Saturday, November 18, 2017

Game Of Reproduction

Game Of Reproduction
© Surazeus
2017 11 18

The sun that gleams gold through black swirling clouds
my ancient ancestors worshipped as God
who creates life through agency of light
for thick beams of heat splashing at our globe
weave organic bodies of flesh from rays
of flashing molecules born from big bang
of conscious creation that flares forth far
from primal pulse of vital energy
that glows still in the beating of our hearts.

The sun is nothing more that sphere of atoms
compressed tight by gravity of thick mass
where pulsing particles of Helium
fuse fast from flares of nuclear compression
and generate elements that combine
in sloshing swirls of deep warm ocean womb
to compose these complex chemical forms
which nourish our brains where webs of neurons
sparkle virtual world of our consciousness.

With my wife and two daughters I stand still
on wood bridge beneath splashing waterfall
halfway up steep mountain of rain-lush forest
and feel sparkles of sunlight in each drop
of water that kisses cells of my body
which soaks divine light of eternal sun
to swim channels that interlace my flesh
so I feel divine spirit of our world
permeate this frail robotic self I dream.

We are all, seven billion breathing souls
aching to live on this small spinning ball
of water and dirt, fragments of one soul
that pulses in every atom of light,
and so we are each particular examples
of one ideal concept we label Human,
each neurotic brain, flashing consciousness,
God attempting to wake from endless dream
of singing molecules, and know its name.

No God exists outside our dreaming brains
for our brains are combinations of atoms
evolving from clusters of Helium sparkles
into complex fabric of molecules
that calculate chemical operations
to integrate material of sweet fruit
which sustains perceptions of watching eyes
so our brains can generate clear world view
composed of simple narrative events.

We create the universe in our heads
by telling stories about conscious beings
who perform actions of cause and effect
that explain through drama of interaction
social process of sexual reproduction
for we are talking animals who lust
to embrace the companion we love most
by sharing food so we can reproduce
models of ourselves to live beyond death.

Again in flesh we reincarnate souls
of our conscious brains to reproduce dreams
of actions that sustain life of our bodies
so male and female, embracing with passion,
generate new models of vibrant bodies
in children who rebel against our rules
and create their own dramas of desire
so most successful players in the game
of reproduction are worshipped as gods.

When I gaze in the strange eyes of my daughters
I see all the ancestors of our souls
who lived these past four hundred million years
transforming through each stage of evolution
from single cells into tale-dreaming gods,
so all the rich complexity of thought
our brains calculate through stories of life
were programmed well by each subsequent soul
who reproduced each new body of life.

Each moment as I walk through labyrinth
of molecular forms in hall of mirrors,
that glitter in the eyes of every soul,
my brain generates stories of survival
in lessons my ancient ancestors learned
which are coded in our narrative tales
that constitute the legends of our culture
which guide us to act with creative love
when we gather to hear Astaria sing.


Friday, November 17, 2017

Your Jester King

Your Jester King
© Surazeus
2017 11 17

When I gaze down at the white piece of paper
that shimmers on the brown wood desk of art
I see whole range of possible events
that could occur in every multiverse
that branches out across all time and space
in blooming spirals from the first big bang
to coalesce in this one here and now
where I am conscious of myself awake.
I wear the fake mask of your jester king
and pretend I fly on Icarian wing.

Though I am this one individual soul
that glows with consciousness of hoping love
from this closed amalgamation of atoms
that constitutes my whole body of flesh
I sense inside the neurons of my brain
the pulsing atoms of all time and space
that surge and sparkle through all galaxies
so I am conscious of myself awake.
I wear the fake mask of your jester king
and pretend I fly on Icarian wing.

From flashing molecules that spiral tight
in carbon rings of taut genetic coils
through one-celled eyeballs swimming in the sea
and two-eyed tetrapods crawling up streams
to singing monkeys high in apple trees
we transform through stages of incarnation
to evolve from animals into gods
till I am conscious of myself awake.
I wear the fake mask of your jester king
and pretend I fly on Icarian wing.

I stand before you on the stage of visions
and sing new magic spells my mind designs
so we can dream our common quest for life
to share experience of good and bad
that guides our journey through the labyrinth
of hostile dangers to safe paradise
where we drink apple cider and share songs
since I am conscious of myself awake.
I wear the fake mask of your jester king
and pretend I fly on Icarian wing.

