Monday, January 15, 2018

Ocean Of My Swirling Heart

Ocean Of My Swirling Heart
© Surazeus
2018 01 15

I stand on the ocean shore that is not
real as emotions swirling in my heart
and gaze at celestial twinkle of stars
that burned to dust billions of years ago.

The ocean is the mother of our souls
for she weaves thick from pulsing sparks of light
the tangled neurons of my dreaming brain
which generates model of our whole world.

I conjure apparition of your soul
as quick robotic idol that conceals
teeming emotions congealed from desire
that motivates me to play our long-dead god.

I sing the hurricane of human quest
for wisdom swirling in wild ocean tide
that surges up from void of aching hearts
where every conscious soul was born and dies.

Strange shadow of horror escapes confines
of languages that we forgot to speak
so I must calculate quick curving swirl
of raindrops that pulse unconscious of love.

I sing the flapping of butterfly wings
that reveal where the dead once walked the world
by following the words they left behind
floating over flowers in clouds of ideas.

I return to the ocean of my heart
after I fell nine days and nights from court
and walk the waste land of glamorous fame
ten thousand years after all else has died.

The crown of glory they placed on my head
beaming rays of truth which blinded their eyes
connects my brain to many other brains
though we each dream our separate universe.

Though strangers killed my clan and stole our land
I release ache of love for that one place
and explore the world where more people fight
over who will play god of our frail rock.

I stare into the mirror of the ocean
who teaches me the alphabet of motion
so I play role in social game of power
the wise fool who seeks secret of the flower.

Our Village Witch

Our Village Witch
© Surazeus
2018 01 15

We dreaded the coming of the tall man
who always came down from the mountain woods
followed by two wolves and thirty-three ravens
and gave each child in town one writing feather.

He taught the children how to carve their dreams
in jagged Runes on slabs of wood or stone
and then would grow black feathers on their arms
and fly away over the mountain peaks.

But one young girl, instead of growing wings
of light feathers she grew leathery bat wings,
and eyes more red as moonlight on the snow,
and she lurked in the shadows of our rooms.

Each time we opened doors to other rooms
her face would flicker in the flash of sunlight
on the opening door, and then her eyes
would swallow darkness of unspoken sorrows.

She followed the old man with oak moss beard
to live with his wolves in the cave of death
and there she polished stars with tangled hair
so they would shine each night from empty void.

When stars shone too bright to pierce aching hearts
with knowledge that every person will die
she would become storm clouds to hide the stars
so we could remember the warmth of love.

His spirit lives in every ancient tree
who watches me when I gather bird eggs
and whispers thoughts that other people hide
when I gather berries from tangled vines.

She hides behind every tree in the forest,
tracing the path where my feet touch the Earth
so I do not float away to the clouds
and her breeze guides me back to my own home.

When my young son fell sick with ocean fever
I climbed the mountain to their cave of death
and he polished the jewel of the sun
while she mixed mushrooms into healing juice.

She carried me down the mountain of despair
on flapping bat wings through nine broken doors
and when my son drank potion of her blood
he opened three eyes and clutched at my heart.

He sang for seven thousand years strange tale
detailing how the first mother of mankind
crawled along the river from the deep sea
and dreamed our names within the lake of eyes.

She rose from lake of dreams at dawn of time
to mold red sunlight in the apple rind
which weaves raindrops into our throbbing brains
so we know when the Earth first whirled from light.

So, you wicked priest from city of stone,
if you fail to unbind her arms and legs
from your cross of hate, I will cut your throat
with this blade I honed on my honest heart.

You march into our mountain villages,
declaring some old man you call the pope
commissioned you to root out evil witches
and burn them in the fire of your contempt.

If you attempt to burn our village witch
in fire of hate then we will bind your soul
to your despicable cross of contempt
and burn you in your fire of righteousness.

You are wise to release our village witch
from wicked chains of your oppressive law
for she is spirit who protects our homes
and heals our souls with true wisdom of death.



