Friday, July 20, 2018

Silence Of Lost Time

Silence Of Lost Time
© Surazeus
2018 07 20

When I sit still on the hill among trees
and feel sunlight weaving soul in my flesh
I float in sweet pleasure of serene faith
till I vanish in silence of lost time.
While gazing at the world of growing things
I remember what the priest in church said,
that some giant craftsman outside world sphere
created all things from ideas he designed.

The world I perceive changes day by day
in relentless transformation of matter
that flows thick through standard ideal shape,
swelling from seeds to dissolve back to dust.
Things transform through repetition of action,
regenerating replicants of bodies
in constant cycle of new life and death
in steady patterns of material change.

Every day I repeat rituals of action
to preserve my body with strict consumption
by working to cultivate and harvest
material that sustains glow of my soul.
I hold up the book of philosophy
written by the sage Soren Kierkegaard
and read to the trees and birds his concept
of repetition recollected forwards.

"If God himself had not willed repetition,
the world would never have come into existence.
He would either have followed the light plans
of hope, or he would have recalled it all
and conserved it into recollection. This
he did not do, therefore the world endures,
and it endures for the fact that it is
a repetition." I look at the sky.

I feel waves of light flowing through my soul
and laugh with delight when I realize
every day I sing a new song of life,
repeating old words to conjure new visions.
Each song I compose from flow of ideas
I weave into tapestry of perception
expressing formulas of interaction
that cause facts of construction and destruction.

I recollect the actions I repeat
and perceive how my environment changes
then sing spells to express what I envision,
hoping to recreate the world I want.
When I sit still on the hill among trees
and feel sunlight weaving soul in my flesh
I float in sweet pleasure of serene faith
till I vanish in my song of lost time.

Pleasure At Hour Of Death

Pleasure At Hour Of Death
© Surazeus
2018 07 20

Will sea waves swirl around my feet at dawn
when I descend from cement city streets
to walk the timeless sands that never change
and talk to sunlight gleaming on the waves?

Will someone shoot me in the heart today,
I ponder as I walk the edge of time,
because they do not like the way I look,
or want to take something they cannot have?

Will someone crash their car into my car
because they want to go faster than me,
I wonder as I skip rocks on the sea,
and listen to the sunlight on the waves?

Will anyone notice that I am gone,
for though I write my visions in suave verse
my words are no more than footprints in sand
erased forever by indifferent waves?

Will I still feel cold waves wash over me
when my dead body is borne to the shore
and laid in the boat lacking sail and oar
and pushed to drift nowhere on the vast sea?

Where will I drift on vast infinity
when the functions of my brain cease to be
and my body dissolves to dust of time
so my atoms combine with things not me?

Why am I me and no one else alive
and how am I aware of myself now
in this short flash between infinity
to sing this vision that flares out in time?

Why should I waste my time with this despair
when you are sitting silent at my side,
waiting for me to kiss you with desire
so we can taste pleasure at hour of death?

Inventing The World

Inventing The World
© Surazeus
2018 07 20

The way sunlight flickers between tall buildings
of the city that shines placidly still,
though their rooms are full of people who sit
at desks tapping keys of letters and numbers
to formulate spells on computer screens,
reveals anxious despair of my mute heart
to participate blindly in the play
of ritual production which conjures wealth.

I walk away from the office to find
stage of action where I feel I should play
important role in drama of desire,
but nothing is happening anywhere
except people walking somewhere else quickly
so I stand under the indifferent tree
and stare at its thick roots that seem so real
which makes me feel with shock as if I were
the character of existential trope
who feels nausea at surging of existence
in some novel written decades before.

From the dry grass I pick up with my hand
one large brown leaf, thick as our writing paper,
and trace my finger along its thin veins,
then imagine writing long epic poem
with blood of my fingers in fragile Runes
to calculate the weird riddle of existence
by depicting drama of human beings
whose actions are constructive or destructive
in process of material transformation.

I kick the pile of dry leaves, and slow wind
swirls them around, and drops them on the ground,
then I imagine painting memories
of my secret thoughts on every brown leaf
and watching wild wind blow them in the sky
to scatter all my lost dreams in the world
so they sprout into trees with thinking brains
who spread wings, but never fly from hard Earth.

The glaring sunlight of time hardens shapes
into molecular clusters of vibrations
which were named with expressions of our tongues
by First Mother in the vast tree of fruit
who pointed to things and tongued airy words
for the naming of parts at dawn of dream,
so my mother taught language of thoughts
passed down to her a hundred thousand years.

I sit in the glow of the twilight zone,
and in the dark gloom of midnight design
new world with words I compose on the air,
but visions vanish at the flash of dawn.

I want to invent my own new rich language
based on standard principles of ideas
to better organize in strict categories
subjects, objects, actions, and qualities
based on ontology of the whole truth
that fixes sloppy mess of tongue I speak,
but no one else will speak language I create
so I must learn this universal language
that everyone on the whole globe now speaks.

I walk through the Museum of World Art
where every painting smeared by human hands
hangs on the universal wall of archetypes
to present human vision of humanity,
recording facial features and performances
of famous people who once ruled their nations
to create this empire of thought we inhabit,
till I perceive essential principles
how man and woman reincarnate child
to replicate their soul in cycle of life.