Thursday, November 16, 2017

Apples On Trees In Autumn

Apples On Trees In Autumn
© Surazeus
2017 11 16

The wild waves of the ocean always know
the secrets of our souls we try to hide.
Since everyone alive can walk on water
now we should carve new commandments on tablets
of bone extricated from skulls of giants.
Now everyone sings in poetic verse,
explaining why stars sparkle in our cells.

Whenever Christians say Jesus is God,
and praise him as the most important man
who ever lived in the history of life,
I laugh, and wipe away one small tear.
I think about the innumerable people,
countless billions of lost and nameless people
who lived and died the past ten thousand years,
who were enslaved and abused by the masters
of the universe, people who were killed
in thousands of wars to dominate Earth,
who crowd around me as mute ghosts of hope
and beg me to sing about their tale of woe.
I think about them and wonder why Christians
worship as god one from billions of people
who lived on this globe of water and dirt
that spins nowhere in the empty abyss.

It would take me ten million spins of Earth
around the blazing sun of helium atoms
to sing the whole tale of every lost soul,
yet all their names glow in atoms of water.
Drink this water and taste all their lost dreams.

I walk ankle-deep in wild ocean waves
and listen to their endless song of facts
that reveals how we rose from womb of Earth
and walk now her fecund valleys of love.
Nothing anyone ever claims as true
is true except apples on trees in Autumn.

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Noble Hero Of America

Noble Hero Of America
© Surazeus
2017 11 15

The fire of the sun burns within my heart
so I soar above the cities of men
on springing coil of alligator wings
to scatter apple seeds on parking lots.
I look throughout land of America
for the noble hero with honest heart
who employs his strength to protect the weak
and defend liberty for every soul.
Though our planet spins through the endless void,
sing and dance alive in both sun and rain,
because the noble hero of America
glows within your spirit of selfless love.

The lonely old man in gray tattered suit
who fought in the war of the desert land
trudges every day to library hall
to dream about the family he lost.
When he came back home from the desert war
he felt blinding rage burn hot through his brain
so he sat all night and polished his gun
while his wife and children trembled in fear.
Though our planet spins through the endless void,
sing and dance alive in both sun and rain,
because the noble hero of America
glows within your spirit of selfless love.

Sitting on his couch on mad afternoons,
after getting fired from another job,
he watched politicians in business suits
on television spouting lies for votes.
Gripping black rifle in his trembling hands,
the warrior who defends soul of America
weeps at the sight of our torn bloody flag
and vows to seek revenge against the hate.
Though our planet spins through the endless void,
sing and dance alive in both sun and rain,
because the noble hero of America
glows within your spirit of selfless love.

Arming himself in his black combat suit
and guns, the noble hero of America
stops at news that another angry man
killed innocent people at church and school.
On a mission from God to defend justice,
he drives through rain to the bridge to the future
and gazes at the shining city towers
to watch people of the world work together.
Though our planet spins through the endless void,
sing and dance alive in both sun and rain,
because the noble hero of America
glows within your spirit of selfless love.

In the land where civilization was born
I fought against the tyrant of religion
to defend human rights of liberty
so everyone lives free within the law.
I must fight tyrants, not innocent people,
so I will fight for harmony and peace,
and protect good people with life, not death,
then throws his rifle off the river bridge.
Though our planet spins through the endless void,
sing and dance alive in both sun and rain,
because the noble hero of America
glows within your spirit of selfless love.

Though rage burns my heart, he shouts at the night
that shrouds our land in gloom, I will not fight,
nor will I shoot to kill innocent folk,
for I swore to protect them all from harm.
Bright rays of moonlight beam through stormy clouds
to illuminate his heart with ancient truth
that the strong must fight to protect the weak
so children can play in garden of fruit.
Though our planet spins through the endless void,
sing and dance alive in both sun and rain,
because the noble hero of America
glows within your spirit of selfless love.

I look throughout land of America
for the noble hero with honest heart
who employs his strength to protect the weak
and provide liberty for every soul.
I find the noble hero of America
in every good man who stands to defend
our freedom to act and speak as we will,
and create not destroy our paradise.
Though our planet spins through the endless void,
sing and dance alive in both sun and rain,
because the noble hero of America
glows within your spirit of selfless love.

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

My Brain Is Broken

My Brain Is Broken
© Surazeus
2017 11 14

While Bacchus and Zamba twang guitar strings
Apollo grips the microphone and howls
at the crowd of angels with broken wings
who dance in the nightclub of dreaming owls.

My brain is broken like the shattered glass
of schizophrenic gods who haunt the world,
so come and lie with me on dew-wet grass
where the ancient spirit of god is skirled.