Sunday, January 14, 2018

Stories Of Nameless Souls

Stories Of Nameless Souls
© Surazeus
2018 01 14

Quicker than lightning striking at my eye
I feel the whole world flood my heart with love.
So many fascinating people live
and die in the tight spinning of our world
that all their voices whisper in the wind
and all their hopes lust in the ocean waves.
Numerous as the grains of sand on the beach,
or leaves fluttering from forests of trees
that cover mountains on vast continents,
all the people who have lived on this world
crowd around me and beg me to record
their names and deeds in their journeys through life.
I want to tell every one of their stories
but I would have to live a thousand years
to tell but one small fraction of them all.
Their names are all lost in the winds of time.
They swirl around me like leaves in the wind
that blows against my face with careless cries
where I walk alone through indifferent woods
and feel their sorrows aching in my heart.
All the weird anguish of their dispersed hopes
howl mute from the wild beating of my heart.
I reach out my hand to catch just one leaf
to read their name Runed in its brittle veins
and see the faded specter of their face
appear for one moment in sunset glow
as the leaf dissolves to dust in my hand,
and all the memories of their conscious dreams
vanish across the field in twilight glow.
I pause a while between two nameless towns
on lone signless road under purple skies
and feel timeless flash of eternity
swell outward from my mind when whirling hours
cease flowing motion of transforming change
as all the human souls who ever lived
pulse silently in the cells of my brain.
I gaze into the vast abyss of death
and see them all looking back up at me,
and every soul becomes one twinkling star
that glitters in spiraling galaxy,
but when I try to focus on one face
and sense the hoping visions they perceived
they all dissolve into the swirling waves
of the vast sea that swallows sorrow down.
I want to tell stories of nameless souls
but I must live my own hour on this world,
savoring the sweetness of summer days
and glowing with the ecstasy of vision
when I float in eternity of now.
That is why, I whisper to the oak tree
where seven ravens watch me with red eyes,
I will accept his proposal of marriage,
and live with him in his home by the sea.
I love the tangy smell of ocean waves
that sparkle in his hair each time he laughs
after telling me another strange tale.
I see the light of his home gleaming white
through the infinite sorrow of the night.

Tears That Refugees Lose

Tears That Refugees Lose
© Surazeus
2018 01 14

I wake up at dawn and find I am dead
faster than stars sparkling in the void
so I eat shadows on mirroring bread
then float nowhere like the singing crinoid.

I try to conserve actions of success
that help me progress through waste land of dreams
so I maintain balance in game of chess
while building stone towers by flowing streams.

My mute ancestors farmed this fertile land
one thousand years since we rose from its soil
till men swinging swords from blind royal hand
drove us from garden where our children toil.

We wander nowhere through slough of despond,
mute refugees hounded by hungry fear,
waiting for messiah with magic wand
who would lead us home to the singing mere.

I gaze down deep into the Eye of Earth
and seek to understand the core of light
that sparks regeneration of new birth
so we fight again for justice and right.

Through songless night I walk to ring of stones
where our First Mother once ruled Avalon
but greedy men with crowns sit on her thrones
and give our daughters to their sneering spawn.

The ancient music of the ringing stars
still vibrates in my wordless heart of faith
but sacred tunes are warped by thrumming cars
that fill the atmosphere with howling wraith.

I wander homeless now five hundred years
to live as stranger in strange crowded land
where no one cares about the bitter tears
that refugees lose in their callused hands.



Saturday, January 13, 2018

Shadow Of No One There

Shadow Of No One There
© Surazeus
2018 01 13

I talk to the shadow of no one there
who shows me pattern of my secret face
which gives me angel wings inside the mirror
and crowns me master of the unknown space.

I hear ten thousand singers on the moon
that floats outside my brain of brittle glass
so when I try to kiss her way too soon
she invents my soul from atomic mass.

I see the souls of every human being
who ever lived on this frail spinning sphere
step from the star mirror and try to sing
how they design truth to overcome fear.

I dance with the spouse who was never born
and kiss the face I carved from marble stone
then walk the glorious road of fame forlorn
to leave behind in power my anguished clone.

The cloud of wisdom, shining with starlight,
jolts my brain awake from infinite dream
so I breathe deep to soar on singing flight
but fall on broken wings in the dark stream.

Though we live in lush forest of tall trees
most of this globe spinning through empty space
is desolate waste land or wild sloshing seas
so I express love through transforming face.

Contentious agony of writhing hope
thrashes through labyrinth of my aching heart
so I encode naked truth with the trope
that channels passion on my global chart.

I reach out to touch your soul with my eye
but you become the mist who knows my name
so though we walk together in the sky
our silent thoughts disguise robotic game.

We fluctuate on swift electric waves
between two poles of opposing desire
to weave tapestry that reveals our graves,
urging us to join the celestial choir.

