Reviews and Ratings
“Disgusting!” — that’s the medal
For a poet worth his flame.
Craving praise from minds so feeble
Is a loser’s little game.
Loathsome slavery and blindness —
If you strike at chains this way,
Then the drones, through spite and mindlessness,
Rage and bark their souls away.
Calling chaos “something vital,”
Worshipping this grand decay,
Bound by Stockholm dreams and idols,
They defend the fraud each day.
Thus the madhouse, bought and rotten,
Will condemn what dares rebel —
For a world completely broken
Never judges truth too well.
---------------------
Their “disgust” — a badge of fire,
Proof the verse has struck the bone.
Slaves defend their chains with vigor —
And condemn the truth alone.
---------------------
Self-Parody
“No matter how you feed a donkey steroids, it still won’t turn into a stallion.”
— Ancient wisdom of highly qualified long-distance runners.
A runner drowns inside the marathon,
A poet — in his verse and raging blaze.
And if your name is Igor Vykhovanets,
The effort burns through all your nights and days.
I know them both through massive years of practice —
The road, the page, the battle and the grime.
For in this STINKING World’s gigantic backside,
You’ll turn a donkey if you fall in line.
To be a “poet” for the crowd means braying,
Producing hollow jingles for the mass.
Such fools will never seize the tail of fortune —
Their minds are built from cheap and shattered glass.
The marathon is just as unforgiving:
If born without the fire, you won’t endure.
But to BECOME a poet means forgetting
Your belly’s needs — while life stays frail, obscure.
And if your life has smoked away since childhood,
Then write FOR YOURSELF through darkness, through despair.
A splendid way to keep the beast from growing —
To not become a goat-like slave in there.
---------------------
The runner dies inside the race,
The poet — in the flame.
To write for crowds is just disgrace;
For truth, burn all the same.
---------------------
The Great Kitchen
Johnny Nobody, Comrade Masha —
Heads all filled with mental trash.
Brewing up this rotten porridge
Is the MONSTER ruling rash.
Fake tsar posing through his doubles,
Feeding lies from screen to screen.
And the farther — grows the uglier,
Filthier the whole machine.
Soon the feast will end in sickness,
Poison choking every tongue.
After that comes rot and ruin —
That’s the fate the fools have sung.
---------------------
They cooked the lies for years on end,
Till brains became decay.
A kingdom built on fraud and sludge
Will rot itself away.
---------------------
Puppets
Karabas-Barabas
Keeps us crushed beneath his mass —
Teacher, cop, “elected” leader,
Bureaucratic jackass breeder,
Every freak with scraps of power
Makes the human spirit cower.
Lower still they always crawl —
There’s no bottom point at all.
Stupid puppets march in rows
Toward the wars their master chose,
Driven into grinding labor,
Drugged by frauds in masks of “savior.”
Fake diseases, poisoned cures —
Just to thin the herd of yours.
No bright future waits ahead:
If you’re not a puppet — “mad.”
To the sawdust-minded cattle,
Every soul awake’s a hassle.
Anyone who feels too deep
Looks insane to programmed sheep.
---------------------
Puppets marching, strings pulled tight,
Dragged through labor, fear, and lies.
Any soul that sees the trap
Looks “insane” to blinded eyes.
---------------------
Commissars of All Lands — Appoint Yourselves!
“We shall rely on Russian scum and the inertia of the masses.”
— Leon Trotsky
A casino built on rigged promotions,
Firings, schemes, and poisoned games —
Crafty vermin climb through slaughter,
Genocide becomes their trade.
And the crowd, so dull and passive,
Will obey the loudest fraud.
Toward a slow spiritual ruin
They’ll be herded by the rod.
They will brand that death “communism,”
Hide the core with painted myths,
Masking rot and cold satanic
Depths beneath utopian scripts.
---------------------
Commissars rise through blood and lies,
While numb crowds praise the chain.
They call decay “the workers’ dawn” —
But underneath: pure stain.
---------------------
Brains Drowned in Fat
Fat-lord,
“Chief Mind” —
Rot poured
Worldwide.