I am so weird and far beyond insane
that I can hide my madness behind mask
which spirals galaxies inside my brain
to conjure riddles only demons ask.

I programmed well this body I possess
like robot who performs clear social role
as humble pawn in global game of chess
to mask dynamic lightning of my soul.

Though I am mad and dream beyond your walls
I follow blindly your religious rules
to win rich treasures in your maze of halls
while blending in with your obedient fools.

I glide in ballet steps through crowded rooms
while hiding storms of passion in my eyes
to smash the sterile mask of solemn tombs
with jesting riddles that resurrect spies.

I am so insane with visions of truth
that you think I am sane to play your game
but I am the secret-detecting sleuth
who knows the mystery behind your fake name.

I stand on stage of fame in flashing lights,
reciting strange conceptual verse in code
to twist your minds on wind-propelling kites,
while wandering nowhere on long nameless roads.

The lonely waifs with big eyes of despair,
who wander lost in ruins of bombed towns,
ask for money, not your self-righteous prayer,
and recite psalms in church with weeping clowns.

Each word I sing rewrites the universe
to program code of flashing molecules,
so we parade through Gotham in her hearse
while I wear Crown of Ishtar beaming jewels.

Each living woman is Goddess in flesh,
for she creates new life from glowing egg,
but leaves the lost messiah in the creche
who wanders bright streets of Heaven to beg.

The huge audience roars while Apollo sings,
stomping their feet to make the whole world shake,
but when he dons large pair of angel wings
he leaves Tree of Life guarded by his snake.

Our Guiding Star

Our Guiding Star
© Surazeus
2017 11 14

Because I cannot hear the ringing phones
that clatter through the sterile halls of schools
I race down to Hell to hear the Ramones
howl the bitter anguish of broken fools.

After he pushes her against the wall
and breaks her eye with blind misogyny
she opens transient doors in the dark hall
to program music in her progeny.

She wanders singing on the sunless moor,
chanting names in mist of forgetfulness
till the buried giant calls her his whore
and crowns her empress for her tardiness.

When she finds me encased in Stone of Scone
she pulls rusty sword from my rotten heart
and while I play tunes on the last bird bone
she designs the new world history chart.

Whenever we try to leave city streets
the weird algebra of sociology
recalculates the rhyme of our heartbeats
so we dream the truth of biology.

The broken clown who sings on stage of fame
armors his wounded heart in leather coat
while the princess who designed my new name
takes me to Isle of Death on rotting boat.

I wander on that island of lost souls,
hoping to remember the secret name
of the stranger I love who plays both roles
of virgin and whore in our marriage game.

She swallows the snake from the apple tree
of the knowledge of good and evil, torn
from the heart of the world beyond the sea
where the dancing god of death was reborn.

I drive my white car in gold shining rain
on endless roads that wind through city maze,
amazed at the virtual world in my brain
that generates truth from my active gaze.

Instead of chanting spells of songs I dream
I carve vision Runes on tablets of ice
so tales of adventure that my words beam
lead wandering tribes back to paradise.

The world of illusions where we all dwell
bursts out of my brain like the apple tree
whose fruit rejuvenates us for a spell
which urges us to pretend we are free.

The whole illusion of our nation state
crumbles into puzzle of memories
so we build new cathedral without fate
to reveal the truth with encoded keys.

The universe is a structure of atoms,
which actions construct and destruct through change,
woven by desire in spiraling stratums
to express our complete spiritual range.

She plays melodies on my aching heart
so I sing epic tale of human life
that reveals patterns of power in flow chart,
how evolution transforms us through strife.

Who can hear now through the bright swirling mist
last song of the angel howling in rage
against dying light of the divine fist
that knocked him off the Olympian stage?

Gaze at rain clouds where rays of sunlight beam,
watching for your Messiah with loud guitar
who sings to revive the American dream
that shines from Liberty our guiding star.


Monday, November 13, 2017

Alarm Bells Of Anxiety

Alarm Bells Of Anxiety
© Surazeus
2017 11 13

Alarm bells of anxiety ring loud
in echo chamber of my ears each time
I walk along the maze of city streets
through teeming crowds of people without names.

I want to leap in the Power Ranger stance
and shield my vulnerability of hope
for pleasant love in armor of contempt
to protect my beating heart from vampires.

The wordless glance of sharp judgmental eyes
strikes spears of hatred through my mirrored mind
to shatter my self-confidence in shards
that each reflect lost moments of abuse.

