Saturday, December 16, 2017

Children Of Astaria

Children Of Astaria
© Surazeus
2017 12 16

My heart gushes with love for all the world
so I would bid every person alive,
all seven billion souls with conscious minds,
drink from the overflow of my abyss.

I see reflected in their dreaming eyes
the bright eternal soul that we call God
which glows from rich pulsations of our atoms
which vibrate more clear when combined in brains.

I dug into the darkness of my mind,
remembering the lives of all my ancestors,
how they struggled through Hell to create Heaven,
and thus released the fountain of my love.

While wandering in purple rain of Seattle,
I ate the mushroom, Manna of the Negev,
then Guilhelmus, ninth Duke of Aquitaine,
woke inside me and urged I sing new spells.

I walked across the land of Onatah,
and in the waste land of the western wild
I kneeled before the Goddess of the Corn
to offer worship, working for her good.

Accepting my service with generous heart,
the immortal Spirit of Liberty
commissioned me to write new epic tale
relating how wise minds explore the world.

I cartographed the history of the mind
how we perceive rich forms composed of atoms
and design Ideas to categorize
myriad species that populate our world.

We are composed of atoms pulsing bright
that swirl in spiral dance of sparkling joy
to aggregate in warm organic bodies
sustaining brains who sing the deeds of heroes.

We worship noble heroes who perceive
true nature of the world and then perform
deeds of supernatural strength to save mankind
and teach us how to organize great empires.

Religions bind our minds with common tales
that praise the founders of our nation-states,
strange stories of their lives as holy scriptures
which guide our own way through the maze of dreams.

I wrestled with the angel of my soul,
reforming myself as the Messenger,
till I became the Light Maker of truth,
new Lucifer who bears the torch of faith.

I fell nine days and nights from tower of power
then explored thirty years the wilderness
where characters from every tale once told
wander whispering proverbs to the dry stones.

I dug from clay Earth the scepter of wisdom,
forged by volcanic lava cooled by rain,
and fought the hungry dragon of the waste land,
then wore its skull as crown of divine knowledge.

Returning from the waste land of my heart,
I entered the gate to our citadel
and climbed the gold steps of the ziggurat
to stand before Ishtar, Mother of Man.

You are the great Eye of the Pyramid,
I sing before Goddess of Liberty,
and you see all that happens on the Earth,
so you assign each human role of fate.

We are the dreaming children of Astaria
who sent us out to colonize the world,
so we sailed east and west along world coasts
to build small pyramids on every shore.

Drink from the fountain of my bleeding heart
for our visions of love will flow forever
and gather in the ring of stones at dawn
to celebrate the birth of Mother Ishtar.

Astaria touches every human breast
and opens wide our hearts with generous love
so we cooperate to build one empire
that unites all nations in one world tribe.

We Fight For World Unity

We Fight For World Unity
© Surazeus
2017 12 16

We see in the mirror of other faces
reflections of our own dreams we forgot
because we walk somewhere we must design,
mapping our life as we explore the world.

We read the forgotten biography
of lives we might have lead on packages
of things we purchase in large shopping malls,
hidden in the names of people who made them.

We hear our own voices on radios
singing strange feelings for lost memories
we gave away while closing our tired eyes
and stayed silent in the face of hostility.

We forge shields of silence around our hearts
to protect the paradise of childhood,
surrounding our garden of innocence
with stone walls of stoic indifference.

We kneel at the fountain of narratives
to drink the purified dreams of lost hope
and tell stories to strangers that relate
the victimhood of our struggle to live.

We laugh in the weird hurricane of history
and fly on bold Icarian wings toward heaven,
wishing God had created a universe
where we can drink nothing but light to live.

We claw nuggets of wisdom from the Earth
and scatter them on the table of church,
but we must forge them into swords and grails
to fight for freedom and drink juice of love.

We drive cars speeding on highways of hope,
chasing the rainbow of wealth to ascend
the thousand-step pyramid of success
where the president reigns as global god.

We open the fridge of desperate hunger
for epic adventure battling the forces
of tyranny which oppress our vast nation,
but find only the last bottle of soda.

We surf the information highway of lies
and battle the trolls of racism and hate
with swords of compassion and logic forged
in the flames of civil war that we stoke.

We cheer our heroes who defeat the tyrants
and weep when they fall in battle of wits
then send another hero forth to die,
hoping they are David for their Goliath.

We wandered too far from the harping bridge
to the twenty-first century to retreat
from the fight to forge hostile nation-states
into strong United Nations of Earth.

We fight for world unity and peace
that we must forge ourselves in flames of war
for tribes always merge into large empires
and share the cultural wisdom we invent.

We kill the killers who oppress good people
and overthrow the tyrants of blind greed
to enforce strict rules of honest Utopia,
creating Heaven on Earth out of Hell.


Friday, December 15, 2017

Unreal City

Unreal City
© Surazeus
2017 12 15

When all the wise angels who lost their wings
gather in the streets and hold up blank signs
to protest the king in a gray business suit
who wants to charge us for breathing fresh air
we enter the maze of the Unreal City
and snap photos of our faces on doors.

The old woman who dares defy the king
raises high the torn flag of Liberty
then leads the social justice warriors
marching to war against the cross crusaders
who attempt to capture the Unreal City
where the blind prophet paints our names on doors.

