders on patrol.

A veil across the eyes,
A carrot just ahead.
The future’s a lie —
New blinders instead.




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



*******

Annoying filth of a mad, insane world —
“Shield yourself,” or in **** you’ll drown and twirl.
Your mind may be lonely, cold, and bare,
But in that crap you’re a louse or parasite rare.



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


Crapworld

Shield — or drown in filth and lies.
Stay sane — or be the bugs they prize.



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



The ****** of Mind

"Much learning does not teach understanding."
— Heraclitus


It doesn’t teach — it kills instead,
Chokes reason’s roots inside your head.
They cram your memory by force
To breed a slave’s insane discourse.

The overload, combined with lies
(Where evil's "knowledge" always hides),
Will blur what’s simple, clear, and true —
Then fear will break the rest of you.




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



Herd Instinct

The arrogance of fools so bold,
Unbridled greed you cannot quell,
With blind faith and hearts grown cold,
And cowardice — the herd’s own hell.




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



The Proper Little World

(Based on Bertrand Russell's quote: “To live right means hypocrisy; to think right — stupidity.”)

"Proper" means obeying
Rules that rot the mind —
Templates for betraying
Truth you've left behind.

"Motherland" compels you,
Masked in noble cause,
To suppress what's real in you
By its savage laws.

Soulless, dull compliance,
Dream, consume, obey —
Bow to those in triumph
Wallowing in decay.

Each year grows more twisted,
Lies more bold and loud.
That world — rule-enlisted —
Will die without a shroud.




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



How Long Will We Moo “How Long!”
(While swallowing filth with a grin…)

How long will we moo out “How long!”
Yet swallow this vile little game?
In this pathetic life-singalong,
Only Death will untangle the shame.

She’ll draw the last line, mark the coward,
The soul that stayed true — and the fraud.
The end’s not far off: life’s devoured
By madness… The flames now applaud.

For the Sun — growing wilder, more searing —
Will burn what was bright to the bone.
Just look out the window: it’s clearing…
By morning, you’ll see what’s been shown.




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



How long, you cattle, will you moo —
Yet lick the boots that trample you?



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



“Cognitive” Onanism

So much clutter, distraction, deceit —
A circus of facts, all devoid of the core.
Where cretinous chatter and buzzwords compete,
They fog up the mind ever more.

Fake science keeps silence where truth should ignite:
You are spirit — a flame, not a shell.
But smothered in trivia, buried in blight,
The essence gets lost in their hell.



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



They teach you the fog, not the flame —
Forget who you are. That’s their game.



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



"Upbringing" — a pile of habits,
Rituals wrapped in moral jackets.
In this rotten world, to dare
Just means bumps and blank despair.



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



Dare to rise? You’ll just get bruised —
That's how slaves are mass-produced.




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



Gutta-percha men,
Involution served on plates,
Slugs devour filth and lies,
Chanting "Allah’s will dictates."

“Submit, believe in God,
And curb your restless mind —
All answers lie within the books,”
A dish from Hell defined.




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



Prince of This World

A hot-dog god,
A king "two in one,"
Harsh and cold,
The madhouse’s son.

The madhouse devours —
**** and lies.
— Like cattle, folks? —
Multiply fear, despise.

He’s master of lies,
In masks, he’s skilled.
To serve him is
Shame — a cursed ****.

The cursed **** comes —
Grab the cash flow!
— How to be cattle? —
Accept the lies, the woe.




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



Doclets — Mengele Nervously Smokes

Here’s the CowID **** —
No shame runs deeper.
Fake AIDS warm-up —
Tolerance to the creeper.

Next come the pests,
All kinds of plagues,
They’ll take it all — CowID
Seems bliss in their cages.




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



The Poet Sometimes Raves

The poet sometimes runs with nonsense —
The rhyme leads far off track.
If choking in the stench around you,
A touch of madness won’t crack.

In madness, all the world’s absurd,
When total idiot’s reign
Becomes the norm, and wicked times
Are measured by Satan’s stain.



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



“A Hard Nut of Knowledge”?

A schnitzel of "knowledge," laced with lies,
You eat the poison deep inside —
You're just a pawn where hatred flies,
Where vile beasts breed and multiply.

The mind’s a nut that takes a blow,
From heavy lies it cracks and breaks.
The more you “know,” the more you owe —
For love’s a thing your heart forsakes.