We transport our souls through glass doors of rain
to catch up with accelerating time
that swirls through neurons of each dreaming brain
and records our rise from nourishing slime.

I move inside this body on hard street
in surging tides of humans seeking goals
to conceal divination of my feat
that narrates success of heroic roles.

I parade in noble temple of pride
where tourists view idols of gods I carved
to fathom sacred tales I codified
till time destroys all stories I preserved.

I feel lights glowing over ruined tower
reveal ancient secrets of love I lost
so I venture from cave to pick the flower
that beams formula to calculate frost.

I sleep here forever under tree roots
and feed you apples blooming from my hands
so come to the garden where moon owl hoots
and read our stories carved in ancient lands.

Reborn On Spiritual Stream

Reborn On Spiritual Stream
© Surazeus
2018 01 13

Stars glimmer through the shadows of the night
while I lie reading in the trailer house
and in gloom of despair I feel the light
when wise Athena appears as my spouse.

I will pour out my spirit in your heart
so you may prophesy the truth of life
and map dreams of mankind with story chart
through visions of good commune we design.

I journey far from sea to shining sea,
singing visions to strangers on the street
to celebrate Goddess of Liberty
in rhythm with our atomic heartbeat.

We are reincarnations again in flesh
of conscious souls that our ancestors dream,
woven together in one divine mesh
as we flow reborn on spiritual stream.

Friday, January 12, 2018

Death Of Kings

Death Of Kings
© Surazeus
2018 01 12

Now let us sit together on the ground
and talk about the life and death of kings,
I cry out to the blank indifferent sky,
but I wander alone in misty woods,
and clutch at the cold hands of ancient trees.

Among the rustling reeds on river shore
I hold myself still in the swirling mist,
and listen to the sad indifferent wind
whisper the names of my slaughtered clan
heaped lifeless on the glorious field of battle
where they all chopped each other up with swords
in war over who would wear the gold crown
and reign as king in our castle of stone.

I find myself the last person alive,
staring at the faces of every man,
grandfather, father, uncles, brothers, cousins,
and nephews, along with their loyal warriors,
once animated with the joy of life
when they gathered in the grand castle hall
to feast on roast beef and drink honey mead,
now pale and stiff as they lie in the reeds
caked with blood and mud by the flowing river.

Old and weary from ruling as our king,
my grandfather stood tall in swirling mist,
wearing the gold crown that glitters with light,
while my father and his brothers approached
from both sides, divided into four factions
all contending over who should inherit
the divine right to rule in name of Christ.

My father declared loud his first-born right
to wear the crown of Jesus on his head,
but my grandfather called him greedy fool
too hot-headed to rule with stoic grace,
and as my uncles shouted out their rights,
each brother backed by faction of his clan,
they drew swords and hacked each other to death.

Now alone I stand in the mocking mist
and hold the gold crown, studded with diamonds,
in my trembling hand, shocked with mute despair
at the violent aggression of their greed,
and wondering now who will rule our great clan,
so I turn and see them all watching me,
my mother and everyone left alive
who refused to fight for the crown of Christ.

I place the shining crown in her pale hand
and go to drink cold water from the well
to cool the heated throbbing of my head,
but someone places heaviness of duty
pressing down with great weight on my frail head,
so I turn and see them all kneeling down
as my grandmother raises both her hands.

The king is dead, she cries, long live the king.

I feel shock of horror strike through my heart
when I realize they all kneel down to me,
and the weight of duty crushing my head
is the crown of glorious authority,
and at that moment black rain clouds part wide
to beam bright rays of sunlight on our world,
and in the face of the immortal sun
I see Christ Jesus smiling down at me.

Jesus is smiling down at me, I cry,
and everyone cheers as I weep with joy,
and lead them dancing to the castle hall
where I sit on the high gold lion throne,
then pouring wine into the holy grail
I lift it high and proclaim, may we live
long and prosper in this new age of peace.

I feel strange power of sunlight beam through me,
as if the spirit of Jesus pours down
from sphere of stars to fill me with his love,
suffused with supernatural strength of power,
then we sit and feast while musicians play,
and I sing to drown out the fear of death
that clutches at my heart with stark despair
as I gaze at their faces shining bright
when we dance and sing long after midnight.