We thought he was Tiresias reborn
when we first heard the blind prophet declare,
no man is above the law, not even the king,
but they hung him on the telephone pole
where he watches over the Unreal City
while we try to break through numberless doors.

Who stops on the bridge and howls in the mist
the madness of fools wandering through the maze
of wealth and power where clowns in business suits
steal visions from the man without a clue
who races for wealth through the Unreal City
but leaves bloody handprints on broken doors.

We wait in vain for Britomart to come
riding tall on her white horse in the wind
to drive the mad king from the Oval Office
who shrieks in defiance from the Red House
that reigns over fools in the Unreal City
where legal thieves conspire behind locked doors.

Can all our voices composing one soul
shake the foundations under tower of gold
to topple the oppressive eye of hate
that tries to control the process of fate
since we defy tyrants in Unreal City
and hang wreaths of peace on red-painted doors.

Thursday, December 14, 2017

Tears Of Butterflies

Tears Of Butterflies
© Surazeus
2017 12 14

Who drinks fermented tears of butterflies
before the glass piano reveals truth
reflected in the mirror of your eyes
so when you fly above the city towers
your telescopic eyes can see the minds
of every secret poet who never writes?

Who leaps beyond the broken wall of fear
to weave weird rainbows from the sacred dreams
of children lost in maze of laughing doors
who buried names of ones they love with seeds
so vines of sorrow sprout from aching hearts
to preserve songs that no one ever writes?

Who grips sharp keys in clenched fists of despair
and crouches to fight grim shadows of lust
then leaves their bones on parking lot at noon
so the mute boy carves holes with serpent tongue
then plays heart-wrenching melodies of hope
in sweet memory of every murdered girl?

Who lowers buckets in bottomless wells
carved from frozen Earth by thin desperate hands
that clasp when chapped lips pray to empty sky
because no Superman nor Britomart
will fly from flaming clouds to save their souls
since no one but wind answers their sad prayers?

Who stumbles from city of loud machines,
deafened by the harsh howl of hungry ghosts,
and stands on river shore, soul bared to light,
to sing with flock of dreaming butterflies
whose language no one but him understands
because we are composed of pulsing dust?

Who slips the throbbing heart of selfless love
beating from the chest of the faceless king
before he writes your story in the book
that preserves souls in skeleton of words
but escapes on broken wings through the maze
of legends every culture wears as mask?

Who leaps into the doors of waterfalls
in hopes to enter alternate dimensions
where they rule as god-king of the whole world
because they rescue mute souls from the maze
of watching eyes who know your secret name
but keep it hidden in the jewel of truth?

Who stands in ethereal light of desire
to sing ancient epic tales with guitar,
hoping to escape the cage of the house
where their children wait for dinner to eat
while staring at apples that have three eyes
and peer into the secret depths of souls?

Who wanders in the waste land of lost souls
and listens to the thunder cracking jokes
while walking with the shadow of their mind
though the blind prophetess plays chess with death
and the hyacinth girl lies wounded in leaves
on which I wrote the prophecy you need?

Who stands forlorn on river shore at dawn
while sweet Ophelia offers them dead flowers
then brews mushroom wine with honey and grapes
so when I break from nutshell of my kingdom
I can race my bike across wind-swept deserts
and drink fermented tears of butterflies?


Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Last Christ Of Gotham

Last Christ Of Gotham
© Surazeus
2017 12 13

Hunched in long rain coat and tattered fedora
the old bearded man who lost everything
wanders city landscape of cement streets
to the aching melodies of a violin.
Cast by the light of streetlamps in green mist,
his shadow slides slowly along brick walls
like the lion who glides through ancient woods
when he hunts death to eat the weak and frail.

"Like Satan I have fallen on torn wings
from air-conditioned offices of heaven
and wander lost in alleyways of hell
where junkies sell their bodies for a buck.
I see men cheat other men of their cash
and other men chase them into the shadows
through the maze of courts and prisons to fight
for justice of ordering law against chaos.
The honest man who plays messiah christ
must sacrifice his life for common good
to save mankind from oppression of men
who exploit common people for their gain.
I sat at computers for thirty years
accounting for all profit and expense
of men who exploit the labor of people
to build global empire from ashes of war.
I waited till the day I would retire
to tell my boss he is an evil vampire
building on the bones of men his vast empire
and he threw me out from his tower of power.
He called police to arrest me with cuffs
and charged me with embezzling corporate funds
then locked me in prison for twenty years
and now I own nothing but my frail hands.
My wife and children fled and changed their names
and now I wander past the large glass doors
to banks and shopping malls where people play
glorious gods on the stage of corporate power.
I failed to perform any noble act
in saving the world from tyrants of money
so I was no christ anointed by god
though I was sure his voice spoke in my head.
Jesus is dead two thousand years ago
but he set good example for all kings
to follow when they lead their people well,
willing to die to save them from themselves.
If God is all-powerful, he is not good
for he could create a much better world
where we would never have to eat to live,
yet we must kill the living to live more.
If God is good, he is not all-powerful
for he attempts to enforce rules of law
to ensure equal justice for all people,
but he fails since evil will never cease."