Through this active repetition of concepts
I formulate process of interaction
that weaves threads of human progress through space
in tangled tapestry of social history
to explore endless iterations of choice
when people perform rituals of desire
to satisfy hunger for bio-matter
so we can evade destruction of death
which breaks our bodies and minds down to dust.

When people feel their vision of the world,
conjured by the verses their poets sing,
is threatened by the destruction of silence
when more complex verbal ontologies
depict the real world with more accurate terms,
composed by the clear-eyed prophet of truth,
they battle each other in war of words
to present the truth their own minds devise,
and crush strangers they feel lie about life.

Who better describes nature of the world,
and better predicts the future events
their actions of force cause to become real
with more complete ontology of facts,
will dominate politics that operate
state institutions of official action
and thus rule the processes of new change
by inventing the world they want to exist,
and we must play our roles in their new play.

Yet all they decide at the bottom line
is who works, who eats, and who copulates
to reproduce their genes in growing children
who will again play power games for control
while we grow old and crumble into dust,
and only words we print on pages in books
preserve the visions of our flashing brains.

I create nothing new with words I write,
composing verses of experience, 
except ephemeral flashes of insight
which illuminate vast structure of thought
framing ontology of our world view
so we can better see sprawling cathedral
constructed by poets, prophets, and killers
who play our god as king or president.

The way sunlight glows on my open hand
reveals that souls of my ancestors pulse
awake in every neuron of my brain
to conjure visions of human performance
through endless struggle to survive attack
of mindless nature so we terraform
Waste Land of fear into Heaven of love.

Thursday, July 19, 2018

Secret Door Of Time

Secret Door Of Time
© Surazeus
2018 07 19

The boy looks at the photo of the girl
that shimmers so small in palm of his hand.
Sunlight gleams through window of his bedroom,
making the typewriter on his desk glow.

Three ravens on the telephone line caw
as cars glide flashing on the road below.
The boy imagines himself and the girl
in the library talking about horses.

Every door in the infinite hallway
leads to some planet in the universe.
The diamond on the wedding band glows blue
as clear water in the new swimming pool.

The girl in the pink tutu likes to twirl,
traversing mountain peaks across the land.
She pretends she can fly on the straw broom
while running circles in new-fallen snow.

The girl and boy sit together and draw
picture of the clown who plays the banjo.
The boy imagines himself and the girl
sharing secrets about atomic forces.

The girl on stage dances intense ballet,
demonstrating math of the multiverse.
The diamond on the lost ring is the clue
that reveals the petty greed of the fool.

The blind angel still guarding the gateway
to paradise puts lost key in his hand.
The boy opens the secret door of time
to search for the girl in the photograph.

The girl appears at top of the stairway,
wearing diamond crown as queen of the land.
The boy proclaims his love in clumsy rhyme,
recorded in song on the phonograph.

My Fragile Masculinity

My Fragile Masculinity
© Surazeus
2018 07 19

The velociraptor of my hungry heart
leaps faster than the meteor of contempt
which destroys the world where I ruled as king
so I transform into the poete maudit.

Serene outside the quaint sidewalk cafe,
I sip ginger mocha and write haiku
in small moleskin notebook with fountain pen
dipped in the blood of my velociraptor.

I think about every cute girl I slept with
while I outline events of my strange life
and feel pang of guilt at how I behaved
with boorish arrogance of my frail ego.

I broke the heart of every girl I loved
and fractured trust she might have had in men
because my fragile masculinity
betrayed me into loving my false self.

I never loved those girls just for themselves,
instead projecting onto their true hearts
idol of what I wanted them to be,
and spewed anger when they played their own part.

Now I must learn to see beyond the veil
of how I want them to be for my ego,
and perceive the beauty of their own souls
to cherish the real human beings they are.

From glow of sunlight the beautiful girl
strides with confidence, hair blowing in wind,
so I imagine her as governor
then nod with respect as she flashes by.

The world is full of intelligent women
whose patience and compassion run our nations
so I vow to support them in their work
and treat every one with honest respect.

Build Our Own New Paradise

Build Our Own New Paradise
© Surazeus
2018 07 19

Tall Tree of Life sprouts from my rotting heart,
transforming voiceless sorrow of despair
into sweet fruit that congeals sun and rain
in wholesome juice that sparks my mind alive.
Dire hunger drives me through stark wilderness,
stumbling over jagged stones of despair,
and crawling through the tangled thorny vines
of horror at painful suffering of death.
Who built high wall of stones around my tree?
I claw at stones in freezing flash of rain
and for one moment as I reach the top
I see the Tree of Life shining in sunlight.

Succulent fruit dripping juice waits for me,
so I reach out my hand, but slippery stone
wet from cold rain throws me down in slick mud
where I struggle to escape sucking death.
Grasping thorny vine, I pull myself free,
then crawl on hard cracked dirt past hissing snakes
and spider webs that try to snare my soul
toward gate of gold bars to my paradise.
Kneeling before gold gate to paradise,
I reach both arms out toward the sneering guard,
the cherub with sharp flaming sword who laughs
and kicks my chest so I fall back in dust.