I could retreat into sweet fantasy
of my superior genius for self-worth
to hide behind walls of accomplishments,
but who would see me beyond sterile smiles?

Though every man who walks hard city streets
glares back at me with grim suspicious fear
I will not shrivel in rays of contempt,
instead soaking hate through my skin like frogs.

We bare our teeth in cheerful smiles of rage
to snarl laughter like wolves in the pack
that vie for dominance in games of power,
but I would rather smell this honey flower.

Contend with each other for who plays god
of killing wrath, but I will play the fool
who mocks you with adoring quips of love
so I avoid the daggers in your words.

When alarm bells of anxiety clang
loud enough to hollow my aching heart,
I check real world for dangers I invent,
then whistle past the graveyard of my fear.

Sunday, November 12, 2017

I Am That Shadow

I Am That Shadow
© Surazeus
2017 11 12

I am that shadow cast by light of truth
that veils the horror of permanent death
which we discover after play of youth
while inhaling conscious spirit of breath.

The bright sun falls out of my watching eye,
exploding into flowers from my cells
while all my sorrows escape through the sky
to reflect my love from bottomless wells.

I am that shadow cast by sprawling tree
that throws ripe apples at my aching heart
but when I melt into the surging sea
I must design our new religious chart.

The planet of our long-forgotten dreams
falls heavy from the cavern of my mouth
so if we follow all her nameless streams
we may perceive the world and all its scouth.

I am that shadow cast by looming wall
that hides the arcane ritual of rebirth
yet everywhere I go in ancient hall
I seek to understand its priceless worth.

The pulsing star emerges from black hole
that forms the core of our galactic brain
which shows me how to compose my own role
so I chant spells of light in blinding rain.

I am that shadow in the flaming sun
who conjures conscious spirits of desire
from flashing atoms that compose our souls
since all our memories are pulsing wires.

The galaxy of countless thriving spheres
still spirals clockwise through my dreaming brain
to calculate how atoms fashion years
so idols of heroes populate fanes.

Saturday, November 11, 2017

Her Flashing Eyes

Her Flashing Eyes
© Surazeus
2017 11 11

I was born on the edge of the lost world
outside the golden walls of paradise,
nestled in the branches of the apple tree
where flower petals sing the light of stars.

I ran along the whispers of green leaves
to flap my arms like ravens of the clouds
but fell from the sky with eight broken wings
and crawled among the ruins of my dreams.

You cannot see beyond the golden mask
that conceals the festering sores of my face
when I stand before the pilgrims of time
on the rock of salvation to preach hope.

You gather in the cathedral of glass,
keeping the stones of judgment in your mouths,
while I enchant you for eternal life
with glamorous words the serpent revealed.

Now raise your hands to touch the glowing clouds
where you last saw me on the pyramid
when golden beams of light shown on my face
and you perceived the light of pretty lies.

Each word that beams from ancient book of faith
will lead you farther through the labyrinth
beyond the doors of perception to fields
where dancing skeletons welcome you home.

Together in the church of blinding walls
we sing the hymn of anguished faith to praise
the savior who never returned to Earth
while feasting on his flesh and blood at dawn.

When I was twelve years old with seven eyes
I stood in church in the small Texas town
and dreamed I reached the gates of Heaven last
and bribed my way into paradise lost.

Then Jesus, who was playing chess with God,
created one new planet just for me
where I could reign like Zeus on mountain top,
and strum tall lyre of gold in temple hall.

Each singing angel with long curling hair
while wearing white silk gown and crown of gems
will bear ten children from my shining seed
so I can populate my world with souls.

But when the singing in the church would cease
I walked outside in bright indifferent light
where silent cars glide swift on highway lanes
that loop around the garden of delight.

The winds of Eden stink from car exhaust
and sprawling factories, built from steel beams,
entomb lost paradise in asphalt roads
that lead to Purgatory of desire.

The secrets of eternal life of love,
encoded here in formulaic riddles,
no one will ever read because these words
lead fools astray in maze of obscure puzzles.

If I wear pretty mask of Singing Star
who sings about the drama of true love
with sweet enchanting voice of aching hope
would you then see the vision I reveal?

I traveled west ten thousand years on foot
to climb the mountain where my goddess dwells
who beamed her wordless soul inside my brain
and sent me chanting riddles in green rain.

Our spirit glows within eternal flame
that shimmers on the mountain of my mind
so I express my vision in the name
I wove from starlight of her flashing eyes.