Simplicity with peasant’s mind,
And vision born within the heart —
Unlike the “knowledge” of the blind,
Is what makes love a true art.




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



Total Madness and the Poet

To die a poet—
No greater bliss,
Than not to bow
To all the abyss,
To leave a mark
With furious fire,
Though nerves may snap,
And earth conspire—
If burden not,
Then truth was sired!



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



The Pit

If the Creator’s plan for you
Is just a pit to bear,
Enduring evil’s nothing new—
It’s death of spirit there.

It cuts down all who climb the peak,
As ever has been so—
No contrast now, the truth is bleak:
“Up top” is just pure woe.



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



Victory of the ****

Thanks to comrade Gates, they say,
For childhood “bright” and free—
The computer took the throne today,
For plebs, a tool to be.

Before, a tool, but now it’s just
One endless app to scroll.
You live like in a desert dust,
Where lifeless breezes roll.

Doubtful versions sweep away
All sense with stupid fights.
They turn us all to fools each day,
Only “Classmates” hold tight.

True talks are rare—your neighbor’s face
Unknown in concrete cells.
Consciousness lost, the ****’s embrace
Strikes hard; it casts its spells.

The last of spirit, mind, and light
Shrinks down, then fades unseen.
Only nonsense reaches sight—
The **** has won, obscene.




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



So-Called "Culture"

A stake of aspen in pseudo-culture’s chest,
Drive it deep and walk on light, at best:
A foolish loser buys the shallow fake—
That “culture” stands on fools who take.

True Spirit’s daring, reaching for the Light,
The soul’s own pulse, its genuine fight.
But in that broke, pretend charade,
No answer lives—just empty parade.




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



Themes

Memes serve up their shallow themes —
A challenge to dull all minds, it seems:
With nonsense, they decay the wise,
In memes, the spawn of lies arise.

Expose the false, the half-truth’s shade,
Bring light where darkness tries to fade.
Or we’ll be lost — no time to stall,
Strike down the lies — or lose it all!




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



Pol ***, ******, and Putler

Pol ***’s sweat earned him a role—
A freakish camp to rule the whole,
A country sized like prison walls,
Where terror grips and silence falls.

No need for camps — it’s all the same:
Wherever rage fuels fiendish game,
They spill the blood, the leader’s throne—
Don’t touch the smartest one alone!

The master helm who leads ahead,
Crushing all who dare to tread.
All dissenters — dealt away,
Lost beneath the shadow’s sway.

And Putler, double-faced and sly,
A runt before the great gone by.
He topped even ******’s hell,
Built a nightmare none can quell.




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



The Boredom of the Global Herd

Boredom’s not a beauty’s face—
It’s a sign of drained-out grace.
When you’re penned like common stock,
And that pen’s a messy block,

You can fade away, run dry
In anything — they’ll **** you dry.
All your strength the beasts will drain,
Then beat you down to break your strain.




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



Cheaters and Murra

The ******* deal the crooked hands —
Cheaters always hold command.
They must win, no room for shame,
This world’s a ruthless, ***** game.

If you’re not a cheat, you’re low,
But what’s “top”? Just scraps that flow—
Like a sludge pit, stinking, vile.
“Two-in-one” spray fools with style—
Thousands bask in foul perfume,
Calling stench a scent’s costume.

Propaganda’s lying howl?
No—it’s news, a sickly growl.
Murra rots in every crack—
That’s your “progress,” face the fact!
Cast out doubt in cheats’ domain—
And they’ll lie with brazen strain...




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



We Are Ours, We Build the New... Madness

"We are ours, we build a new world..."
The anthem cries, “International!”


The impossible becomes real,
While what’s real’s a crazy deal:
Hard to grasp, but clear as gas—
Total lies that poison fast.

In this killer’s suffocating grip,
Truth and mind begin to slip.
A half-dead soul must face the crowd—
The New Madness shouts aloud:
New #******* End, fierce and proud...




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



The Race’s End

Monotony of shallow thrills,
The ****** chase for cash and fame—
The **** who lose the roots and wills,
Forget the heart, obey the brain.

The mind, once servant, breaks its chains,
And falls to ruin, lost, abused.
Forgetfulness in lies remains—
The fate of generations fused.

A rotten world, caught in the race,
The finish line—a deathly prize.
Blind liars mix the peak and base,
Confused beneath deceivers’ lies.