The screens all chew,
The dull ones too.
Talent? Rejected.
Nonsense? Respected.
Whatever the Trust
Throws into the pit,
The fool gulps it down
And calls it “legit.”
---------------------
The media feeds,
The morons consume.
Talent gets buried —
While nonsense goes boom.
---------------------
Trash and Bio-Trash
The cops? A kennel! Serving MONSTERS,
For genocide’s their sacred creed.
Just one glance at those rotten faces
Shows what kind they choose and breed.
They call them hounds — and rightly call them,
The name strikes straight, precise and grim.
The BEASTS crush freedom ever harder,
And barking fools obey the whim.
Dark times revealed through CowID terror
Exactly who is what beneath:
All “states” exposed as raving sickness —
The “citizen” means less than dirt.
They’re cleansing out the “bio-garbage,”
And filthy cops assist the game.
The poison jab was never “choice” —
But Evil’s vast experimental flame.
The experiment will soon be shattered —
A furious cataclysm waits.
But now the masses hide in burrows,
Enduring fascist-ridden states.
---------------------
The hounds obey, the masses crawl,
The tyrants spread disease.
A world that treats men worse than trash
Is rotting at the knees.
---------------------
Feeding the Black Swans
A black swan crossed the darkened sky
And left the masses cast aside.
To minds awake, to souls still sensing,
It looks less swan than sparrow’s cry.
Instinct rarely lies or falters.
Those who battle night and horror
Walk alone through hostile ages —
That’s the wage for breaking cages.
But the herd keeps thinking only:
“Let me stay alive and comfy.
Everything beyond my stomach
Can be bought again with money.”
Thus you harvest fear and baseness,
Though your pride will veil the shame:
All around — corrupted idiots,
Selling soul and selling name.
Stuffed mouths never rise to shouting;
Truth and savagery collide —
Yet the answer’s deadened silence:
Fools submit to Evil’s stride.
The black swan’s born from realms of darkness.
Rot and ruin spread everywhere.
It flies toward the fading sparkle
Of a little Light still there.
Feed the black swan. Those are humans
Who still draw the monster’s rage,
Who receive the mark of darkness
While enduring this grim age.
Every crisis here is crafted.
Since the cradle you were thrown
Into rotting soil and madness,
Taught to rot instead of grow.
So resistance to the filth becomes
The highest task within
This gigantic madhouse drowning
Where most souls and minds are dimmed.
Three-fourths wander half-comatose,
While the BEASTS collect their rent —
Fear and suffering harvested deeply,
Human anguish fully spent.
Your black swan is your refusal
To produce that psychic feed.
Then the scaffold waits before you —
That’s the system’s final creed.
Now the scaffold’s swapped for digital camps,
Smoother chains and brighter screens.
Evil’s bulldozer keeps flattening Earth,
Still the fool just idly dreams.
Dreams come true for Darkness only —
CowID showed the truth in full:
Rot, disgrace, corruption, terror,
Human spirits crushed and dulled.
Yet the schemes of all these vermin
Will collapse in little time:
Worldwide cataclysm approaching
To erase the fascist slime.
Though with slavery go the slaves too —
If all people turn to cattle,
Then the faster burns the foulness
Valued only by the soulless.
---------------------
Feed the black swan — keep your soul
While cattle kneel in fear.
The darkness hates the ones awake;
That truth is crystal clear.
---------------------
Reading Hut
The reading hall’s a forge of nonsense,
Where hammers pound the brain with lies.
Publishing houses — cesspits breeding
Idiots beneath dead skies.
The fool gets “educated” slowly
Through endless floods of scripted trash.
Censorship is always present —
Past and future, lash by lash.
And slavery will reign forever
Where nonsense rules both night and day.
For all this garbage has its masters,
Who keep the blinded herd at bay.
---------------------
Books of lies and poisoned thought
Forge obedient fools.
Where nonsense crowns itself as truth,
The masters make the rules.