Girl Who Sings Alone

Girl Who Sings Alone
© Surazeus
2018 01 12

When I strip away my gender and name
and push myself naked in the world maze
I find I am nothing more than impulse
of hunger to consume rich material
that would energize my endless pursuit
of fertile mate to replicate my body.

So now that you are pointing gun of hate
at my face, hoping to control my fate,
desire to live against your hostile act
infuses my body with surge of lust
that urges me to strike and break your rage,
and free myself from your oppressive lies.

Instead of gun I wield camera to catch
vision of light bouncing clear off your face
to capture and contain your spirit glow
so though the molecules bonding your soul
dissipate in winding spin of the world
you gaze forever from moment of death.

I step outside house, where I keep my dreams
locked in books, and stand on the sunlit lawn
to feel the timeless glow of beaming rays,
wishing I could forever stand unchanged
as if sunlight could energize my brain
so I would never have to eat again.

All ideologies devised by men
are focused to restrain my aching heart
and bridle arrogance of selfish pride
that convinces me I am god in flesh
because weird consciousness of hopeful lust
flashes lightning wings from my pulsing brain.

Since every living person on this globe
is replicated body of First Mother,
her mental virtual model of this world
beams mirrored inside every dreaming brain,
so she is god who wakes inside our minds,
and we remember how she survived death.

We huddle together in cavern of gems
while cold streaming rain soaks the planet blue,
consuming mushrooms full of rainbow light,
then sing the wordless vision of rebirth
while making love in passionate embrace
that flashes mountains and seas from our eyes.

You will never know the secrets we learn
because you mock the wordless songs we chant
so we carve our story on hard rock wall
and leave shadow of our spirits behind,
but no one knows where we now dance and sing
in ring of diamonds on the mountain top.

Trees glowing white in afternoon sunlight
reveal the secret reason I love you,
so we hold hands and watch the weird world flash
in surging change of forms that blinds our eyes,
but now we see numbers that structure shapes
composed by matter of stardust and rain.

Standing before you on high pyramid,
I invent god, spirit of leadership
which glows from body of our noble queen,
then glows from body of her gentle daughter
when she generates her body from seed
I plant in the fertile soil of her heart.

Because all my ancestors ruled our tribe
ten thousand years since we came from the rain
and organized production of ripe fruit
to build empires from bricks baked by red flames
then I should rule over you all today
and not my brother who shares divine soul.

Heaps of bodies killed by bullets and swords
rot on the muddy plain after fierce battles,
and all their pulsing brains dissolve to dust
that swirls around me when I ride my horse
on my quest to find the real Holy Grail
in the eyes of the girl who sings alone.

Thursday, January 11, 2018

Before We All Fade

Before We All Fade
© Surazeus
2018 01 11

Our songs are alive with weird archetypes
dancing like chess pieces disguised as friends
in the mirroring labyrinth of our dreams.

Our fears are puppets we make dance on strings
of aching love unraveled from our hearts
that make people laugh and cry at their play.

I hide behind the blank mask of my love
to channel chaos of my aching hope
in quiet song of blooms on apple trees.

I wear the masks of dead philosophers
to break beyond the wall of ignorance
and explore the nature of changing things.

I see my Muse, Athena Liberty,
appear as shining light in drizzling rain
and follow her to where the sun is born.

I bury seed of faith in mud of doubt,
discarding desire for eternal life,
and tend tree of knowledge blooming my heart.

I search the silent universe for God
and find pulsing energy in my atoms
that generates glow of my consciousness.

Each god of myth who plays on stage of life
beams apparition of live human being
who once explored the labyrinth of this world.

I see the spirit of each human being
who ever lived in history of our world
singing together in choir of our dreams.

I type swiftly to capture with weird words
their voices beaming visions of their minds
before we all fade into silent night.

Wordless Eyes Of Light

Wordless Eyes Of Light
© Surazeus
2018 01 11

Death of the one we love makes our heart ache
wordless as butterflies kissing flowers.
Though they are gone from the world I perceive
I see their face glowing in clouds and trees.

When they were still alive, warm in my arms,
every kiss we shared vanished in mute wind.
Every time we touched they crumbled to dust
till now they compose the world where I walk.

The person I love transformed into rain
that fills my cupped hands when I drink their words.
Their one face changed into faces you wear,
wide as the hills where trees whisper at us.

We are here in these warm bodies of dirt
but light shatters our bodies with cold wind.
I feel them everywhere in wind and rain,
watching me live with wordless eyes of light.