Walking past the large movie theater
after midnight, the old bearded man hears
young woman scream, so he hurries toward sound
where two men clutch her arms as she fights back.
Grabbing long rusty pipe lying on the ground,
the bearded men bashes their arms and backs,
causing them to shriek and release the woman
who runs free into the safe mist of night.
The two rapists growl in rage when she runs,
then turn against the frail old bearded man
to snatch the rusty pipe from his frail hand
and smash his skull so blood spurts on the wall.
Running away, they leave him in the dark,
and the old bearded man stares at the stars
with blank eyes composed of bright molecules
that pulse with ancient consciousness of love.


Tuesday, December 12, 2017

Signless Road Of Truth

Signless Road Of Truth
© Surazeus
2017 12 12

Performance not perfection is the point
of expressing visions that haunt our minds
so we fly through the shadows of despair
and water the fields with tears of our hearts.

At the call of the waterfall of love
I transform into the raven who knows
how to write our story in lightning strikes
which illuminates our words in the wind.

We run into the tunnel of cold eyes
to chase the hawk of time beyond the loop
that channels back the rivers of our veins
so we remember why we build the tower.

Though I drive ten thousand miles of long roads
through cities where robots drive shining cars
I never arrive at the gates of Heaven
where the last queen writes poetry in jewels.

She weaves the strands of my beard in new wings
so I can return through calculus code
to the castle in the sky where I found
the child of Rapunzel and Icarus.

He looks at me in the mirror of hope
so I break through ancient stone walls of laws
and soar among the clouds on rainbow beams
but wake to find that it was all a dream.

My mother Rapunzel taught me the spells
that beam visions of life on silver screen
so I play the role of every great hero
on the theater stage in church of lies.

My father Icarus taught me the skills
to transform wood into wave-leaping ship
and forge stone into sharp sun-flashing sword
so I rule the island of Avalon.

Since that is how Orpheus found my soul
wandering lost on the signless road of truth
and lead me to the temple of First Mother
who first rose from the Lake of Dreams at dawn.

I am not one person who writes this spell
for we are millions of souls in one brain,
alive in every sparkling neuron eye
to preserve every life we ever lived.

I fall back into the shell of my head
and find myself walking on signless road
through sparkling mist to ring of moonlit stones
where my father plays harp in hall of songs.

I stand outside the temple of Stone Henge
and watch my father and mother on stage
playing sacred roles of Jesus and Maria,
conducting the feast of midwinter night.

When the blind wizard asks me my true name,
I reply, I am Godinus, first son
of Apollo and Iduna, the daughter
of Odin who taught me how to write Runes.

They tell me I will reign as Raven King
in Sarum Temple on Avalon Island,
but I want to tend apple trees in mist
rather than conduct rituals for the dead.

I try to escape the fate they decreed
by running away from castle of power
and seek clear visions in the apple grove
so I understand the nature of things.

I erase all the names of my ancestors,
blasting their words from the tablets of stone
with howling wind of my voice, but their eyes
stare at me from the wall of nameless souls.

Last Book Of Wisdom

Last Book Of Wisdom
© Surazeus
2017 12 12

Malik walks amid the ruins of cities,
cluttered with the cracked skulls of movie stars,
to search among the ashes of lost knowledge
for the last book of wisdom in the world.

He stands before statue of Albert Einstein,
who plays atomic notes on violin,
and asks where he can find amid the ruins
the last book of wisdom in the whole world.

Trudging on highways full of rusting cars,
Malik pauses by bus of skeletons,
then watches nothing fly in empty skies,
and listens to wind hum through broken doors.

Entering another city of tall towers,
fragile skeletons of red rusting steel,
Malik peers at bright indifferent sun,
and steps through door into library hall.

Dust particles swirl from steps of his search,
each one a lost letter from pages of books
that crumble when he opens them to read,
and sighs at the vanity of his quest.

Locked behind unbroken glass in large case
the textbook gleams in rays of light that beam
through broken windows, lost treasure of truth,
the last whole book of wisdom in the world.

Leaning close to the glass with reverent eyes,
Malik reads the title of the textbook,
"The Basics of Physics and Chemistry,"
then gasps and folds his hands in prayer of thanks.

Cleaning away mounds of dust and debris,
Malik creates a shrine around the case,
and cleans the glass till it glitters bright blue,
then sits to guard the holy book of truth.

For sixty-eight years the last man on Earth
sits guard and cleans the glass case every day
so sunlight gleams in halo of pure truth
around the last book of wisdom in the world.

Closing his dim eyes at moment of death,
Malik smiles satisfied that he kept safe
that last book of true wisdom in the world,
just as bricks fall and smash the book to dust.


Monday, December 11, 2017

Gods On Earth

Gods On Earth
© Surazeus
2017 12 11

When I was young I saw Gods walk on Earth,
enormous people who stood tall as clouds,
and when they reached their hands they touched the sky,
and held the blazing sun with grasping hands,
and hurled lightning bolts in battles for power.

I saw those giant Gods with flowing hair
and eyes that flashed with laughter of the rain
perform amazing deeds of awesome strength,
lifting mountains and trees with their huge hands
and building giant towers that housed the sun.

When I was young those Gods who walked on Earth
reached down from shining sky with open hands
and lifted me up high toward flashing clouds
where I could see the whole world they create,
and they gazed up at me with loving eyes.