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



The Eternal and the Human

Too little of the ETERNAL —
Too much of just the human.
This gnome’s a fleeting signal,
A joke, a mere buffoon.

His mind is small and empty —
Books shallow, plain and cheap;
Lies flood the world aplenty,
Where souls are lost, not deep.

But if the soul’s not vanished —
Through pain breaks into Light,
Through lies and rot, unbanished —
***** doubts! Embrace the fight!




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



A Clamp for Fools

A clamp? — just a clip!
Truth? — a lie so thick!
All’s absurd:
Malice, fear, a ***** trick.

Lies that bind? —
How’s that fit?
Fear turns souls
To creatures unfit.

Lies on fear —
The whole **** clamp:
Russia’s crushed,
In dust and stamp.



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



All the Content of "Normal" Mind Is Clinical Madness

Clinical madness —
The core of "mind" they say.
What’s the real answer? —
Cast false knowledge away,
And journey inward —
Toward the Spirit’s bright light.
No other path here —
None left in sight.



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



A tough and fearsome task it is —
Not to be the beast that sways and squats.
If you’re a bee that flits on roses,
Those roses face eternal threats and losses.

The roses trampled — that’s no surprise:
The fragile, pure here doomed to die.
Grow thicker skin, let tusks arise —
Be the world’s elephant, strong and wise.




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



******-Up State

Tubercular thoughts decay,
Words spew out like *****’s spray:
Around no humans — just mere sums,
And in your head, the nonsense drums.

From vile, total lies you choke,
No other choice but silent smoke.
If you’re smart, bold, true, and free —
Don’t lose your mind in misery.

‘Cause freaking out is way too late —
The world’s a wreck, it’s lost its fate.
On the horizon, grim and tense,
******-up state raises its hand immense...



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


People?

Look around. Are those all humans?
Or just Satan’s icon pack?
Is that food or demon’s cumin —
Hell’s meat platter? Dreams go black.

Darkness, madness — that’s their "thinking",
Or is Purest Mind in there?
Are they sheep for slaughter, shrinking?
Or are humans really where

Shame is branded as “freedom,”
Truth replaced with crafted lies,
Mutant freaks that serve the system
Guard “Constitutions” in disguise.

Freedom is the space for making,
For the Pure-Souled to create.
Tyranny, though, strips and breaks 'em —
Turns them all to meat for plate.

Light is scarce. The Dark is swelling —
It’s a death mark for the Soul.
Breeds are raised through this dark spelling:
Dead ones wrapped in breathing role.

They have fouled and ***** the Planet,
Murdered Nature, left a stain.
Only corpses hear the sonnets
Of the Lie — and most of it is death for brains.




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



Longing

Guts in bowls — the cats are glad.
Is that cure for feeling bad?
Don’t you dare suppress the gloom —
Only fools make grief their plume.

Aren’t you homesick down in Hell
With the crazed who think they’re well?
Few exceptions, few awake.
Madness here is no mistake.

Genocide, a centuries' art —
Mass-producing fools by heart.
Better call it: Slavery’s spawn,
Built on madness, bred since dawn.

That’s the scheme the beasts defend:
Dumb and silent to the end.
Counting chance, the poor blind throng
Sinks in numbness all along.

Grief and lies — how not to feel?
Guts in bowls — the feline meal —
Even cats have smarter wit
Than a SOLD-OUT IDIOT.



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



Foam — then fade:
Dull was the sire.
All betrayed —
The world’s a pyre...



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



EU — the Union of the Gut
Beer bellies sag, the minds are shut.
You fly right in — they weigh your worth:
Just raw supply, not soul or birth.

The “people” — cattle, bought and sold,
Their lives reduced to profit mold.
Above it all, the lying glaze —
Believe it once — you're lost for days.




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



Rotten lies, half-truths, and fiction —
That’s the mix of their “science” game.
End result? A fool’s submission
To the yoke of ****** for fame.



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




Weird young fellow...
Dumb as wood.
Brain is jello,
Spirit — no good.



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



Selling ******

They sell themselves without a fight —
So cheap, those filthy, crawling swine...
They think that death is out of sight,
And ******* seems to suit them fine.

They trade and stab without regret,
As if betrayal never ends.
But Human burns at sunset —
And Bedlam’s fire ascends.




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




Stop Your Hiding — Face the Hell
All around — it reeks, it fell.
Hourly lies through every screen —
End of this pathetic scene.