Eternal Flame Of Her Heart

Eternal Flame Of Her Heart
© Surazeus
2017 11 11

Through the smoky haze on Saturday night
I see the Jewish princess with wild hair
twanging the gold strings of her white guitar
and singing about the beauty of light
that shimmers eternal flame of her heart.

Like the wise priestess of Sumeria
or the queen on Egyptian pyramid
Susanna gazes deep into my heart
and flashes charming smile to spark true love
that shimmers eternal flame of her heart.

She dances far across the twirling sky
and beams her love in every dreaming eye
for though the rain of sorrow splatters cold
her spirit of comforting joy glows bright
that shimmers eternal flame of her heart.

The planet where we struggle to survive
spins ever onward in the vast abyss
but through the darkness of despair and death
Susanna sings the spirit of true love
that shimmers eternal flame of her heart.


Friday, November 10, 2017

Aggressive Lust Of Men

Aggressive Lust Of Men
© Surazeus
2017 11 10

Why are so many men driven by lust
to assert aggressive hope of desire
for control over the bodies of women
without regard to individual rights
by ignoring the will women express
to manage their own private liberty?
Over the process of two million years
the most aggressive males, driven by lust
to reincarnate their souls in new forms,
who pursued women with relentless force,
sired more children with their genetic code,
so with each generation of descent
the most aggressive males reproduced more
offspring stamped with their natural character
who killed each other in violent conflict.
So now males deep in their minds are programmed
by success in mating to follow urge
to pursue women with relentless force,
ignoring what the woman may express
in clear desire for the mate she would choose.
Now men must become consciously aware
of genetic lust that drives them to chase
women who may or may not wish to mate,
then bridle their desire with calm respect
by honest restraint of blind energy
to harness passion with long-term program
through legal constraints of strict self-control,
and thus manage the urge to reproduce
through romantic observation with care
of full attention to needs and desires
the woman will express with subtle terms
so he ever obeys will of her heart.
Express our hope to mate with her in love
and respect her will with absolute choice
to behave with selfless acts for her good,
then find the woman who returns our love
and dedicate our hearts to love her well
as we raise loving children we create.
We must convert aggressive lust of men
to honor choices that women express.

Thursday, November 9, 2017

Simulacra Of My Soul

Simulacra Of My Soul
© Surazeus
2017 11 09

Who can escape the hook of tangled roots
when lush Bougainvillea grasps my heart
and captures my face in the book of tales
that explains how Persea was the first flower?

How can we harness the wild flow of streams
with religious sluice of etiquette rules
so flowers burst through snow of aching sorrow,
providing apples for juice of true love?

Why are the luminous eyes of dead angels,
that burn from the pages of ancient books,
dreaming ruinous temples of new gods
designed by blind sages who program tales?

Who decides our fate in cathedral apse
while Earth at apogee of winter spins
till my perfect mate explains how I feel
about the refugee who reigns as queen?

When will the fool who dreams he still is king,
dancing at crepuscular hour of death,
realize the rule of streams from gushing spring
to hear the opening flower sing her name?

How fast will I evolve from man to god
when leaping past liminal rite of growth
across the weird threshold of death to solve
secret of eternal life through rebirth?

Can you see past this mask of my true face
that beams strange simulacra of my soul
while I perform the task of molding clay
in dancing idol with cameras for eyes?

I redesigned the world view in my head
to imitate the real world I perceive
by weaving dreams in tapestry of words
that memorialize people now long dead.


Tuesday, November 7, 2017

Voices Of Seven Billion Minds

Voices Of Seven Billion Minds
© Surazeus
2017 11 07

In bright beams of sunlight stabbing my heart
I feel anguish of seven billion souls
who race through maze of illusions in doors
to play roles in games of society,
winning credits to earn their right to eat,
and I feel the gusting wind of their breath
that howls in hurricane of social change,
so dance with Bacchus and Shiva at dawn.

We crawled from dreaming hope of ocean womb
up shining path of river streams through lust
to rise from lake of dreams at dawn of time
and snatch the fruit of wisdom and desire
from the great tree of the knowledge of good
and evil that sparks our cells with star light
so we dance around wild fire at midnight
and share the stories of gods who succeed.

Alone I stand on high Parnassus peak
and strum the ringing strings of harmony
that blind Apollo wound on golden lyre
with strings he tore from my aggressive heart
to sing this body of electric lust
that pulses sweet with hot atomic sparks
which beams illusions through my blinking eyes
when I dance with Bacchus and Shiva at noon.