But as I grew the Gods I once adored
diminished from their grandiose size of power
and shriveled into weakening human beings
who gazed into my eyes from level plane
until they vanished from their wrinkled corpse.

The Gods who once strode tall across the sky
shrank down to humans walking at my side
then vanished into dust that swirls in wind,
and then I found myself growing more tall
and one day looked down at my awe-struck child.

When he was young my child gazed up at me
as if I were some giant grandiose God
who reaches up my hands to touch the sky,
and hurls the blazing sun with grasping hands,
and heaps huge stones to build the temple hall.

So then I realized with great booming laugh,
like thunder echoing between high mountain peaks,
that God was my own father with bright eyes,
and now I am God who rules the whole world,
and one day my son will be God on Earth.

So now that I am God who walks on Earth
I reach from shining sky with open hands
and lift my son up high toward flashing clouds
where he can see the whole world I create,
and I gaze up at him with loving eyes.

Sunday, December 10, 2017

How My Light Is Spent

How My Light Is Spent
© Surazeus
2017 12 10

When I consider how light of my mind
emanates bright from pulsing molecules
to generate the will to urgent action,
I channel to maintain health of my soul,
I worry not that I may one day go blind
for epic tale I sing celebrates fools
of courage who evolve from bland abstraction
so the weird hero represents the whole,
because no conscious supernatural god
designed and created our universe,
thus I design the virtual world I dream
and code these spells of mind-enchanting tales
that tell how seekers gather loyal squad
who battle tyrants and dispel the curse
by cooperating as well-organized team
in games of power so justice prevails,
for I play god, and perform role I write,
composing vision that reflects the light,
and through active force create and destroy
by cause and effect, then savor my joy.

Saturday, December 9, 2017

Queen Of Apples

Queen Of Apples
© Surazeus
2017 12 09

She stands on the mountaintop in starlight,
singing beautiful songs that no one hears.
She gazes at eerie enchanting sight
of endless mountains rolling into years.

She walks the forest, listening to trees,
which twist hungry branches to flashing skies,
explain the mystery of whispering breeze
to draw pulsing forms in her dreaming eyes.

She touches fluttering leaves with curious hand
to understand the song of their true name.
She blazes unseen trails across the land
and chases prancing deer in spriteful game.

She walks from wilderness of singing wind
into the crowded maze of city streets.
She smiles at everyone as trusted friend
and seeks to understand each soul she meets.

She gives away everything she makes free
but weeps hungry when they turn her away.
She leaves the city to find her name tree
and eats sweet apples while branches sway.

She brings wagon of apples to the town
where hungry children kiss her generous hand.
She sings under the tree in fluttering gown,
our beloved queen of the starving land.

Run With Trees In Rain

Run With Trees In Rain
© Surazeus
2017 12 09

When the laughing tree came running at me
out of the rain that falls from eyes of mothers
I hid in the light of forgotten dreams
till I could discover her secret name.

She sent flocks of ravens on beating wings
to bring me mushrooms from the cave of dreams
so when I ate them at the flash of dawn
I saw the evolution of all things.

While I was floating in the dream of time
on shimmering waves of transforming masks
I heard the music of the universe
pulsing from each particle of my soul.

Though my flashing brain can only control
this body of bones and flesh through the maze
of dancing trees, I feel the vibrant flow
of mountains and rivers inside my heart.

Each atom of my body was designed
by pulsing sun that forges from hot flames
bright neurons writing visions in my brain
so I blossom from the seed of my star.

So when I wandered lost in maze of shadows
the singing tree came forward from the rain
and showed me how to walk her secret way
beyond the blinding walls my fathers built.

I climbed the smiling tree to reach the sky
and there she showed me how the twinkling stars
beamed molecules to weave from aching rays
this beating heart that longs for raven wings.

But when my father woke me before dawn
and placed the sharp axe in my trembling hand
I wept that the trees I love could not run
through comforting rain to escape from death.

My father showed me how to build this dome
of solid timber perched on ring of stones
to shelter your souls from enlightening rain
who teaches us the ancient song of stars.

I laid my dead father in river mud
and berry vines curled from his beating heart
to bleed his pure soul in succulent berries
that nourish our minds when we drink his dreams.

Now his spirit of wisdom glows in me
that proves I am the tree who runs in rain
and plants the seeds of stars in fertile eyes
so children spring singing from open hands.

Hold hands in ring of stones on winter night
and sing sweet hymns about the shining sun
that will return to revive the dead world
and kiss apples blooming again from trees.

That, my curious child, is what I perceive
when I visit Stone Henge, the ring of stones
where we once gathered on midwinter night
to sing of stars and feast on apple pies.

We carry their ancient songs in our hearts
that teach us how the stars beam vibrant soul
to animate our minds with hungry love
so we can run with trees in flashing rain.

When you want to understand how our souls
were born from the blossoming seeds of stars
run with trees in rain and sing secret names
that beam from heart of every person born.

The trees rose from the ripe womb of the sea
billions of years before we crawled up streams,
and filled the sky with oxygen we breathe
then gave us fruit to wake our minds from dream.