We Turn To Water

We Turn To Water
© Surazeus
2018 01 11

We turn to water at the kiss of light
which flows along the channels of our dreams
till we rise up at dawn on shore of time
and pluck ripe apples from the tree of life.

These whispers of infinity reveal
strange motivation in desire to taste
sparkles of rain that trickle from your eyes
and nourish this body of dust I am.

I give you apple of my soggy brain
so you can taste the real dreams I conceal
yet when I remove the mask of your name
I see vast spinning galaxies of death.

When we hold hands and walk the winding road
through lightless forest of sad whispering trees
we wander far beyond the walls of heaven
to plant apple seeds where rain never falls.

I dip my hands in water of your eyes
and see your face reflected from dark clouds
so I must sing the weird words you gave me
before the moon returns you to my arms.

I see your face reflected in moon stone
that melts in sorrow from my grasping hands
till hot sun reveals your time-rotting face
since apple tree grows from your muddy heart.


Mirror Mask Of Reborn I

Mirror Mask Of Reborn I
© Surazeus
2018 01 11

The days when we understand the power game
vanish in purple haze of puzzle name
so I kiss the sky that bleeds through my eye
before I must design the new mask I.

Faster every day we race for the prize
to win the calculated play of lies
beyond the wall that surrounds fertile land
though I stand mute with sorrow in my hand.

Twisting backward the sensible purview
which would influence the forgotten clue,
I scope the experience of true thought
to reveal the secret code we long sought.

Elected kings now reign in halls of gold
while angels seek the truth that bankers sold
to highest bidder who mines paradise
since our blind faith will no longer suffice.

The shattered mirror which reflects our truth
was reassembled by the wordless sleuth
who stole the wings that Icarus concealed
since Jesus was the dying king revealed.

I left my crippled horse on signless road
to readjust my brain in questing mode
so I can see beyond religious lies
where atoms scatter blue in sparkling skies.

The funeral procession in Voodoo Town,
lead by the loudest apoplectic clown,
winds on forever, sea to shining sea,
till revolution revives Liberty.

Huge clouds that glow in empty sky of hope,
that help us perceive universal scope,
reflect the faces of the souls we love
who gather singing in the apple grove.

I scatter runic stones on grass of time
to read the mysteries blanked by the mime
who plays our president in house of lies
and tries to obfuscate our hopeful eyes.

Follow the leader into maze of words
till he appoints his followers as lords
who subjugate good workers in lush fields
but fight for freedom when the jester yields.

Ten thousand poets all across our land
inscribe new magic spells with crippled hand
so weird cacophony of voices ring
in spiral interludes from broken wing.

Now that we understand the power game
we will ascend with the true puzzle name
that flashes coded dreams in every eye
who wears the mirror mask of reborn I.

Faces Of Souls I Love

Faces Of Souls I Love
© Surazeus
2018 01 11

巨Huge 云clouds 住live 在in 敝our 空empty 霄sky 的of 时time.
面Faces 的of 人souls 我I 爱love 睐gaze 下down 在at 我me.
咱We 走walk 同together 在in 阳光sunlight 和and 雨rain.
几时When 咱we 死die 咱we 施肥fertilize 相同same 水果fruit 木tree. 

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

Competing World Views

Competing World Views
© Surazeus
2017 08 08

In these wild days of competing world views
how can I separate well-perceived facts
from fictions based on ideologies
so I can recognize and trust the truth?

Each group of people, struggling to survive
hostile social games of kill or be killed,
designs world view based on acts of success
that guides their way through the valley of death.

The wandering fool lost in the bleak waste land
who discovers the source of sacred truth
bubbling from the broken world will return
as wise prophet who teaches magic spells.

From desperation of struggle with death
the prophet creates framework of concepts
through weird calculation of riddling spells
that reveal true essence within each form.

The teeming world around me I perceive
to be crystal structures of molecules
that interact through chemistry of numbers
in process of construction and destruction.

The constant motion of matter in space
controlled by physical laws of desire
for atoms swirling in vast hungry void
I can trust to energize my brain dreams.

The subject is breathing organic creature
who perceives the world with stereo eyes
and designs virtual model in its brain
then chooses to act to cause new effect.

The object is solid mineral crystal
caused to move and transform in basic shape
by imaginative subject who converts
rocks and trees into engine-run machines.