"I am Gabriel who guards the Gates of Eden.
You are Set who seduces and deceives.
You will never enter lush paradise
for you broke the rules my father spoke.
Your pregnant mother came to paradise
so we took her in lush Garden of Eden
where she died in pain giving birth to you,
and we raised you with generous trust of love.
My father Jehovah and I taught you
how to tend fruit trees with attentive care,
trimming branches, pulling weeds, clearing roots,
and picking ripe fruit to brew tangy cider.
Yet you betrayed the trust of kind Jehovah
when you impregnated his daughter Lilith,
so now she bears twin children of your seed,
naming the boy Adam and the girl Eve.
We cast you out of paradise, you fool,
you clever deceiver who speaks soft words
when you seduced the daughter of Jehovah
to open her heart to your pretty lies.
I threw you off the walls of paradise,
and now I guard gate to Garden of Eden,
covering cherub with wide-extending arms
to block your way from eating fruit of life."

Breathing deep pungent spirit of the Earth,
I rise to my feet and reach for the sky,
stretching my body to soak warm sunlight
till I grow strong with the strength of the stone.
Grasping brass bar that shimmers in the mud,
forged long ago from lava of the Earth,
I twirl it around and approach the gate,
crouching low and tensing for the fierce fight.
When Gabriel swings sharp sword to slice my head,
I raise brass wand to block his vicious strike,
then swinging wand low I break his left leg,
causing him to fall before the bright gate.

Dropping the sword when he falls to the ground,
Gabriel howls and throws stones up at my face
but I swing brass wand to bat them away,
so he claws at dust to grasp the sharp sword.
Raising the brass wand up high with both hands,
I hesitate when Jehovah shouts my name,
begging me to spare the life of his son,
but I remember how they cast me out.
"I love your daughter Lilith with my heart,
but you cast me out into the waste land
where I wandered lost in horror of death,
and Gabriel blocked my way to paradise.
I will spare his life and not crush his skull
if you allow Lilith to leave your garden
and come live with me on the river shore
where I will build new paradise of stone."

Lilith appears at gold bars of the gate,
bearing large basket of apples in hand,
and, though Jehovah tries to hold her back,
she pushes past him through the gate of Eden.
Sweet Lilith gazes in my blazing eyes
and begs me not to kill her little brother,
then gently pushes down my trembling arms,
so I lower the wand and turn away.
Gripping the brass wand of my new success,
I walk with Lilith away from lush Eden,
as Jehovah pulls Gabriel inside the gate,
and we walk down to the broad river shore.
Slowly limping on legs sore from the fight,
I gaze at the sky shimmering blue with love,
then gaze at Lilith who smiles at my side
as she bears basket of apples in hand.

Standing on the ridge above the broad river,
I point to the wall of stones I construct,
half-built with stones I carved from ancient hope,
and four round towers along perimeter.
Walking through the arch where no gate yet shines,
we sit by the hearth where the warm fire glows,
and hold each other in the evening glow,
kissing and weeping with new surprised joy.
Holding my face with both hands, Lilith smiles.
"We lived together in lush paradise,
but now we are exiled from our safe home,
and wander lost in wilderness of fear.
Here we will build our own new paradise,
and tend new grove of apple trees that bloom
nutritious fruit that congeals sun and rain,
and sing with love to heal the aching pain."

Wednesday, July 18, 2018

Still Shines The Golden Moon

Still Shines The Golden Moon
© Surazeus
2018 07 18

The moon shimmers gold through wild purple clouds,
as it has for four and a half billion years
since Theia collided with spinning Gaia,
piercing my heart with timeless serenity
since I first crawled along the flashing stream
four hundred million years ago to rise
above singing water, and gaze entranced
at golden eye who dreams our world alive.

Each day that Earth spins around the bright sun
characters in every species contend
in brutal battle to assert control
over land producing nutritious food
and mates generating their own offspring
who dominate the tribe as they grow strong
and fight each other to reign as tribe God.

Yet still the moon shines gold through purple clouds,
so I gaze up to seek tranquility
from endless battles to control the tribe,
and sing sweet hymns in harmony with light
to transcend naked hour of hungry hope
and thus become one with mysterious face
who ever watches us through life and death.

The moon shines on the face of my beloved
whose spirit mirrors the soul in the sky
as we make love to reincarnate us.

Still shines the golden moon in purple clouds
no matter what happens down on this Earth
in endless competitions to survive,
so I sit alone on the mountain top
and feel the moon wash all my rage away
till aching desire dissolves from my mind,
and I want nothing outside my thick skull
but float in harmony with life and death.

So go ahead and fight for transient power
while I eat honey and sing the moon flower.

To Orgasm Poems

To Orgasm Poems
© Surazeus
2018 07 18

Sitting at blank table with pen in hand
and waiting for inspiration to strike
is like sitting and staring at our lover
while expecting wild orgasm to pulse
our soul awake with pleasure of this life.

We must rub our bodies against the world
to taste sweet beauty hidden in its flesh
by writing words to visualize perception
in romantic foreplay with thoughts and feelings
to generate passion through flow of words.

We start slowly by kissing sweet ideas,
then caressing concepts with lusting hands,
as friction of expression generates
more passion which electrifies our mind
with amazing insights in ways of things.