Friday, December 8, 2017

Electric Letters

Electric Letters
© Surazeus
2017 12 08

The rain that patters on the metal roof
conspires to obscure the clear naked proof
that we are swirling clouds of hungry light
who search the maze of mirrors for the kite
she sewed from angel wings that fell alone
to sing electric letters in the stone.

I dig the stone of dreams from river mud
while ancient stories slither in my blood
so when I wear the mask of fallen king
I stand in ruins of my church to sing
about the angel who taught me to fly
and read electric letters in the sky.

I find the dead in carnival of souls
who eat broken glass from puzzling bowls
and show me how to blaze new trail of truth
through labyrinth of voices where our youth
invent new social roles in game of power
and drink electric letters from the flower.

Though I have run ten thousand miles of dreams
along the winding memories of streams
I have not found the one with eyes of flame
who might explain to me my secret name
that I dug up from roots of pungent herbs
to write electric letters through the verbs.

I slouch in bleak despair by aching wall
and stare at shadows dancing down the hall
yet sigh that all I make with crafty hands
are bound like star gems to nine golden bands
so I now change my life to match the play
with bold electric letters in the bay.

I sail small wooden boat I built last year
through ragged storms of self-defeating fear
toward jagged island of the singing rock
where I secure my diamond cave with lock
but still the culture thieves in hall of lies
steal weird electric letters from my eyes.

When I return from mountain of the gods
I find that someone smashed my sailing boat
so now I crawl across the bulging world
and gaze in deep abyss where spirits swirled
before they animate our chunks of flesh
from bright electric letters of the mesh.

I leave my mask on plain where twinkling stars
teach wizards how to build fast-zooming cars
since wily Lucifer taught how our Cosmos
is pulsing structure woven from swift Atoms
so we discovered the secret of flight
coded in electric letters of light.

Calculus Of Defeat

Calculus Of Defeat
© Surazeus
2017 12 08

Slouching low in his chair in the classroom,
where two hundred students from every nation
of the world listen to the old professor
lecture about physics and calculus,
Mike stares at math formulas on the board
that show how to accurately measure curves,
and dreams about the soft curves of her hips
under a pink skirt as Diana squirms.

"The world has gone mad as nations contest
over whose state ideology is best,
worshipping economic principles
in place of God embodied in the man
who once ruled the nation of family tribes.
Ten thousand missiles with nuclear warheads
stand poised in secret fields around the world
to blast our megacities into dust
with fires of hell unleashed in searing blast
that would murder millions in flash of death.
Our lofty principles of liberty
for every individual who can work,
contributing to progress of our nation,
and justice for all, regardless of race,
are trampled by the greedy politicians
who support the rapist, liar, and conman
that occupies our White House at this hour.
I want to fight for law of equal rights
against secret cadres of billionaires
who seek to reduce us all to wage slaves,
but when I walk outside in the sunshine
I see nothing but buildings and highways
where working people drive about their lives,
working all day in quiet offices
then seeking entertainment every night,
so powerful bankers and senators
who operate our economic system
rig the profit scheme to benefit themselves
while we struggle in obscene game of wealth.
What can I do to fight the money goons
whose money-laundering system of wealth
works invisible to my searching eyes
and untouchable to my crafting hands?
All I can think about is earning grades
enough to graduate when I am done
so I can find good-paying job in town
to earn enough for fast car and big house
where Diana can raise our children well.
I feel like Michael the archangel knight,
determined to protect my noble nation
but my own government is now the dragon
who rules the kingdom of Heaven with greed."

The bell rings and students leave the classroom,
so Mike sighs, resigned, and goes with the flow
of people through the doors into the hall
where they chatter as if nothing is wrong.
Wandering outside to the broad shady lawn,
Mike slouches against an ancient oak tree
and stares at white clouds in the empty sky
that resemble a warrior with long sword
fighting against Tyrannosaurus Rex
to ponder the calculus of defeat.



Thursday, December 7, 2017

Rise And Fall Of Another Tyrant King

Rise And Fall Of Another Tyrant King
© Surazeus
2017 12 07

When my pretty mother abandons me
at the gate of the warrior training camp,
I cling to her legs and question her why,
but she pries me loose to push me in dust.

I went to meet my lover by the lake
but your father knocked him out with a stick,
then raped me though I tried hard to escape,
so I was forced to bear you from my womb.

You always cling to me with hungry lust
and never go away to leave me free,
so in your face I see the man I hate,
the tyrant who forced me to bear his child.

The soldiers drag me inside their camp walls
and force me to run by beating my legs,
and force me to fight back with battle wand,
till I can defeat dozens in one fight.

Clutching spear and shield, we march out to war,
and attack God who rules on ziggurat,
but his strong warriors slaughter all my friends,
so I flee into the waste land of fear.

I crawl among the broken smoking rocks
and drink dirty water from weeping pools,
then eat lizards and insects in the dust
as stars pierce my heart with hungry despair.

The dragon runs toward me over sharp rocks
and snaps at my legs with jaws of sharp teeth,
so I yank jagged rod from crumbling mud
and smash its skull as I howl with hot rage.

Wrapping leaves of plants tight around my legs,
I nurse bleeding wounds till the skin heals closed,
then climb jagged rock to cling in despair
when dragons crowd close, snapping their sharp jaws.