I describe the changing world I perceive
with words that mirror ideas of things
and conjure apparitions of my dreams
with magic spells I chant on moonlight nights.

I am evil demon you cannot see
who tricks you into thinking all you feel
is illusion of desire that is real
so you slave for cash, thinking you are free.

Sideways To Paradise

Sideways To Paradise
© Surazeus
2017 08 07

Half-blinded by visions my mind projects,
which define perfect world of daily life
I wish to construct through creative action,
I race through the labyrinth of the world
to participate in game of success,
bumbling my way sideways to paradise.

Hitchhiking from Seattle to Miami,
I climb the bright Montanas Colorados
where Onatah appears to me in dream
of thunderstorm over the mountain peaks
and teaches me how to chant magic spells,
navigating sideways to paradise.

Across the waste land of the nameless world
I walk beside the shadow of myself
and listen to the whisper of despair
explaining secrets of the bleak abyss
where I plant seeds I stole from Tree of Life,
crawling thirsty sideways to paradise.

When I comprehend the dust in the wind
the horse with no name appears from the mist
so we race to the sea beach where Death waits
to play chess for the true soul of the world
before I reign at the apocalypse,
crowned the fool in sideways to paradise.

Worship Dead Gods

Worship Dead Gods
© Surazeus
2018 01 10

The empire of the mind, where I search lost
in maze of mirrors, knows the name I dreamed
before I knew what liberty would cost,
except the way we hope to be redeemed.

Based on strange legends, written in old books,
we build new ideologies of power
to keep the people obedient with looks
of strict compliance to the law of flowers.

I turn on television to review
weird dramas that play out on public stage,
but crooks caught stealing declare all fake news
and try to kill the truth with spluttering rage.

No grand narrative of history presides
to guide our ship of state through storms of fear,
so warriors for truth swim against weird tides
while gods fight over who will rule the sphere.

Dismantling doctrines of the human god,
who would recreate Earth as paradise,
I discard religion as greedy fraud
that offers salvation at a steep price.

Each ideology that fights to rule
presents Utopian vision of the future,
but prophet they worship is clever fool,
then we wake up to another mass shooter.

The Abramists from the holy waste land,
who follow Judah, Jesus, and Mohammed,
offer their messiah, whose guiding hand
came from the Star Queen on the first pyramid.

The sons of Jesus for two thousand years
rule lands of Europe and America,
pushing ever west into wild frontiers
to found circles of esoterica.

We colonize the world with rule of law
so kings rule in castles through monarchy,
then sail from Christendom to Onatah
where we elect kings through democracy.

We stand in ring of stones on rain-wet plain,
wearing long white robes of angelic faith,
and sing our journey in the wagon train
on quest to escape tyrannical wraith.

Each group of people struggling to survive
will choose one person to reign as their god
whose wisdom guides their work so they may thrive
but rules with loyal courtiers as his squad.

The clash of civilizations rings loud
in boom of guns and talk in council halls
when eloquent deceivers steer the crowd
to surround their land with paranoid walls.

We employ capital to produce food
so everyone in our commune may eat,
distributed with honest attitude,
till rich men control all land through deceit.

After I wander labyrinth of history
through maze of mirrors, that present the tales
of saviors and tyrants, weird mystery
of human nature I weigh on new scales.

I contemplate strange tale of human life
where groups of people fight to control lands,
and weep at the blood spilled by endless strife
while hungry men build empires with their hands.

I stand on pyramid of spinning time
and watch humans mutate from tribes to empires
then calculate progress with puzzling rhyme
where people worship dead gods under church spires.

Tuesday, January 9, 2018

Good American Man

Good American Man
© Surazeus
2018 01 09

Plain aspirations of the working man
who loves to grasp metal tools with his hands
and tweak the purring engines of our cars
guides his fraught path through labyrinth of lies
so when he faces dead-end wall of greed
he tears down the wall with hammer of hope.

His hands extracted dirt from mountain core
and melted minerals in cauldrons of fire,
then hammered shining sheets and sturdy beams,
transforming rocks into tall towers of glass
that glitter in sprawling cities of light
where computers calculate profit margins.

Sitting on the front porch of his small home
on narrow street where children run and play,
he polishes rifles with oil and cloth,
and country music plays on his radio
while both the Union and Confederate flags
flap bold on the silver pole of his pride.