But your Soul is not for loss —
So rise up and bear your cross!
Only hear your inner flame —
All outside is filth and shame.




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



The Call of Poetry — a Fearsome Might.
If filth and comfort seem all right —
Then don’t you dare into those deeps:
The Path of Poetry is where Sorrow weeps.

Sorrow is ABSOLUTE — the rest is jest.
Stop bowing down to brute unrest.
Just DIE before you kneel to **** —
Just DON’T YOU LIE — Hell burns for some.




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



Stood by you? Not one...
What is it you seek?
Nothing. None. I'm done —
No more need to speak.

Nothing's left to crave —
I have walked through Hell.
Did that forge a knave?
No — I wrote it well.




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




I couldn’t care for this brave “horde” —
These fools who’d sell their souls for fraud,
Who treat betrayal as a sword,
And worship lies as some new god.

Go grab this “life” — go ****** your fate!
You’ll grasp a void. Your mind? — too late.
This path leads straight to what they crave:
A shiny car — to be their grave.




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



Angry Bear

That one? A “president” — a drunk, insane?
The Kremlin’s all just evil waste and stain.
If that’s the case — then we’re all doomed, no doubt...
The end is near, and there’s no way out.



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



“Unreasoning the Reasoned”

Un-reason those who thought they knew,
Break the spell of all this slime —
The nonsense born from lies anew,
Deceit of traitors, cruel crime.

A web of traps and staged deceit,
This world’s a scripted, staged charade.
The soul’s forever under heat,
While Satan’s half-god in the shade.

He writes the plot; the directors — ****,
Monsters hard to find or name.
The whole performance — deafening drum:
One trick — to scare, to lie, to maim.




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



“Love-Filled” Hypocrites

“Love abounds” — but fools surround,
And Darkness holds the world in chains.
Yet smiles so sweet, with grace profound,
Pour oil and tears to mask their stains.



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



The World’s Disappearance in Nightmare

"The waking share one common world,
The sleepers turn to their own fold."
— Heraclitus


The world dissolves — few stand awake,
While “sweet” dreams twist into a snare.
A nightmare traps the soul to break —
Its fallen fate, a fool’s despair.




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



Don’t Trust Your Eyes — The Pattern’s Blurred

Don’t trust your eyes — the mold has blurred
Your view of this dumb, dumb world absurd.
No courage, no sharp intuition —
Just march along to Stagnation’s prison.

A world of fools, a stagnant land,
Where spirit’s mocked by empty hands.
A fool’s small step can’t grasp the core,
No strength enough to seek for more.

Mind ruled by Spirit, life creates —
That’s how decay you’ll truly break.
Forget the stagnation’s curse,
And lies that spread their evil worse.

Assimilation’s reached its peak —
In fools, the chains they gladly seek.
Muzzles on through CowID years,
This world’s a joke — poor wretched peers.




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



“Evolution” of Fools

We don’t give **** — there’s plenty here,
Of sick fools clogged with empty cheer.
We’ll listen close if lies persist,
Relentless lies we can’t resist.

We’ll bow to lies, the box controls,
Feeding us junk, illusions’ roles.
Forever praise new petty tyrants,
In creatures rife with flaws, defiant.

We won’t perceive the chains we wear —
Our gaze on cash, the only care.
Gripped only by the lure of gold,
Buying babes and rides to hold.

No room for fools, they’re cast away —
New “selection” rules the play:
Fool turns cattle — that’s the way,
The age of dumb has its own sway.




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



So-called "Dictatorship of the Proletariat"?

Control and power by the masses —
Duller myth no one surpasses.
Dictatorship of lies insane,
Hidden plague, a filthy stain.

Like typhus, it infects the mind,
Lies disguised, the base you'll find.
Fools swoon fast on fairy tales,
While second depths command the hails.

Pol *** once was “communist.”
Before him ******’s iron fist.
Now the double-faced Putler’s here,
Teaching fools to bow and sneer.

A lesson steeped in lies supreme,
No one learns from past’s harsh scheme.
The freak disturbs the crowds anew,
With poisoned ideas — always through.




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



The Price of Freedom

The price of freedom — cast aside
All else with courage, cast and wide.
No coin in pocket? Let it be,
But time remains for Path and Deed.

The Path is knowledge, Deed — the fire,
A creative, fierce desire.
All else is folly, vain and cold,
A twisted goal by liars told.