Digging plates of bright metal from the dust,
I bind them with vines tight around my legs,
till I cover myself with shining shards
that clank when I walk in the scorching sun.

Gripping spears in each hand, I stand on rock
and howl in defiance at snapping jaws
when dragons race each other to attack,
but their teeth break harmless on metal armor.

Slashing open their bellies with sharp blade,
I drink the blood of dragons till my heart
burns brighter than the suns of empty skies,
and I dance with the lightning strikes of storms.

I walk to the ziggurat where God reigns
and climb the stairway to heaven with courage,
laughing when spears bounce off my armored chest,
and push open the doors to paradise.

I stand before the throne of shining gold
where the old frail man rules as the world god,
then I throw him down and I crush his skull,
and place his jeweled crown on my own head.

Now I reign as God on high ziggurat
and feast on fresh fruit and bread of the fields,
when everyone kneels before me and prays,
worshipping me as divine God in flesh.

From the line of worshippers in grand hall
my mother steps forward in flowing gown,
standing with her husband and seven sons,
who bow and acknowledge me as world god.

I step from the gold throne with beating heart
and lift her to her feet with trembling hands
and all the crowd of worshippers gasps loud
as I call her mother and kiss her head.

Though my heart broke with sorrow and despair
when you abandoned me at warrior camp
they trained me to fight with courage and speed
then I defeated the dragons of hell.

Now I rule as strongest god in the world
so you will join me here in temple hall,
and your seven sons, brothers from your womb,
will help me rule the nations of our land.

Sitting on the high gold throne of world power,
I spread my arms and declare peace on Earth,
for we will conquer and rule all the world,
and all nations will prosper from my reign.

My mother brings large shining cup of juice
so I accept it from her gentle hands,
then drink the sweet juice from the Tree of Life,
and smile with joy at the worshipping crowd.

Burning fire courses through my throbbing veins
and terrible pain of horrible fear
stabs at my mind with blinding flash of light
as I writhe in agony of despair.

Reaching out my arms with questioning trust,
I call to my mother in agony,
but she turns her face away as I scream,
shocked to realize that she had poisoned me.

They throw my body down ziggurat stairs
where I lie paralyzed in field of dung
and stare at the stars that burn through my soul
till mushrooms sprout white from my rotting brain.

Children gather around my broken skull
and listen to the old blind woman sing
rise and fall of another tyrant king
who crowns himself as god to rule the world.

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

Swan Of Auschwitz

Swan Of Auschwitz
© Surazeus
2017 12 05

What would I do if I were faced with death,
arrested by goons of the autocrat
and with freethinkers locked in prison camp
because I dared to criticize his greed?
Would I go docile into the gas chambers
or like the brave Swan of Auschwitz fight back?

Would I let them arrest me without trial
and condemn me to slave in factories
because I declare with millions of others
that no powerful man is above the law?
Or would I grasp the gun of destiny
and like the brave Swan of Auschwitz fight back?

Elegant Franciszka Mannowna danced
with ballet wings upon the stage of truth,
sweet angel sent by God to lift our hearts
with beauty of her graceful leap of faith.
Would I accept the cruel sentence of death
or like the brave Swan of Auschwitz fight back?

Dancing in the Melody Palace nightclub,
Franciszka twirls on graceful toes of hope
when Nazis invade the streets of Warsaw
and fence her in the ghetto of despair.
Would I march down into the mouth of hell
or like the brave Swan of Auschwitz fight back?

Herded onto trains with thousands of Jews,
Franciszka clutches torn Icarian wings,
longing to dance in the dark crowded car
that rattles through the woods to Birkenau.
Would I join forces with the league of justice
and like the brave Swan of Auschwitz fight back?

Trudging docile into the Auschwitz camp,
Franciszka gazes in horror-struck eyes
of women crowded behind barbed wire fence,
commanded to strip naked in the wind.
Would I pray for courage to empty sky
or like the brave Swan of Auschwitz fight back?

Snatching a gun from holster of the guard,
Franciszka shoots the tyrant in the heart,
then raises cry to fight for liberty,
inspiring fellow prisoners to rebel.
Would I wrestle the grim angel of death
and like the brave Swan of Auschwitz fight back?

Raising high the gun of the vile dictator,
Franciszka rallies scared women to fight
who turn and face the men with blasting guns,
and choose to die fighting for liberty.
Will we submit to force of tyranny,
or like the brave Swan of Auschwitz fight back?

Shot through the heart by greed of tyranny,
Franciszka falls with Icarus from the stars,
yet her spirit will dance forever free
which fills our hearts with love for liberty.
We join her fight for liberty and truth
and like the brave Swan of Auschwitz fight back.

American Mork

American Mork
© Surazeus

A long, long time ago
I can still remember how
that laughter used to make me howl,
and I knew if I had my chance
that I could make those people laugh
and maybe they'd be happy for a while.

But August made me tremble
with every webpage I'd dissemble.
Bad news on the internet.
I couldn't click one more page.

I can't remember if I cried
when I read about his widowed bride,
but something touched me deep inside
the day the laughter died.

So bye-bye, Mister American Mork.
I flew my egg-ship to Planet Ork,
but the planet was gone,
and them good old boys
were smoking MaryJane joints,
singing, "This'll be the day that I laugh.
This'll be the day that I laugh."