---------------------
Stars That Never Fall
“In the sky hangs a star, fading away —
Nowhere to fall.”
— Vladimir Vysotsky, “Song About Stars”
The stars still hang,
They long to fall,
Yet wish for such abysmal grime,
That all the Earth
Turns into Hell —
Mad selfish crowds decay with time.
The herd’s gone blind,
Consumed by greed,
Its ego burns through every wall.
And from this rot
The darkness feeds —
While hanging stars refuse to fall.
---------------------
The stars won’t fall —
The filth runs deep.
Mad crowds embrace
The Hell they keep.
---------------------
Stars That Never Fall
“The star hangs fading in the sky —
Nowhere left to fall.”
— Vladimir Vysotsky, “Song of the Stars”
The stars still hang,
They long to dive,
Yet wish for SUCH FILTH in their despair,
That Earth itself
Turns into Hell —
The herd’s gone mad through selfish care.
All drowned in ego, blind and hollow,
Crushing meaning into dust.
Dreaming ruin, feeding darkness,
Calling greed and rot “their trust.”
---------------------
The stars can’t fall —
No ground remains.
Mad crowds through selfishness alone
Have forged infernal chains.
---------------------
Solar Apocalypse
An excess of true LIFE gets severed —
Mere survival earns applause.
Thus the cattle form is crafted softly,
Driven toward obedient stalls.
The BEASTS think only in generations;
Individuals mean nothing there.
If decay arrives in measured doses,
Herds won’t rise, won’t even care.
Very few are human truly now —
The muzzles marked the grazing mass.
And don’t despair that all is shattered;
Life itself is smoke and glass.
For the spiritual road within this madness
Is an exception, sharp and rare.
So at the end the Sun will thunder,
Saving Spirit — burning despair.
---------------------
They train the herds to merely survive,
While Spirit fades from sight.
Then comes the Sun — not just to burn,
But separate dark from Light.
---------------------
Millionaires Eat Fast Food
Millionaires eat greasy fast food too,
Right on the street like common trash.
Their shallow pleasures look so “human” —
“See? They’re just like us!” they splash.
The movies hammer that idea
Into the minds of all the herd:
“Your life is normal, don’t complain now —
Only proud fools find it absurd.”
So live rejoicing in the sewage,
Smile while sinking in decay.
The masses cheer their chains with passion,
Gladly throwing thought away.
---------------------
“They’re just like us!” the screens repeat,
While minds sink into mud.
Be proud to rot in comfort’s cage —
And drown inside the sludge.
---------------------
The Mouse Dilemma
Shiny little traps are waiting,
Scattered everywhere in sight.
But the mice grew slick and crafty —
Steal the cheese and dodge the bite.
Still another problem lingers:
Poisoned? Rotten? Hard to tell.
This whole world’s a mouse dilemma —
Even clever rats fall well.
Every scheme conceals corruption,
Every prize conceals decay.
And the slyest thief discovers
There’s no clean escape today.
---------------------
The mice outsmart the trap at last —
Yet poisoned is the cheese.
In a rotten world of cunning games,
No one escapes with ease.
---------------------
Blotting-Paper World
Party bosses, polished preachers,
Push their dogmas coast to coast.
Tolerance turned into prison —
Freedom fades like smoke and ghosts.
This whole world is soaked in darkness,
Like blotting paper torn apart.
Branded deep by creeping fascism,
Rot has reached the very heart.
Downward runs the single pathway,
Lower still the masses slide.
Truth is buried under slogans,
While the hollow grins with pride.
---------------------
The world absorbs corruption fast,
Like paper soaked in stain.
When lies become a sacred law,
Collapse is all that reigns.
---------------------
Cowardice of Fools
Murka doesn’t live for hides,
Nor does one cat rule her skies.
But the fool who kneels to Evil
Rots in oceans thick with lies —
Before a kitten, beast-like, crawling,
Blind and broken in disguise.
The timid soul betrays itself
For comfort, scraps, and fear.
And step by step in poisoned falsehood
Loses all that once was clear.
---------------------
A cat still walks with natural grace —
The fool crawls worse than beasts.