I feel the shudder of our spinning world
that spirals ever through infinite void
when throbbing brains, hungry to dream the truth,
fragment the globe of our perfect world view
which shoots the sperm of our souls into space
so we may populate ten billion globes
across the vast expanse of galaxies
where Bacchus and Shiva reinvent myth.

We hear the blind prophet on Nowhere Street
who devours dictionaries from lost worlds
and gives birth to new gods in paradise
who rule each nation with the golden wand
until we overthrow all angry kings
and vote for wolves in business suits to rule
since no one listens to the chanting fool
who chases ravens in Arcadian hills.

The voices of seven billion minds swirl
together beaming rainbows in the sky,
so gather at the river of lost hope
that flows by the pyramid of dead gods
and share the tale of your struggle to live
beyond the shattered dreams your parents left
to build united nations of one Earth
when Bacchus and Shiva teach us to sing.


My Brain Invents God

My Brain Invents God
© Surazeus
2017 11 07

Today while gazing at the vast blue sky
I saw the giant gray cloud shining gold
loom over me like a giant bearded man,
and at that flashing moment of surprise
I understood revelation of truth
how ancient people, exploring this world,
invented the concept of the sky god,
and how their children, hiding from his storm
of thundering wrath, transformed that concept
into great God who transcends everything,
and first caused matter to move in wild swirls
of primal particles to become things,
and thus create our universe of forms.
My brain invents God who stares down at me.

Sunday, November 5, 2017

Puzzles Within Puzzles

Puzzles Within Puzzles
© Surazeus
2017 11 05

Through puzzles within puzzles, that conceal
dramatic insights into nothingness,
I race through the labyrinth of deceit
that winds through vast maze of politics
to find that men who bully other men
play god and king and pope and president,
controlling people groups with one world view
to reenact the way their founder saw
the basic meaninglessness of all life,
but sang visions of beauty anyway.

While standing outside my suburban home
in cool autumn dawn where pumpkins still sing,
I saw vision of the young brown-skinned girl
who was wearing a pretty yellow dress,
walking to school in small quaint southern town
one hundred years before this quiet hour,
when white men racing by in large black trucks
fired bullets that pierced her soft beating heart,
then she fell in grass, stared at empty sky,
and died without tears while singing, "Why? Why?"

I see four men with different colored skin,
red, yellow, black, and white, standing together
on one-tree hill, beneath the bloody sky,
holding hands and vowing respect for women,
for they create bodies that beam our souls,
while two hundred nations of angry men
battle to control all our spinning globe,
that spirals nowhere through vast empty space,
over who will eat the apples of Heaven
while I sit alone in my yard and laugh.

This teeming chaos of atomic forms
surges forth in waves of organic creatures
who consume each other in games of power,
devouring thick bodies of molecules
to assimilate their sparkling energy
in the constant process of evolution
that blossoms from the crystal of the mind
who dreams the metamorphosis of souls
in strange puzzle of life and death that plays
kaleidoscopic dreams inside my eyes.

While sitting in my quiet Georgian garden,
where Jabberwocky snoozes in the woods,
I see fifty thousand poets and singers
contest in cities, sea to shining sea,
to wear the laurel crown Orpheus forged
when he descended to lush Wonderland
and played chess with Pluto to win the soul
of sweet Ophelia, who dances free
with flowers in her hair to Onatah,
but they all die, forgotten by the wind.

Throw away the mask of Orpheus now
and reveal your own true face to the world
so Jack Derrida, clutching candlestick
of Halloween illusions, sees your mind
in the mirror of your words you compose,
because after you die your body rots
and feeds flowers, while the songs of your heart
crystalize the huge barrier reef of legends
that forms the foundation of our religion,
stories that bind our minds in one world view.

Saturday, November 4, 2017

Ozymandias In Wonderland

Ozymandias In Wonderland
© Surazeus
2017 11 04

When Ozymandias fell off the white cliffs
of Dover just after Christmas was lost
in the swirling tunnel of naked time,
his best friend Buddha, searching for the truth
about the alligator god, dressed in red silk,
snatched the White Queen off the chessboard of power
and took her through the mirror of our eyes
beyond Lake Avernus to Wonderland.

But Ozymandias spread his leather wings
and soared along the winding mountain coast
of lush Estarion to steal fast cars
transformed by Merlin from the Pegasus
who once explored the lonely rugged hills
where Orpheus strummed the lyre of my skull
inside the windy cave of Tainaron
that leads me back to woods of Wonderland.