Once hot vision of what we hope to say
swells our pen thick with wiggling words of truth
we penetrate weird darkness of despair
and slither deep into labyrinth of fear
to forge bright jewel about meaning of life.

Embracing the Other Soul of the World,
we merge our mind into deep sea of dreams
till words stream outward from our secret mind
and swim swift toward egg of absolute truth
so our thoughts weave with genes of ancient verse.

So when sweet orgasm of deep insight
flashes beautiful visions of vast truth
across galactic landscape of our mind
we find our passion generated poem
which grows separate from our satiated heart.

Therefore we should not wait for inspiration
to penetrate mute meadows of our mind
but we should carve words on tablet of time
and generate great vision we desire
by writing when our mind is blank and mute.

When we sit and stare at blank page of hope,
hesitate not to write any strange word
to begin foreplay by kissing the whole world,
for soon wild visions will flash through our eyes
as we scribble words to orgasm poems.

Tuesday, July 17, 2018

Light Consumes My Soul

Light Consumes My Soul
© Surazeus
2018 07 16

I consume light and light consumes my soul
to weave my brain as model of White Whole.
Atoms form web of neurons in my brain
that mirrors web of swirling galaxies
which form spiral egg of our universe
so the whole universe is brain of God.

I consume dark and dark consumes my soul
to stitch my heart as model of Black Hole.
Atoms forged in hot furnace of the sun
pulse with ancient energy in my cells
so I am flame of life congealed in flesh
who dreams combustion of the universe.

I consume heat and heat consumes my soul
to forge my spirit from flash of White Whole.
I blaze new highway sea to shining sea,
climbing rugged mountains to touch the sky,
following rivers to original springs,
and chanting spells on shores of ancient lakes.

I consume cold and cold consumes my soul
that spirals gushing from depths of Black Hole.
We are the universe dreaming itself
which organizes structure of its thoughts
so we love our indifferent Mother World
who makes us and destroys us without care.

Who Program Their Own Fate

Who Program Their Own Fate
© Surazeus
2018 07 17

The way we hide our sorrows in the play
of archetypal characters on stage,
to display before eyes of cameras
secrets we prefer to hide in proverbs,
reveals the formulas of active rules
that guide complex processes of behavior
strung tight in tense wires of electric hope.

My hair is falling out as I grow old
even though the preacher has not yet sold
enough shares to the afterlife to buy
billion-dollar jetplane to rule the sky.

The way we push ourselves forward in space
to race each other through weird maze of wealth,
which activates illusions of the mask
painted by memories no one dares to claim,
conceals the formulas we might employ
to gain huge success in pyramid scheme
collapsing in financial ruin of the state.

My eyes can see beyond the veil of time
even though the fashion model will rhyme
love poem in short simple lines to express
complicated passion for happiness.

The way we know what we want to perform
in wordless program of action now starts
second phase of expansion beyond walls
of heaven abandoned by all lost souls,
urged by ambition to build paradise
of privacy somewhere in rugged mountains
where no one can encroach our liberty.

My hands transform wood into wagon wheels
even though the arrogant craftsman steals
design for the world I drew on the sand
because the living claim right to this land.

The way we choose to believe fantasy
of powerful god who created all things,
yet demands adoring love from our hearts
or he will punish us for our free will,
exposes absurd nature of religion
where priests demand money to buy salvation
then feast while the faithful work in factories.

My body crumbles into cloud of dust
refracting sunlight through mute rainbow mist
even though the thief who plays king of fools
seems to thrive for now on breaking the rules.

The way we narrate tales of noble heroes
who defy the tyrant with greedy fists,
to inspire timid children locked in cages
when they fled gangs of thieves with laughing guns,
spotlights how we wander in maze of lies
till blinded Samson pushes down all pillars, 
causing our civilization to collapse.

My brain weaves atoms in galactic threads
so models of the world glow in our heads
so before we die we reincarnate
in wise children who program their own fate.

King Of The Horse Ranch

King Of The Horse Ranch
© Surazeus
2018 07 17

Young Edward hides among tall stalks of wheat
to avoid bold father who calls his name
with demand that he help shovel deep ditch
to channel river water in the field.
Spine tingling at sudden feeling of horror,
Edward turns around startled to see face
of his mother stricken with shocking fear
as she stares at him with terrible eyes.
Snatching his hand, she drags him in the woods
to hide from his father who shouts in rage,
till they sit together on river stones
and watch sunlight sparkle on flowing water.