For fear and lies consume the soul
Till nothing human breathes.
---------------------
Dead Souls, or The Gold Reserve of a Fake Nation
Thousands poor — the “gold reserve,”
Shear us clean, we’ll never swerve.
The pauper’s blind, exhausted, mute,
Too crushed to rise, too worn to shoot.
And if you fleece the millions well,
You’ll climb straight up the wealthiest hell.
Yet no need to be “president” —
He’s just excrement well spent
By the BEASTS that stand above him.
On our rooftops filth they’re shoving.
Roofs collapse, minds crack and bend —
The poor become the BEASTS’ dividend.
Nations turned to counterfeits long ago;
Propaganda floods the flow.
The nonsense preached by ruling swine
Falls on dead souls just like wine.
Pavel Chichikov now seems almost quaint and silly,
For today the masses freely
Walk half-dead or wholly hollow —
Darkness loves enormous numbers to follow.
Single souls don’t interest Evil;
CowID exposed that upheaval.
Mind and spirit mostly slain —
Thus the Camp shall rise again.
Red cross blazing on white banners,
Murder masked as caring manners.
Those not executed outright
Rot away in slow twilight.
---------------------
Dead souls fill the counterfeit states,
Fed on slogans, fear, and lies.
When spirit dies inside the herd,
The digital prison rises.
---------------------
Corpse-Lilies
All efforts seem so useless,
All labor turns to dust.
The BEASTS alone are thunderous —
They own the screens we trust.
Politicians fill their pockets,
Blackmail forged in iron chains.
A fascist world of crawling filth
Where vermin thrive and reign.
And like a lily “fragrant,”
This rotting order blooms —
A stench of slavish living
That poisons all the rooms.
Mind, Honor, Truth, and Conscience
Grow weak in poisoned clay;
The soil is wrong for goodness
In this diseased decay.
Yet still one must keep striving,
If only for the Soul —
Not to become corrupted:
No higher human goal.
---------------------
The swamp rewards the loudest beasts,
While truth decays unseen.
Still guard your soul against the rot —
That fight alone stays clean.
---------------------
Geniuses of Sarcasm
Dedicated to Vladimir Polyakov
“They’ll brand upon each forehead deep
The mark that we are free.”
— Vladimir Polyakov, “Half-Pirozhki”
“I thought I’d hit the very bottom —
Then someone knocked from underneath.”
— Stanisław Jerzy Lec
Before great Stanisław Jerzy Lec, Polyakov rises
Like a mountain, though Lec’s immense.
Not with salt but pepper in the wounds
He sharpened wit to fierce offense.
Rams are frightened of such pastries,
Spiced with fire instead of balm.
Yet for others pain becomes the springboard —
A leap beyond the global calm.
One must leap out of this madness
Where the crippled world now lies.
Half a dose of biting sarcasm
Heals the mind that hasn’t died.
Throw red pepper on the open wounds —
And don’t forget the acid rain.
If you dare within the realm of language,
Beauty will not die in vain.
Beauty’s fragile — thus the Warrior
Of the Word is needed still.
Break the pillars of all slavish systems:
Strike with language — strike with will!
---------------------
Sarcasm burns like acid fire,
But wakes the sleeping brain.
Strike harder with the living Word —
Or Beauty dies in chains.
---------------------
Discoveries at the Tip of a Pen
Thus Pluto once was found —
So distant, dark, profound.
But Mars mankind knew well:
The god of war and hell.
The poet studies nearer things —
The madness of the crowd,
Aggression, spite, corrupted souls,
All screaming harsh and loud.
And sometimes at the pen’s sharp tip
There yawns a RAT’S DARK HOLE —
A black-hole pit consuming minds,
Devouring heart and soul.
Time to bury such a burrow deep…
Yet now that hole’s the world itself,
Where Satan sits enthroned above
And spirit dies on every shelf.
For poets this world turns to target practice:
He stands exposed, alone and poor.
A naked witness in a firing range,
Still striking darkness evermore.