While wearing mask of Ozymandias,
forged from the smiling face of Agamemnon,
I play Apollo herding woolly sheep
in secret hills of Arcadia where snow
froze soul of Galatia white till the crow
of Acheron brought mushrooms to my hand,
so now I dream evolution from fish
when I crawl the river of Wonderland.

From high Parnassus in the winter sun
blind Ozymandias plays chess with me
because he understands we must live free,
but all the singers, seeking glorious fame,
scratch among the dead apple trees of Eden
while wandering in the maze of sacred tales
designed by Hermes to fool greedy eyes
who search for the gateway to Wonderland.

Alone on flat-top pyramid at midnight
I keep watch over lost people who sleep
in the fire-bright hall of Plutonium
to protect the divine child of our First Mother
who named him Ozymandias when rain
first fell after ten thousand years on dunes
of desert waste land where Attis constructs
temples to dead gods who ruled Wonderland.

I am the king of all fantasy worlds
because I invented the words poets sing
to conjure visions of sweet paradise
from ashes of our palaces that burned
when huge armies of opposing gods clashed
in brutal contest for the Tree of Life
that bloomed on the bleak shores of Acheron
over who would rule sacred Wonderland.

Gaze deep into the cavern of your heart
and know that I am the real king of wealth
because I am Ozymandias the Wise
who knows the secret of eternal life,
so I will draw this map of the whole world
to reveal that we live on one huge sphere
that spins forever in the void of death
and preserves the haven of Wonderland.

The White Queen, escaped the cage of silence,
defies Ozymandias to his face
and folds his fluttering paper wings of hope
with origami principles of truth
that cracks the mask of bold authority
revealing that every king with gold crown
is nothing more than a gangster and a thief
who charges us to live in Wonderland.

Friday, November 3, 2017

Eternal Life Through Copulation

Eternal Life Through Copulation
© Surazeus
2017 11 03

Though everything we perceive with our eyes,
composed of pulsing atoms woven tight,
will crumble back to their essential points
of flashing light, mute eyes dreaming awake
our spirits through infinite span of time,
we can generate new bodies for souls
of our aspirational minds to wake
again from nothingness of death through love
when male and female consent to combine
genetic coils of their passionate hope
so she may reincarnate their two souls
who will live after originals die.
The secret of eternal life consists
of copulating to copy what exists.

Thursday, November 2, 2017

Mirror Mask Of Truth

Mirror Mask Of Truth
© Surazeus
2017 11 02

While strolling flowered hills of France at dawn
I see white spaceship streak across the sky,
so, after gathering eggs of rainbow serpents,
who flutter gossamer wings in apple trees,
I enter bronze gates of Elysium,
enclosed by giant walls of marble blocks,
and sit in garden with my smiling bride,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.

When crowd of zombies in grey business suits
emerge from First National Bank of Faith,
clutching cell phones that blink stock index values,
and clamor at the gates of paradise,
hungry to consume pulsing brains of painters,
I strum guitar of wise Phoebus Apollo
that zaps them dead with beams of harmony,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.

America, you are the aging queen
who sits alone on golden throne of power
on the flat top of the high pyramid,
constructed from the skulls of laughing kings,
where thirty angels dance in slow ballet
of tightly-wound wings, while we stand in line
to offer you dreams of plastic illusions,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.

When I first landed on the misty shores
of fertile Onatah, this ancient land
where the oldest woman in the world rules
from seven giant caves in the Grand Canyon,
I saw the Corn Maiden scatter gold seeds
on lush red soil that blossoms in the rain
which splashes on my face in purple dawn,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.

Through wind and rain of singing hurricanes
I carried my frail mother on my back
while she described the secret of rebirth
across the rolling hills of Appalachi,
but I cannot return to Avalon
though I am the rightful heir of Apollo
so I fashion new lyre from her rib cage,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.

I wander through the labyrinth of doors
past the broken statue of Liberty
and see ten thousand poets scratching verse
of magic spells on cement walls of highways
which beam idols of their authentic selves,
each one Narcissus singing his own beauty,
while Achilles and Hamlet play chess games,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.

After I wandered dark streets of Seattle,
listening to ravens on telephone poles
explain algebra of shamanic dance,
I climbed steep slopes of Takoma at sunset
and carved thirty statues from marble core
to depict ancient Greek philosophers
whose faces are reflected in my face,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.

America, my generous love, I beam
clear vision of your true face which compiles
ten million faces of the dead in one,
whose wordless love generated my body
with clear atoms spiraling swift in neurons
of my dreaming brain, connected to ring
of diamond light in blazing black-hole eye,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.