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



Not Quite a Poem

Not quite a poem —
The rage won’t cease:
A fleeting flash,
A tense release —

And then — prepared.
A simple grind...
The “catch”?
Just “GRAB AND GRIND!!!”



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



“Yes” and “No”...

“Yes,” if madness rules the world,
And “normal” means the curse.
“No” will leave a weaker swirl —
If sane, you might disperse,

Walk down that wasted road —
Where sorrow’s sown today,
Hell reaps its fiery load.
Don’t curse the futile way:

If “benefit” feeds Hell’s fire,
The **** will cheer success.



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



In Hell’s Dark

“Sometimes the night’s too dark to see.”
— Stanisław Jerzy Lec


A blind mole crawls the tunnels deep,
Collecting tribute from the field.
In darkness, with fools just as steep,
You find the lies that Hell concealed.



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



Heights and Depths

“The higher we ascend, the small
And worthless seem to those who fall.”
— Friedrich Nietzsche’s thought to all.


To fly’s a snare in fools’ dull eyes:
If clear you think — the enemy’s guise.
The Artist’s mad amid the arts,
The Spirit’s Path — a yoke for hearts.




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



Self Inquiry

"Examine all, let reason lead,"
— Pythagoras spoke long ago indeed.


Explore it all, but under Spirit’s reign,
Let Reason hold the foremost claim.
To dig too deep in “knowledge” — foolish game,
For lies abound, and all is not the same.

The rulers know the art of lies,
So falsehoods spread, and truth soon dies.
They twist the sciences with cash and might,
Commanding falsehoods, veiling light.




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



The hamster and the mole both think,
The falcon lost, a sneaky link,
That life on Earth’s not all that bad,
While birds above just lie, so sad.




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




Spineless fools in clouds of madness,
Worldly nonsense, pale and stark —
This is monsters’ cruel gladness,
Brains and spirit fade to dark.

Few remain with backbone’s fire,
Fewer still with spirit’s core,
World won’t be what once inspired —
Soon it rots forevermore.




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



Synergy of Sufferers

"Shared misfortunes bear more patience than those endured alone."
— Niccolò Machiavelli


The sufferers grow in number,
When Evil's faced as one.
Till pain becomes all tender,
And ******* deeds are done.




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



Once so much, now so little —
Nonsense fades, a vanishing riddle.
What’s not nonsense, time will show,
Only years can let us know.

For us? Just few remain
“Fit for duty,” birds in pain —
Like the Red Book’s vanished kind,
Knowing pain, the thoughtful mind.

They know all’s just nonsense here:
Not humans now, but herds appear.
Among them few feel out of place,
Only minds that dare embrace.

To believe and still create
In this *******, cursed fate.
Rot grows like a tightening ball —
Soon this rotten madhouse falls.

Can’t endure this vile breath,
Better much to choose Death.




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



Tall tales gather all the likes —
Killing minds with twisted spikes.
New fascism steps in stride,
Breaking souls with fear inside.



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



Putler’s **** —
The reign of fake CowID’s done.
Now war rages — fools still buy
Every smoke-screen, every lie.

The source was called "The Butts,"
Long dead — yet the second batch trusts
Total lies once more, and swings
Wide the doors for fascist kings...




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




Karachun, old grump, to you won’t come —
Too many moons have passed, it's done.
Where is that spiteful little fiend?
Only boredom now is seen...



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



A minefield lies within the mind —
Deceitful charges placed all round.
The chances not to step — so slim,
The schematics tightly wound.

Only **** could dare to make
These traps that lie beneath the ground.
The herd grazes dumb and fake,
Among the grass, uncut, unbound.

The grass hides every single mine —
A “peaceful” pasture, so it seems.
Painted scenes with oil and line,
As if it’s not a war of dreams...




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



Comparison of Greco-Roman Wrestling and Marathon

Teens’ pillow fight — just warm-up, a test,
Before the marathon’s true quest.
I’ve faced them both — it’s not a lark,
To run that race is hell and dark!



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



Cogs and Mechanism

A tiny ***** is tightly turned—
You’ll never loosen what’s well burned:
It feels no pain, no woe, no loss—
The mechanism wins, the boss.



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



Mountain Practice
(an ironic verse)

From burrow up the hill you crawl,
Seek truth and light beyond the wall.
Tremble only before the bright—
The hamster’s lost, no sign of sight.

That burrow’s home to that small beast,
Whose lies and madness never ceased.
Beaten down by endless lies,
A swamp of falsehoods, dark disguise.