"Johan is not your father," she explains,
staring down in the river of his eyes.
"When I was younger, thirteen years ago,
the girls of our village heard whispered tale
that all the beautiful girls of each town
could attend some party in the high castle,
so we all went together in moonlight
to the kitchen door on the river shore.
The guards lead us through halls into large room
where tables were heaped with plates of good food,
roasted meat, apples, pears, bottles of wine,
and boiled eggs, so we feasted all night long.
More than one hundred girls came to the party,
hailing from every village on the river,
and we all told each other our life stories,
then we danced to music of harps and flutes.
When we were tired we were lead in small groups
to rooms with four beds and dressers in each,
so we all fell asleep and dreamed of dancing
and feasting well on sweet delicious food.
At dawn when they gathered us in the hall,
the guards told us that the king of the castle
wanted to find young bride to reign as queen,
so we were all excited to be chosen.
After feasting again on meat and fruit,
we retired to our rooms where we bathed clean,
painted our faces and wore pretty gowns,
then practiced dancing in the bright sunlight.
One by one we were lead to the small room
where we would meet the good king of the castle,
King Edward who still rules our ancient kingdom,
and we sat with him as he wooed our hearts.
I thought he planned to woo me with true love,
but instead his guards forced me to lean over
the table where they bound my hands with rope,
then he lifted up my skirt and thrust hard.
I had never yet lain with any man
so after he filled my womb with his seed
at least six times over the next three months
I felt new baby swelling in my belly.
The guards kept us locked four girls in each room,
so though the other three young girls and I
could only share experience with each other
we knew he did this to every young girl.
The king impregnated with royal seed
more than five hundred pretty peasant girls
from dozens of villages on the river,
but we were paid bags of gold to keep quiet.
As soon as my belly started to swell
I was given bag of gold and new dress,
then pushed out the door one late afternoon,
so I walked home and hid my hated gold.
I met Johan working in the wheat field
so I seduced him before I swelled large,
and he married me in church the next day,
thus he thinks you are the son of his seed.
No one knew about this for many years,
but some of the girls told their families
so they got together in gang of men
who are roaming around the countryside
hunting for the children of royal seed,
easy to find because you all look the same.
You are the son of our noble King Edward,
which is why I gave you his royal name,
but now those men are hunting down his children
and stabbing knives into their hearts in rage.
The angry girls who were at the same party
are naming every girl who bore his child,
so now they know that you are son of Edward,
therefore they are coming to stab your heart.
They want to kill you for sin of the king
but I want you to live and father children
because you are the first-born of my womb,
and you are as wise as your royal father.
You must leave this valley and travel far
to escape before gang of men find you
for they will kill you when they see your face,
so I will give you gold that Edward gave me.
Use this gold to travel far from this land
and buy yourself some fertile land to farm,
then find yourself some pretty girl as bride
and raise up new generation of children."

Edward sits stunned in shock on river stone,
staring at sunlight gleam on flowing water
while his mother lifts large stone to reveal
leather bag full of gold coins shining bright.
Thrusting large bag into his trembling hands,
his mother clutches his face as she weeps
and kisses him hundreds of times in fear,
and hugs him tight as she sobs in despair.
Wiping tears from her eyes, his mother smiles,
then leads him down the river to workshop
where the old boat-maker builds boats all day,
and sighs as she gives him two bright gold coins.
Clutching the bag of gold to his small chest,
Edward waves to his mother as she heaves
wood boat onto the river that flows swift,
then he dips oar in water to steer straight.
Heart pounding in fear as he glides down river,
Edward watches the shore for men with spears,
but glides swift beyond the country he knows
and sails toward the glow of the setting sun.

Looking up at twelve children in the hall,
Edward smiles and lifts mug of ale to drink,
then kisses his beautiful wife Elena,
who suckles thirteenth child at her full breast.
"So that is how I am son of King Edward
and how I bought this land and first nine mares
to nurture and train horses to pull wagons,
building our ranch into a prosperous business."

Fall Of Wizard Tower

Fall Of Wizard Tower
© Surazeus
2018 07 17

The aching sorrow of the storm-gray sky,
whipped by winds of anguish in sobbing waves,
billows from the dim sun of my bleak heart
when I sail away from wild Patmos Island.
Clinging to the rough wood ship of my heart,
I hum comforting hymn of desperate hope
in harmony with sails flapping in wind
as I steer along the rugged coast of Gaul
to Marsella where the Mermaid Queen dwells
still in the secret cave where Mars once reigned.
Who am I now, lost on the storm-lit sea,
I laugh and look at my face in the mirror
my mother gave me when she died last year,
and see young boy with eyes gray as storm clouds
and long black hair curling around thin face
like mane of the lion with glaring eyes.
"I am last wizard of the fallen tower."
Yet when I close my eyes against sharp wind
that hurls stinging drops of rain at my face,
I see tall stone tower on high jagged hill
where three old men with beards long as tree moss
sit at the round table, where they had carved
and painted their complete map of the world,
to discuss where colonies of our people
survive against the might and greed of Roma,
like seven churches in hills of Galatia.
Johanus, my father, taught me to write
letters that paint the visions of my eyes.
Michaelus, brother of Johanus, taught me
how to tame the horse and wield the sharp sword.
Jesus Justus, father of Johanus, taught me
how to slay the fierce dragon of the sea
before he sailed back to rule in Galatia.
Jesus, father of Jesus Justus, taught me
how to foretell events that will occur
by analyzing the effective cause.
Since I was young, three wizards told me how
the oldest one, Jesus Immanuelus,
attempted to retake ancestral throne
where they once ruled over land of Israel,
and reign with crown and scepter of King David
over their ancient kingdom of Judah,
till Herod, puppet of Roman senators,
arrested him and hung him on the cross.
His brother Josephus lead gang of warriors
who rescued him from the old rugged cross
and revived him in cave of resurrection,
so he could live and fight forty years more.
Then they lead war against large Roman armies
to defend our clan on Masada Mountain,
the four horsemen of the apocalypse,
Jesus, Josephus, Jesus Justus, and Michaelus.
Jesus lead thousands of war refugees
north into rugged mountains of Galatia
where his son Jesus Justus with iron scepter
rules over seven churches of our people
to keep them safe from slave-traders of Roma.
Jesus took his wife, Marya Magdalena,
his sister Marya, and his daughter, Tamar,
to hide safe in ancient cave of Marsella,
were the Mermaid Queen protects our lost clan.
Jesus hid from cruel assassins of Roma
on Island of Patmos to organize
resistance against great oppressive empire,
where I grew up in shadow of his spirit.
My father Johanus wrote book of spells
to prophesy fall of the Roman Empire
in Book of Revelation that reveals
King Jesus still alive on Patmos Island
where he ruled our lost kingdom of the heart.
"Though we have no land," Jesus often told me,
"yet our kingdom glows in hearts of our people."
After forty years fighting for our freedom,
to live in peace against the might of Roma,
King Jesus Immanuelus lay in bed
and gripped our hands with urgent hope for peace,
then spirit, which animated his body
with energy of the divine Craftsman,
escaped his body and soared to the stars.
Lamenting his death while drinking spiced wine,
Michaelus and Johanus bowed their heads
and walked around the table with world map,
chanting Kaddish to celebrate his life.
They sent me out into the blowing rain
to bring young lamb that we could roast for supper,
and just as I grabbed one with my weak arms
I saw lightning strike tall tower of their strength
and both wizards fell from the burning tower
to lie broken and dead by the gushing river.
Now all three wizards are gone from this world
so I must sail to find the Cave of Mars
where our Mermaid Queen may still be alive.
There I will kneel before her glowing face
and tell her how I saw the lightning strike
so I can lament fall of wizard tower
that tears my heart with anguish of despair.