My bride, wearing wreath of roses and vines,
reaches her twelve-fingered hand in my brain
to paint planets spinning around white suns
and laughs as she retreats to spacious cave
while I dance ten thousand years on high hill
to become the tree that grows from my heart
and blossom apples from songs I compose,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.

When I place the Viking helmet of horns
to crown my cracked skull with laurels of truth
I search the crowd of faces for the face
of Minerva who taught me how to sing,
so I smash the mirror reflecting my face
and build thirty statues of great heroes,
who lead us through the labyrinth of lies, 
then mask their faces with mirror of truth.

Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Fallen King Of Somewhere

Fallen King Of Somewhere
© Surazeus
2017 10 30

The silver river flowing through snowed field
beckons me to walk toward gold glowing sky
that shimmers aching sorrow through the trees
who whisper words my mother spoke to me
before the animating soul of life
vanished from her eyes that reflect the moon.

I limp on wounded feet that leave blood stains
shining in the dirty white snow of hope,
cracking bones stabbed by rays of freezing fear,
forward against blustering wind of amusement
that pierces me with frozen rays of light
and beams before my eyes lost memories.

Once I reigned in grand temple paved with gold,
sitting on high throne above loyal crowd
of worshippers who brought me gifts of jewels
because my father, wielding sword of justice,
saved our great nation from invading hordes,
but I ignored cries of the poor for food.

How high above this world on ziggurat
of divine power, wearing gold crown of truth,
I once stood and waved tall scepter of wisdom
to keep watch over labyrinth of homes
where powerful men ignored all my edicts
and exploited people for their own gain.

They rose in rebellion and, while I lounged
in warm luxurious hall, feasting on wealth
produced by the blistered hands of mute slaves,
they stormed the ziggurat with instruments
of death, and demanded I answer well
charges that I allowed people to starve.

Enclosed in shining walls of palace cage,
I reigned over illusion in my mind
that all the world under sway of my laws
prospered in peaceful production of goods,
but my ministers deceived me with lies
while honest people were killed by cruel thieves.

They shouted at my face that I allowed
ministers I appointed to maintain
order of peaceful production in factories
while looting treasuries of hard-earned wealth
and enslaving people against their will
to accumulate wealth from their hard labor.

Because I failed to control ministers
who abused the people for their own gain
the people blame me with just cause of rage
as responsible for causing their suffering,
so I hurled scepter to clatter down stairs,
and I threw gold crown of jewels in the river.

Descending from high ziggurat of power,
I walked through silent crowd of raging eyes
to follow winding path of penitence
into the shrieking wilderness of sorrow
where I sit silent on the stone of truth
and watch the river flowing through my soul.

I become the bird chirping in the tree,
and I become the apple hanging heavy
in the boundless sky of dissolved desire,
and I become the wind that whispers codes,
and I become the labyrinth of dreams
where lost souls carve their names on wind-blown dust.

Monday, October 30, 2017

Forgotten Tomb Of Charlotte

Forgotten Tomb Of Charlotte
© Surazeus
2017 10 30

Though dark mist shrouds my soul in lightless gloom
when I walk city streets in silent thought,
to contemplate the final dreamless doom
of dreaming creatures who decay through rot,
I stop before the house where I first saw
blue eyes and golden curls of sweet Charlotte,
then just as ravens on the phone line caw
I think I see her dancing in the mist,
just like when we once met in secret tryst.

I still savor the moment we first kissed
and strolled together in the apple grove,
amazed our beating hearts prove we exist,
and after she brewed cider on the stove
we traveled singing on the signless road
to her chapel in the sheltering cove,
and there I wrote her tale in secret code
so no one could reveal her ancient name
that hides my soul in glow of world-wide fame.

But while we laughed and played our private game
the specter of grim fear from field arose
and struck her through the heart with wrenching shame,
yet every spell she casts may yet expose
the shame of leaving those we love behind
so she retired to where the river flows
and now is naught but idol in my mind,
though more I wander more I stay at home
where I compose lost dreams in giant tome.

Beneath the emptiness of our dream dome
we chant the names and deeds of long-dead souls
who built weird maze of doors where the dead roam
and spark our placid brains with noble goals,
but all we build will crumble down to sand
and everyone who played their fateful roles
in tragicomedy that spoils our land
now form the garden soil where fruit trees bloom,
and we lie nameless in forgotten tomb.