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



The Privileged

The privileged — what a joke:
They boast, but what’s their claim?
Their wealth, their endless bloat —
Few have a worthy aim.

Daddy’s sons are mostly ****,
As usual, every time.
In this world, the subtle hum
Is trapped in endless grime.

The brazen always climb
Right up to highest place.
The privileged only dream,
A hollow rotten case.

There’s always exceptions, sure,
But these aren’t what I write.
When rot is all you endure,
The top’s to blame outright.



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




Step by Step. To the Reichstag
Or will you fall into the abyss?
Arm yourself with fearless grit:
If not the pit — you’re sure to miss!

To live small-world is suicide.
To die — and rise again, there’s chance.
Forget all speeches, pomp, and pride —
In Bedlam, only Honor stands!

Death will rank us all in lines.
Reverse the order, watch it clear:
Those who swim in lies and fat —
Are last, far off, in utter fear.

A stranger shows up in the distance,
With a name that cuts like steel:
“F#ckup” — world-wide consequence.
This small world’s doom is real.




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



Super Sport

Bullshitters rule the football game,
Less cash, less players, fans the same.
Shots of lies suppress the fools —
In this sport, propaganda rules.

Top league filled with perfect liars,
Politicians—first-class buyers.
Not a gang, but highest tier,
Goals scored well, the crowd will cheer.

The rigged machine runs like a clock,
Now more than ever, it’s a shock:
Everywhere dull fascists rise —
This sport’s just lies behind the guise.




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



Mass-Produced Prison

Mass-market prison, trap of waste—
Consumers stuck in **** misplaced.
Can’t pull them off, no quick escape,
Only root them out, reshape.




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



The Angry Bear and the Russian Asylum

The Angry Bear left marks behind —
Shameful traces, raw, unkind.
Spewed such wild, insane disgrace,
That the whole Asylum stared in face.




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



Partly Not Partly...

Partly it’s a blessing,
That it’s not all a blessing—
Partly… Not a curse, confessing—
This world’s a Hell’s own dressing.

Will it choke or will it swallow?
Choke it will, not partly, hollow—
Whole and full, then it will follow,
A new world born, new joys to wallow.




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



Solar Apocalypse

"Children of the underground" —
The future’s dark for those who’ve found
A chance to save their fading breath.
That “captain” just spins nonsense,
Spewing cow farts, dense pretense,
Everywhere the CEO’s death.

These tales are old, the lies abound,
Your head will swell, the dumb surround.
This widespread plague of empty minds
Leaves all in shock, it binds and blinds.

And CowID’s the first test—
For those who to the cities rest—
Below, like tags on herds confined,
Masks lock them all, enslaved, aligned.




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



"Enjoy!" — a common phrase before a meal...

Even cats without affection
Won't embrace their food’s connection.
A restaurant, like fairy tales,
For two-legged beasts with tails.

Who’s the animal? Think twice,
Scrape off pride and all the vice:
Nonsense, lies like swirling smoke—
This is what the truth provokes.

The final verdict’s clear and crude,
But we won’t name it — rude,
“Man like god”? A cursed fraud —
The Horned God, foul and flawed.




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



Drowning in Lies

They push —
We sink.
They push Lies —
Sick of all these stinking kinks...




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



The Suckers

Lies? Well, then turn on patience...
And multiply your tolerance?
If ******* wins the fight,
You’re lost — no chance in sight.




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



Sellouts

Why do you cling to those corrupt freaks —
Honor, dignity? Like, who needs that, geeks?
Scary as hell — these sellout clowns, no tricks.
They tear apart what’s fragile, thin as sticks!

Thin the *******, thin the minds, so weak —
Primitive fools, but still, try books you seek.
“All subtle” — in the ****’s stale, crooked schemes,
But dissonance still rings loud through their dreams.




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



They ****** Us All

They ****** us ALL —
That’s how this world is.
Keep grinding, “Emelya,” —
Wretched, poor, and helpless.

Chew your grub,
You VILE beast —
You’ll find a noose,
A flea sold out, at least!..




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



Truth and Fiends

How many fiends? —
Too **** many!
Roasting lies? —
No place to carry.

Enough to wait
For that tight space —
Time to ****
Those beasts with grace!

Not by force,
But all the same —
Few chances left
To become the same.

Just Truth,
Harsh and raw!
A burden, yes —
That’s what it’s for.