He guns the engine of his pickup truck
and races city streets to football field
where he cheers his son who charges ahead,
bashing into opponents with harsh growl,
then takes him fishing on the country lake
and throws beer cans in bushes after dark.

He claps when his preacher at church declares
Jesus is the king over all the world,
and he appointed our strong president
who defies the childish communist goon,
threatening to blast him with nuclear fire
because our missiles are bigger than theirs.

His neighbors declare to the news reporters
that he was a good American man,
and no one could predict what he would do
when he drove to the home of his ex-wife
where he killed her and her whole family,
so praise Jesus for his mercy and love.


Idol Of My Soul

Idol Of My Soul
© Surazeus
2017 07 07

The words I write to tell stories of souls
are shadows cast by the light of my soul,
so when I die the light of my soul blanks
to nothing, leaving only shadows of me
to reveal where my mind once glowed with dreams.

The hopes of strangers in stories I tell
are ravens fluttering wings in apple trees
where slithering serpent tempts me to believe
our conscious souls will live after we die
but dreams vanish when our minds cease to glow.

I dip my hands in pool of shining eyes
and see strange spirit looking back at me
who imitates every thought I express,
and how I gasp in shock to realize
I see myself in mirror of our world.

I see strange shadow following my steps
so I mold mud in idol of myself
but leave it standing for one hundred years,
singing in rain that streams down its blank face,
while flowers and herbs bloom from its wet skin.

On crumbling idol of myself I carve
runic letters to match sounds of my mouth
which paint images of my soul on hill
of blooming trees with animals I love,
since infinity explains about death.

This idol of myself in words I write
will stand ten thousand years by flowing stream,
but I will feel alone unless you build
idol of yourself to stand at my side
so we sing together in choir of souls.

When Death Returns

When Death Returns
© Surazeus
2017 07 06

I sit on the mountain and sing of death
while tuning the spirit of conscious breath
to weave my dreams in sharp rays of sunlight
that lift my mind on fancy wings of flight.

I sit on the sea beach and laugh at time
while twanging the atoms of ringing rhyme
to tune my brain with principles of truth
so I can play the noble savior sleuth.

I gaze inside bright television eye
and see no bounds define the swirling sky
so when I stand on cliff of aching hope
I will expand perception to full scope.

When death returns from weird infinity
to teach me secret of true liberty
I walk into vast swirling sea of time
so I merge back in conscious stew of slime.


Monday, January 8, 2018

Lies Of Paradise

Lies Of Paradise
© Surazeus
2018 01 08

When I explore through silence of moon light
the archaeology of prophecy
to find the secret palace of Star God,
who designed our aggressive universe,
I will map the weird way I need to blaze
through labyrinth of faces without names.

They know the reason we are not yet dead
although I paint the puzzle in my head
that might explain why we must eat to live
by killing plants and animals that glow
with bright electric spirit of the stars
which animates my soul to conquer death.

They sing in broken sentences of fear,
the gibbering monkeys with crippled hands
who crowd around me, grasping for my harp,
and attempt to steal writhing words of power
which I weave from tangled strings of their hearts
so they think spells I chant are their own thoughts.

I play sweet haunting melodies of hope
on bone flute from lost angel of their dreams
to lead them singing from waste land of love
on winding trail to misty mountain peak
where ring of giant diamonds glitters bright
enough to beam rainbows that flash our brains.

Yet when I lead them inside castle walls,
where they believe that they will live secure,
the greedy king on throne of broken skulls
locks iron doors so heaven becomes hell,
and they are forced to slave in factories,
forging computers from stochastic keys.

No savior will appear in clouds of glory
to free your hands from economic chains,
I prophesy to hordes of wordless slaves,
till they revolt to smash old castle towers
and build new industry of sleek machines,
constructing banks on ruins of cathedrals.

I hear the racous twitter of wild birds
who chatter in ten thousand trees to argue
about the code of form and emptiness
revealed by calculus of curving beams
which smash the walls of strong authority
and free our minds from lies of paradise.

So after another world war is fought
to reconstruct the sacred principles
of freedom through democracy for all
we shall gather at the river of light
that flows by the temple of fallen gods
and feast on fruit we grow with our own hands.

I am the stable genius of Eye Mountain,
so climb the cliff of solitude to find
the sacred grove where I tend gushing fountain
which weaves new particles in dreaming mind
where spirit of our first mother Ishtar
mirrors our atoms forged by the God Star.