Monday, July 16, 2018

Expanding Shape Of Language

Expanding Shape Of Language
© Surazeus
2018 07 16

The shape of language molded by your voice
encloses silence of the words you speak
vibrating through the margins of the air
to bridge the empty space between our eyes.

The tumult of words on the rising stream
reveals my learning in gusts of concern
so I know the luminous space of hope
that leaves me chewing the air of your thoughts.

We sit together on the moss-slick rocks
and catch moths of our hopes that bang on leaves
to shear hours of waking in flash of time
when I realize I might still be alive.

Fluttering leaves throw light into my dark mind
so everything I think is real dissolves
in shifting shadow of the howling tree
but all things emerge intact from dawn light.

Honeysuckle blossoms swirl through my eyes
in frantic stridulation which reveals
location of my voice that echoes far
beyond valley where I scavenge snake eggs.

The illocality of that real point
where I keep time in areas of fog
sifts memory of each season in bright glade
when sheet of rain clears my eyes of debris.

Your sudden voice springing from the cool shade
startles my mind into the present hour
when the blue iris sprouts from field of stones
to elaborate silence in which we speak.

Sun gleams gold halo of anguish from hope
through interlacing branches of my tree
when dawn dilates glare on the unkempt hedge
since shade spills truth in fracture of the world.

Your voice throws silence at my searching eyes
so I return silence back to your hand
on edge of flashing river through my heart
where wild tree grows thick from my ruined skull.

I want to name this river that cuts deep
through our hearts to rip dead leaves from our hands
when words cohere around pulse of desire,
tangled in roots of fears from gravel slush.

The mountain drenched in shadow of rain clouds
devours my eyes with green roots which rise thick
from heart of darkness below cracked stone mask
to hide bright treasure of wealth beyond reach.

The ancient tree that leans across the bridge
of broken stones reaches into my soul
though names of people I love fade in wind
after I carve their letters in thick trunk.

So I stand forever in nameless flowers
whose petals unfold creation of light
in long rhythms of knotted contemplation
since depth of field allows my mind to drift.

I leap beyond lightless pole of the sun
caught by the leaf that holds raindrops intact
when air shimmers translucent with desire
which separates me into thousands of souls.

Sunk deep in my darkness of wordless dream,
I watch clouds shuffle mortal coil of light
to weave neurons in my electric brain
so I have nothing to give hungry dawn.

Lightning lingers between stasis of love
and jagged abrasion of pungent rain,
so though I sit still on the moss-wet rock
everything flows curved through my hollow head.

Language uses my body to express
dark actions of magic medium straight
through darkness to make my wordless soul glow
reflecting secret hopes everyone hides.

That world is formless and nameless till I
invent how I perceive its changing fields
where the inseparable self is revealed
before it dissolves in silence of light.

Hail strafes the field of flowers I designed
so though I know pain of expanding seeds
I find silence centered between my eyes
that flows swirling nowhere I always am.

I kneel at frozen puddle in black mud
and see my own face congealed from the sun
reflected in this blind eye of the world
who alone knows why I am still alive.

Sunday, July 15, 2018

Illusions In Falling Rain

Illusions In Falling Rain
© Surazeus
2018 07 15

I felt the spirit of divine insight
flash awake the consciousness of my soul,
so I sang with the voice of prophecy
to preach force of justice and liberty.

I stood on the rooftop of the bookstore
and saw angel on wings of fire descend
through flashing rain to touch my mind with truth
so I could see whole flow of history.