Did you prance on the stage of jokes,
and do you have faith in good-old blokes
if the television tells you so?
Now do you believe in Comedy?
Can laughter save your mortal soul,
and can you teach me how to crack a quip?

Well, I know that you're in love with him
cause I saw you laughing at his jokes.
You both kicked off your pants.
Man, I dig those mocking rants.

I saw him land in a smoking egg,
and walk with Mindy on the road of hope,
but I knew I was out of dope
the day the laughter died.

I started singing, bye-bye, Mister American Mork.
I flew my egg-ship to Planet Ork,
but the planet was gone,
and them good old boys
were smoking MaryJane joints,
singing, "This'll be the day that I laugh.
This'll be the day that I laugh."

Now for forty years we've heard his jokes
and watched him play lost befuddled blokes
who teach us how to seize the day,
when the jester played for the audience
in a hat he borrowed from sad Pierrot
and a voice that came from you and me.

Oh, and while the clown was mocking fools
the jester stole his polished tools.
The theater was deceived.
No paycheck was received.

And while Popeye ate from his spinach can
a lost knight searched for the Holy Grail,
and we cracked jokes in Neverland
the day the laughter died.

We were singing, bye-bye, Mister American Mork.
I flew my egg-ship to Planet Ork,
but the planet was gone,
and them good old boys
were smoking MaryJane joints,
singing, "This'll be the day that I laugh.
This'll be the day that I laugh."

Helter Skelter in San Francisco.
Salvation in the world according to Garp,
dancing wild in Moscow on the Hudson.
He exclaims, good morning, Vietnam,
lost on adventures with Baron Munchausen,
then escapes back to Neverland.

Now he stands on a desk in a private school,
shouting loud his bold barbaric yawp
over the rooftops of normalcy,
then joins the Dead Poets Society.

Because the Fisher King tried to steal his soul,
and Peter Pan soared to the twinkling star,
but the fool got lost in his flying ship
the day the laughter died.

We started singing, bye-bye, Mister American Mork.
I flew my egg-ship to Planet Ork,
but the planet was gone,
and them good old boys
were smoking MaryJane joints,
singing, "This'll be the day that I laugh.
This'll be the day that I laugh."

Oh, and there we were all in his world,
a generation laughing at absurdity
with no time left to start again.
So come on, Robin be nimble, Robin be quick,
Robin Williams sat high on his head
because joy is the Joker's only friend.

Oh, and as I watched him on the stage
I clapped to praise that hysterical sage.
No accountant born in the Bank
could break that Bacchus' rant.

And as the spotlights beamed into the night
to light the sacrificial rite
I saw Bacchus riffing with delight
the day the laughter died.

He was singing, bye-bye, Mister American Mork.
I flew my egg-ship to Planet Ork,
but the planet was gone,
and them good old boys
were smoking MaryJane joints,
singing, "This'll be the day that I laugh.
This'll be the day that I laugh."

I met a boy who cracked wild jokes,
and I asked him for another riff,
but he just smiled and turned away.
I went down to the smoky night club
where I'd heard his diatribe years before,
but the man there said the laughter wouldn't sting.

And in the streets, the children screamed,
the lovers cried and the poets dreamed,
but not a joke was spoken.
The microphones all were broken.

And the comedian I admire most,
the Genie, Mork, and wild Peter Pan,
he caught the last ship for the stars
the day the laughter died.

And he was singing, bye-bye, Mister American Mork.
I flew my egg-ship to Planet Ork,
but the planet was gone,
and them good old boys
were smoking MaryJane joints,
singing, "This'll be the day that I laugh.
This'll be the day that I laugh."

We are singing, bye-bye, Mister American Mork.
I flew my egg-ship to Planet Ork,
but the planet was gone,
and them good old boys
were smoking MaryJane joints,
singing, "This'll be the day that I laugh.
This'll be the day that I laugh."

Monday, December 4, 2017

My Hyacinth Girl

My Hyacinth Girl
© Surazeus
2017 12 04

Heart pounding at the prospect of my death,
I walk the maze of city streets at night
and paint faces of strangers on their doors
to conjure their ancestors from the grave
who calculate how atoms weave our souls
on my quest to find my hyacinth girl.

While I am strolling down Fifth Avenue,
escaping to Greenwich Village at dawn,
I stop to dream on broad Library steps
where Aslan and Jesus are set in stone,
and watch myself in the mirror of time
on my quest to find my hyacinth girl.

I flee through shadows to escape the wrath
of Lucky Luciano with his eye
that watches everything like Santa Claus
who buys my liquor for large bags of cash
while young girls sew shirts in dark factories
on my quest to find my hyacinth girl.

I ride the elevator to the sky
where Icarus gives me his repaired wings
so I can fly with Batman on gold wind
to cleanse the streets of Gotham from dark crime
but pride comes before the fall of Hubris
on my quest to find my hyacinth girl.

Nine days and nine nights the Light-Maker falls
from the Empire State Building to Arcadia
where Lucifer works at the grocery store
pumping gas for billionaires of Wall Street
who invest capital in factory slaves
on my quest to find my hyacinth girl.

Alone in the Museum of Lost Souls
I edit clips of ten thousand old movies
to compose grand epic tale in collage
that presents the whole history of mankind
in the journey for Justice of the Fool
on my quest to find my hyacinth girl.