---------------------
At the pen-tip waits a blackened hole
Where rotten ages swirl.
The poet sees what crowds ignore —
A rat-hole called “the world.”
---------------------
Joyful Daily Hard Labor
Five a.m. — the waking hour,
Out you crawl from cramped “home-shower.”
Let the tunnel air run through —
Clear the mind of sleep and dew.
Since no sun-god lights your fate,
No Ra guides you, warm and great,
Off to work — and shout with cheer:
“Hurrah!” though nothing good is near.
---------------------
At dawn you rise, the bell rings loud,
No sun god smiles above the crowd.
Still march ahead, and shout “Hooray!” —
To grind another wasted day.
---------------------
Ark
Boredom, sorrow — all a mess,
No more bread or emptiness
Of “entertainment,” lies, and show —
When fascism runs the flow.
Its foundation: pure stupidity,
Spreading wide like dark acidity.
Few remain with clear perception —
Earth decays through mass infection.
Thus the world has long been testing
Human stock in failed investing —
Monsters born from human clay,
Broken experiment gone astray.
Even Hell receives the payment,
Wrapped in fate like twisted statement.
Then again a new Noa builds
An ark of life before it spills.
Pairs of creatures, saved from flame,
Leave behind the world of shame —
Sailing off from cursed ground
Toward a darker Hell profound.
---------------------
When fools and lies consume the land,
And madness takes its toll,
The Ark departs with trembling life —
From one Hell to the next it rolls.
---------------------
Gadget
A gadget —
pure decay:
the mind runs loose
and breaks away.
Mass-produced, it floods the feed,
cheap noise sold as “daily need.”
Brains go soft, the circuits rot —
a sewer dressed as something “hot.”
---------------------
Gadgets shine — but rot inside,
Mind dissolves in constant tide.
Mass-made trash in endless stream,
Turning thought into a scream.
---------------------
Erudition of Nonsense
“An intelligence unscarred by memory is truly free.”
— Jiddu Krishnamurti
Not quite free — yet more expansive
Is the mind when lies are shed.
With such lies the road is fashioned
Straight to Hell, where souls lie dead.
The crowd is stuffed with pure absurdity,
Engineered by BEASTS unseen.
With such noise you cannot truly
Be yourself — the mind turns green,
Rotting slowly under pressure
From the sludge that floods the brain.
So forget it all — and clearly
Gaze upon your prison’s chain.
Walls are built from purest nonsense,
Condensed madness, thick and dense.
Only listen to the Heart now —
Memory becomes the fence.
Memory’s scars are wounds of insult,
Left within the prison’s night.
Leeches know this well and deepen
Every cut with twisted spite.
All these manufactured sorrows
Multiply the wounded trace,
Till no sign of truth remains there,
No “stop” can break the race.
Stop believing what they pour in,
Filling mind with filth and lies.
Thus the soul is slowly murdered
While the mocking laughter rises.
---------------------
Break the lies that cage the mind,
Let false memory fade away.
Only then the Heart sees clearly —
Through the prison’s ruined grey.
---------------------
Genocide
Gun and sight, and foolish “darling,”
caught beneath the war horn’s snarling.
Meat-assault—“save bodies!” crying,
while the soul is quietly dying.
You’ll receive a Joseph Kobzon concert,
marching straight into the monster.
Then to Hell of quiet fools,
broken minds and broken rules.
The scheme of genocide stays steady:
once again the fool is ready.
Sent to war and endless labor,
“for your care” — they still enslave her.
Crushed to dust in every age,
turned to powder, cleared the stage.
---------------------
Guns and lies and smiling blindness,
marching in obedient lines.
The fool is ground by “care” and “kindness” —
while the system tightens chains.
---------------------
Cheap and Worthless Films
Nonsense, drag, and empty showing —
That’s the cinema today.
Hours of dull, mindless flowing,
Nothing real to say.
Rare exceptions barely surface,
Lost inside the mass-produced.
All the rest is slick illusion,
Cheap and endlessly reused.