I felt the fervor of religious zeal
electrify my soul with intense vision
but stayed alone in my dark basement room
and dreamed the history of the universe.

Fervent spirits of my ancestors wake
in me, Thomas Dudley, Simon Bradstreet,
Abraham Pierson, and John Davenport,
urging me to preach in the wilderness.

I write the scripture of my visions clear
with blood of angels in the book of fire,
then walk into the wilderness of hope
and stare at sunlight gleaming through the clouds.

"There is no god up in the shining clouds,
and all the atoms of the universe
are no more conscious than this hard mute rock,
yet atoms weave neurons in my woke brain."

Alone on the mountain of divine sight
I kneel on soil before the burning bush
and laugh at how my ancestors were fooled
by illusions to believe in the God.

I dream the history of the universe
when all expands from the First Flash of love
and spirals into galaxies of worlds
where I sing illusions in falling rain.

Lost In The Crowded City

Lost In The Crowded City
© Surazeus
2018 07 15

The flicker of old dreams on fenced-in fields
reveals strange horrors of nameless despair
we suppress under weird beauty of art
to translate eerie ennui into hope.

While huddled lost in alleyway of fear,
somewhere in vast metropolitan maze
of space city ruled by kings of drug gangs,
I find ticking watch Tennyson once wore.

I open cracked glass and turn thin brass hands
which spins time backward to Victorian age
where gentlemen wearing top hats spin canes
and talk philosophy at the world bank.

The ancient bearded wizard himself strides
past entrance to the alleyway of gloom,
so I follow him by Serpentine Lake
through wild Kensington Gardens to Hyde Park.

Before statue of Achilles he stops
and turns to face me in the twilight glow,
and deep into my heart his eye strikes clear,
then hands me sword of Arthur with a grin.

Gazing up from blade of Excalibur,
I ask King Alfred what grand mission guides
my quest to perform monumental deeds,
so he explains with voice soft as night thunder.

"Fight for Liberty of every live soul,
defend the helpless from aggressive hate,
and ensure equal justice is enforced
for every person who breathes air of hope."

Gripping sword of Arthur in trembling hand,
I vow on noble Spirit of Britannia,
Mother of our Nation, to fight for truth,
and overthrow all tyrants of the world.

While struggling to wield sharp Excalibur,
I limp toward castle on the hill of skulls
where the tyrant, who keeps girls locked in rooms,
laughs and throws gold coins that clang on my head.

While leaning on the sword to catch my breath,
I notice how it sinks in wet cement
that hardens as I grip its leather handle
while a thousand years flashes by my eyes.

Startled from my dream of Victorian times,
I find myself lost in the crowded city
where thousands of people walk somewhere quickly,
and no one sees me clutching sword of death.

Looking down at the sharp sword in my hand,
I see guitar that vibrates when I strum,
so I sing of justice and liberty
while people throw money in my fedora.

Portrait Of The Young Astronomer

Portrait Of The Young Astronomer
© Surazeus
2018 07 14

Halfway across the galaxy I stop
inside the giant molecular cloud
to watch flashing sparkles of helium
generate stars from anguish of desire.

The little girl stands under the oak tree
and peers through telescope her father gave her
for Christmas before he died in the war
and studies stars twinkling in silent night.

Sitting on tree roots, she eats oatmeal cookies
and drinks glass of milk on round glass table,
then pets the cat who curls on her warm lap
while watching the full moon flash between clouds.

The tall woman assembling from bright stars
floats before her on wings of shimmering flames,
and reaches out her long serpentine hand
to touch her mind, then vanishes in breeze.

Saturday, July 14, 2018

Gold Warbler Of The Glen

Gold Warbler Of The Glen
© Surazeus
2018 07 14

Cool sky-blue breeze blows in the mountain glen
where white star-flowers blossom from gray pebbles
that sparkle gold under the trickling brook
which flows from crack in the heart of the world.

The young girl kneels and touches tufts of grass
with trembling hand where beams of sunlight glow
and cast her blue shadow on jagged stone,
since sorrow aches from cracked heart of the world.

"True love nurtures the person you desire,"
she whispers to the trickling water flow,
"and never tries to own the human soul
for I am the gold warbler who flies free."

The young girl looks up at the highland laird
who stands above her in the glowing sun,
then touches arrow shaft piercing her breast,
and gasps at shocking pain that flashes white.

"Aileana, from green meadow of flowers,
I have loved you since I saw your blue eyes,
and I offered you the keys to my castle,
but you reject me for the stable groom."

The young girl touches white flower by the brook
and hot blood from her breast stains it deep red,
so she lies down and stares at the blue sky
as she falls into the whiteness of why.

"Kenneth Campbell, you are haughty and proud,
and think you can take whatever you want,
but Ardan loves horses with gentle hand,
and loves the spirit deep inside my heart."

"You love no one but yourself," young girl smiles,
and reaches out her hand to touch the sky,
"so you want to possess me like your cow,
but Ardan loves the laughter of my eyes."

"Now I am the gold warbler who flies free,"
Aileana sighs and closes her eyes
as her blood flows into the sparkling stream,
and her last breath dissipates in the breeze.

Cool sky-blue breeze blows in the mountain glen
where red star-flowers blossom from gray pebbles
that sparkle gold under the trickling brook
which flows from crack in the heart of the world.