Busting open the iron factory door,
I find nine hundred girls on thirteen floors
under the direction of Three Blind Fates
sewing our destinies in fancy clothes
that skinny models wear on fashion stage
on my quest to find my hyacinth girl.

Amid the crowd of broken-hearted eyes
I find the girl I love with bleeding hands
and tell her we will find the Promised Land,
then grasp her hand and escape factory hell,
racing far through the labyrinth of debt
on my quest to find my hyacinth girl.

Walking nowhere through the waste land of power,
we travel from New York to Idaho,
singing at sunset on the signless road
that we will find the Promised Land someday
and build our cottage on the river shore
on my quest to find my hyacinth girl.

The long black limousine with flashing wheels
blocks our secret way home to paradise
and rich Apollo in black pin-stripe suit
abducts my bride and shoots me in the heart
then gets elected Senator of Maine
on my quest to find my hyacinth girl.

Sunday, December 3, 2017

Girl From Syria

Girl From Syria
© Surazeus
2017 12 03

Three blue ravens in the dead Christmas tree
wake me up from my television trance
and lead me from our quaint suburban maze
to the shores of Greece where refugees weep.

Like Aphrodite from foaming sea waves
lost refugees who flee religious wars
ascend from abyss of hopeless despair
and search for paradise behind barbed wire.

The plastic doll tangled in sea weed lies
wide-eyed on the sand of ten thousand years,
bathing in rays of the indifferent sun,
and smiles when I bring her water to drink.

She shows me wave-soaked photo of her mom
and white kitten in garden of their home,
whispering that both were killed by politics
exploding from bombs in mouths of old men.

Walking along the beach of shining sand,
she follows footsteps of the nameless souls
who walked before the past ten thousand years,
washed away by ambitious waves of hope.

I see their shadows pass by on the sand
so I try to map the paths of their quests
to find fruit groves by sparkling waterfalls,
but they all vanished long before my birth.

She gathers fruit seeds from dead trees of faith,
then finds small plot of land between highways
and plants new Garden of Eden where cars
race past their invisible walls all day.

She manufactures book of songs from tears
of mothers whose children drowned in the sea
when they were riding boats on eagle wings
that landed on the lawns of golden mansions.

Who will read the book that preserves their tales
after our sun shrinks down to a blue dwarf
since all the dreams that sparkled in our brains
still shimmer in the atoms of its core.

The girl from Syria transforms bombed towns
to gardens of apple trees and lush herbs
where children draw pictures of moms and cats
on walls of temples where only light glows.

Our Song In Dream Of Life

Our Song In Dream Of Life
© Surazeus
2017 12 03

Children who died in wars for thought control
crowd around me close wherever I go
and beg me to remember in my songs
the names their mothers wove them from starlight.

I look in their eyes flashing with soul beams
and see the atoms that once formed their bodies
now swirling in wild waves of wind and sea
as they search for new bodies to inhabit.

Each individual human being is formed
from their unique combination of genes
woven by egg and sperm their parents make,
one out of billions of possible puzzles.

Unless the coded sequence of our souls,
recorded in springing coils of our genes,
gets preserved in databanks of machines,
we vanish from dream of the world at death.

I want to generate new child with you
for you inspire my heart with urgent love
to combine our souls in genetic coils
so we are one soul for eternity.

Children who could exist from our gene code
crowd around me close wherever I go
and beg me to generate them in flesh
with eyes that beam starlight deep in my soul.

Of all the possible genetic souls
who could exist in the dream of our world
why are we alive at this hour of time
and on this speck of dirt in all vast space?

Of all the billions of people who lived
you are here beside me in our safe haven,
so I rejoice as I gaze in your eyes
that we can share our song in dream of life.

Saturday, December 2, 2017

Good Old Boy

Good Old Boy
© Surazeus
2017 12 02

He drives his large white shiny pickup truck
fast to chase the bright rainbow of good luck.
His Confederate flag with its stars and bars
flashes orange in the neon light of bars.
The good old boy with his Bible and gun
is every town clown who wants to have fun.

He winks his eye and grins at pretty girls
while reaching out to caress her gold curls.
He calls her honey and leers with a smirk
then laughs and shrugs when she calls him a jerk.
The good old boy with his Bible and gun
is every town clown who wants to have fun.

He was born on the farm in a snow storm
so bluejeans and boots are his uniform.
His grim dad fought in the Vietnam war
and leaves his shadow sulking in the door.
The good old boy with his Bible and gun
is every town clown who wants to have fun.

He watches football Sunday afternoon
and denies Neil Armstrong walked on the moon.
He votes for republicans, not libtards,
and he drinks warm beer while losing at cards.
The good old boy with his Bible and gun
is every town clown who wants to have fun.

He pushes Charlene up against the wall
and demands a kiss with a smarmy drawl.
He smacks her face when his darling talks back
and growls, "You obey my every command."
The good old boy with his Bible and gun
is every town clown who wants to have fun.

He drives his shiny pickup through the rain
and blasts all his enemies in the brain.
He kills ten people on a shooting spree,
shouting, "I live in the land of the free!"
The good old boy with his Bible and gun
is every town clown who wants to have fun.