---------------------
,,
Empty films and hollow screen —
Same recycled waste again.
Truth is rare and barely seen
In this factory of pain.
---------------------
Partisans in the Forest
In the forest, deep and hidden,
Partisans, once battle-bidden,
Healed their wounds and scars of war —
Then forgot what they fought for.
Suddenly a picnic started,
Fire in their souls departed.
Struggle faded into haze —
Comfort won its empty praise.
World outside reflects that story:
Turning humans into quarry.
All that matters now is pleasure —
Drink and food and lust as treasure.
Gas is drifting through the forest
To erase each protest chorus.
With that gas come fake diseases —
Mind itself soon dies and ceases…
CowID has shown the pattern clearly —
Mind is nearly broken nearly.
Only pleasure now survives
While decay of spirit thrives.
---------------------
From fighters turned to comforted sleep,
The will to resist decays.
And while the world sinks into rot,
They numb themselves with haze.
---------------------
Paradoxical States
You’ll be given a parachute that’s torn and full of holes,
If fear of falling quietly controls your inner soul.
Dragged off toward the camps, resisting nothing, meek and still,
If you “respect” the power that bends you to its will.
Safety promised turns to danger, trust becomes the blade,
And every system built on fear is carefully displayed.
---------------------
Fear buys you a broken chute,
Obedience — the cage.
The more you trust the ruling hand,
The deeper grows the stage.
---------------------
The Squirrel-in-the-Wheel Motivator
What is the core of running round?
To be “like all,” to stay in bound?
No — fear is what the system breeds,
The root from which the motion feeds.
If paradise is promised far,
If heaven waits beyond the scar,
The ruling hand won’t interfere,
Nor let exhaustion bring you near.
A “ladder up” is shown ahead,
While crumbs of hope keep mouths well-fed.
And so you run with frantic pace,
Erasing thought, erasing face.
You spin to blur the passing days,
To drown in motion’s foggy haze.
And call the cage a forest wide —
While terror keeps you trapped inside.
---------------------
Run faster in the spinning wheel,
Forget what fear would make you feel.
For in that blur of endless chase
The cage becomes a “natural place.”
---------------------
A Poet’s Grip of Mind
A poet needs a mind that’s sharp,
Not murky thoughts that strain and warp.
For those who churn in fog and fuss
Burn out too fast, and then become thus:
They chase the hollow spark of “fame,”
And learn to serve the crowd’s dull game.
They bend to mob and low desire,
And feed a world that sinks still lower in the mire.
---------------------
A dull mind burns, then fades away,
Chasing applause from the grey.
But sharp thought cuts through noise and lies —
And only that survives.
---------------------
“Weightiness”
Work harder — don’t slow down, don’t stray,
And everything will be “okay.”
Though heart and pulse may wear away,
Just smile and keep your role at play.
Don’t dare step out, don’t leave the race —
“Success” is waiting in that place.
You’ll end up heavy — but not wise —
A solid scum in business guise.
---------------------
Work, suffer, run — don’t break the chain,
And call your loss “success” again.
You’ll win your prize: a heavy name,
And rot inside the game.
Reviews and Ratings
“Disgusting!” — that’s the medal
For a poet worth his flame.
Craving praise from minds so feeble
Is a loser’s little game.
Loathsome slavery and blindness —
If you strike at chains this way,
Then the drones, through spite and mindlessness,
Rage and bark their souls away.
Calling chaos “something vital,”
Worshipping this grand decay,
Bound by Stockholm dreams and idols,
They defend the fraud each day.
Thus the madhouse, bought and rotten,
Will condemn what dares rebel —
For a world completely broken
Never judges truth too well.
---------------------
Their “disgust” — a badge of fire,
Proof the verse has struck the bone.
Slaves defend their chains with vigor —
And condemn the truth alone.
---------------------
Self-Parody
“No matter how you feed a donkey steroids, it still won’t turn into a stallion.”
— Ancient wisdom of highly qualified long-distance runners.
A runner drowns inside the marathon,
A poet — in his verse and raging blaze.
And if your