Become Every Soul Who Ever Lives

Become Every Soul Who Ever Lives
© Surazeus
2018 07 14

The purple flame of seven billion souls
flares wild in rain clouds that drench Earth in hope
to overcome sorrow of aching loss
when naked flowers sprout from our rotting hearts.

Though nobody listens to the old man
who sings beside the post office in rain,
he sings as if even the angels hear
hallucinations that blind secret eyes.

The shadow of my soul I see in glass
reflects nameless despair of mute sunlight
that beams indifferent desire in my heart
so I forget mission I assigned myself.

The dark shadow of horror follows me
everywhere I go on my busy day
when I perform mundane errands of life
to buy groceries and fill my car with gas.

Everybody sings sorrows of their hearts
so all together we sing in vast choir
to express horror of death in sweet tunes
that generate hope for another day.

But our world spins on into the vast void
of empty nothingness through hungry time
that swallows our bodies into bland dirt
though we struggle for birth from the world egg.

Still millions compete to become the One Voice
who speaks truth better than everyone else
though our voices swirl together in waves
of emotional memories blanked by death.

Death mutes us all so why should we sing now,
instead sitting in silent nonchalance
at aching hope to be worshipped as god
who embodies the spirit of our times?

The shining lake reflects reality
except the face I wear on television
while I climb the steep slope of Mount Parnassus
to discuss truth with the Horror of Death.

Looking down from height of insanity,
I see thousands of poets, who wear masks
of superheroes, clutching at their weeds
that sprout from the swamp of arrogant pride.

They compete to be worshipped as the best
since Sylvia Plath and Robert Lowell sang
anguish of the broken heart in cracked lines
that glare on shattered mirror of the Self.

Assembled in groups of the bestest friends,
they compete in the tag-team wrestling match
to out-praise each other in magazines
when they shout lyrics in bookstores and bars.

Orpheus twangs the harp of resurrection,
enchanting stones to dance in lightning rain,
till fans tear him apart with mute desire
to eat flesh and blood in communion rite.

The hour they crown me Poet Laureate
they will crucify me on the phone pole
and weave psychic lines in threads through my brain
so all their dreams flash words in my eyes.

Once they connect me to the world wide web
of dreaming brains, I will forget myself
and become every soul who ever lives
to sing the sorrows they privately share.

Where can I hide from all their staring eyes
that devour my secret memories of love
to universalize my own experience
in mythic legend of the boy who lives?

Friday, July 13, 2018

My Future Shadow

My Future Shadow
© Surazeus
2018 07 13

The universe is vast structure of atoms
which form in genes that regenerate life,
transforming into brains of conscious souls.

Since I am your imaginary friend,
come play with me among the apple trees
where serpents with rainbow wings explain why.

Down on the sea shore in the sunlit mist
I play chest with Death to save all your souls
but still you follow him in joyful dance.

I am the sane William Cowper who writes
butterfly songs on petals of the rose
which formulate how love transforms our hearts.

I am the John Milton with staring eyes
who sees God in endlessly swirling clouds
who always watches but never speaks words.

Eve gives me her ripe apple of desire
and gazes in my eyes while we devour
delicious shadows of our hungry souls.

The black-eyed girl in the black slender gown
stands on stage before the crowd of eye phones
and chants spells from her latest book of poems.

If I walk backward on the road of time
my future shadow will become myself
that I design with words I stitch from fears.

Long after we consume the feast of tales
we hunt for scraps of wisdom on the floor
till we must hunt another devil down.

At the park bench under tall redwood pines
the one-eyed poet carves Runes of lost spells
with dragon tooth he wrenched from jaws of death.

The little boy lies in the oak-wood boat
that drifts in mist to Isle of Avalon
where Raven People give him apple cider.

Quick sparkling atoms forged inside the sun
spiral into coils of aggressive genes
which generate our divine consciousness.

Lonely Road Of Unconquered Clouds

Lonely Road Of Unconquered Clouds
© Surazeus
2018 07 13

Two roads diverge in the shadowy wood
where I wander lonely as the bright cloud
out of the strange night that covers my soul
down to the calm sea where the moon glows fair.

Sorry I can not travel every road,
I stop to gaze at golden daffodils
that sprout wild from my unconquerable soul
which glimmers like cliffs of our ancient land.

I map every road through wild undergrowth
toward lakes beneath trees where wild flowers bloom
since I stand unbowed, though bludgeoned by chance,
on this moon-blanched land by the tranquil sea.

For every road I blaze others fade lost
so stars that twinkle in the Milky Way
beyond the fields of Horror in the shade
echo song of pebbles in roaring waves.

What nameless road of leaves do I trod black
to follow never-ending bay of trees
where menace of the years finds me assured
I can ride turbid flow of misery?

I cannot know where this strange road will lead
to sparkling waves in jocund company
from scrolls that charge my deeds with punishment
alone on naked shingles of the world. 

I take the road less traveled by to find
bliss of solitude flash my inward eye
that I am captain of my fateful soul,
chanting tales of armies that clash for power.

The road not taken is the road I walk
where I wander lonely as the mute cloud
who cries invictus for the wars of man
as I sing with Mother Sea on Dover Beach.