Saturday, February 27, 2016

Perfect Ring Of Light

Perfect Ring Of Light
Surazeus
16 February 2009
Jacksonville, North Carolina

A single drop of pure blue water falls
from blazing eye of our golden sun
and splashes on surface of still pond,
sending ripples in perfect ring of light.

A big bang of energy bursts in flash
that flares forth in flames of god soul
to spiral stars in web of shining eyes,
spinning galaxies in perfect ring of light.

A ball of gas swirls to form our sun
in giant crystal spider of dreaming eyes
that weaves Earth from atomic threads,
gleaming molecules in perfect ring of light.

A chain of carbon slithers in blue sea
to link molecules in elements of life
and form spirals of deoxyribonucleic acid,
dreaming alive in perfect ring of light.

A ball of spirit swims in sea of dreams
when smiling eye penetrates her heart
so their spirals curl in a sparkling dance,
generating a soul in perfect ring of light.

A girl and boy dance together by a lake,
hearts beating with desire for a kiss,
and their souls merge in a glowing flash,
creating new life in a perfect ring of light.

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

Breathe My Soul

Breathe My Soul
© Surazeus
2016 02 24

I might stand on high stage of hungry eyes
illuminated by clear flashing lights
of angels that no one can see but I
and tell you of new vision I perceive
but you would drink my blood and breathe my soul
and leave frail cracked shell of my body lost.

What broken shell of man is this you see
on vast desert plain where mindless wind laughs
so stop and snap new photograph of me
and post it on dream web for all to know
that you now drink my blood and breathe my soul
and wear my face while dancing on bright stage.

I am every singer chanting dream spells
who leads you dancing in dark labyrinth
to show you how to wear your perfect mask
that beams your mind on broad galactic wings
if you can drink my blood and breathe my soul
before we replicate in reborn flesh.

Slip sharp knife blade into heart of ripe pear
and cut thick slices of my fertile dreams
to feast on juicy pages of my brain
that sparks desire to dance in laughing rain
then try to drink my blood and breathe my soul
and play mystic angel which is not real.

I stand ten thousand years on pyramid
and strum old rusting lyre that Hermes forged
from vibrant skull of ancient dinosaur
to chant new spells that geyser from my eyes
for you to drink my blood and breathe my soul
when I play divine Star Man you adore.

Hot breath of my voice envelops our world
in swirling atmosphere of ringing words
that weave gauze tapestry of fairy tales
so you circle my tower nine times each year
eager to drink my blood and breathe my soul
and chant from my Holy Book without thought.

I am great eye on pyramid who dreams
your souls to dance on puppet strings of hope
and rules as Wizard of Oz by your vote
directing show where you are Hamlet now
bemused to drink my blood and breathe my soul
so stare into empty skull of my mind.

Emerge from cavern of my crystal skull
and build new cathedral over my grave
where Ishtar reigns as young girl with no name
who laughs at desire for money and fame
and makes you drink my blood and breathe my soul
so God can wake inside our dreaming brains.

Literary Ontology of the Hermead

Literary Ontology of the Hermead

The Hermead of Surazeus, an epic about philosophers, is a multi-genre work of art that combines various approaches of literary ontology to present the lives and ideas of some of the most influential people in western civilization. The literary ontology of the Hermead combines all the traditions of literature that have been developed since the Iliad was composed and presents a coherent world view of the universe through tales of the human quest for wisdom.

On its face, the Hermead is an epic poem in the tradition of Homer and Vergil as it presents the actions and speeches of culturally important figures in classical narrative form. The stories of the Hermead are told in a straight linear depiction of the lives of various people in the ancient Homeric tradition of epic narrative story-telling.

The Hermead is a continuation of the Romantic tradition in that it presents the sacred quest of humanity for the truth about the nature of the world and mankind. The Hermead is a Bildungsroman in the sense that it presents the psychological growth of ancient philosophers as they embody the theme of spiritual education and gain wisdom on the nature of life through their investigation of its material objects.

The Hermead incorporates all the literary methods of the past several centuries as its tales progress through Modernism, Postmodernism, and Metamodernism. Many of the basic concepts of philosophy, science, and religion can be found as seeds in the tales of the Hermead.

The Hermead explores the ancient roots of our civilization that many felt were lost and destroyed when Modernism rejected the certainty of the Enlightenment and lamented the destruction of ancient traditions. While Modernists pick up fragments of literature in the shattered ruins of the cathedral of philosophy, bombed by modern technology, readers of the Hermead explore the vast labyrinth of narrative tales that are part of the reconstruction of the ancient temple of philosophy in one epic poem.

The Hermead follows Postmodernism as it articulates the perpetual state of incompleteness and promotes the idea of radical pluralism that there are many ways of knowing the truth about the world as the tales of the Hermead deconstruct the process of development in the ancient search for truth about the nature of things. The Hermead presents particular individuals through literary Realism as Nominal exemplars of the universal Archetype of the Wise Man.

The Hermead engages in the aesthetics of Metamodernism as its tales oscillate between the rejection of the one tradition in Modernism and the restoration of multiple traditions in Postmodernism through presentation of the basic concepts developed by ancient philosophers that form the foundation of the civilization which has grown and transformed over the past three millennia.

The Hermead is constructed with tools from various poetic schools such as Conceptualism since the tales are all founded on the concept of the human quest for truth in the nature of the world, so all the various concepts and legends about ancient philosophers are gathered from disparate sources and assembled together in a series of tales to present the development of philosophy in a coherent narrative.

Stories about philosophers are either complicated academic books focused on their philosophy, or short children's books that simplify events and ideas of their lives. The Hermead stakes a literary medium as its tales elevate their achievements of their heroes to the level of classical epic by presenting all their stories together in epic blank verse, presenting philosophy through dramatic narrative tales of literary art.

Great epics of the past, such as the Iliad, Odyssey, Mahabharata, Ramayana, Aeneid, Divine Comedy, The Fairie Queene, and Paradise Lost, presented human characters as struggling against powerful conscious forces in nature that were anthropomorphized as gods, whereas the Hermead presents in realistic stories human characters investigating and comprehending the processes of nature and psychological perception, and how this new-gained knowledge can guide our actions through ethical analysis, in a universe that is entirely natural and not controlled by conscious gods.

The Hermead is an epic poem that presents the History of Science in the earliest days of its development from ancient philosophy in the classical age of Greece and Rome, and thus explores the socio-psychological development of mankind by using the structure of Historical Fiction to transform mysterious figures in the history of western civilization into living human beings whose ideas form the foundation of our entire ontological world view.

The core concept of the Hermead is the nature of things. All things are structures of atoms. Construction is structure coming together, and destruction is structure coming apart. Our conscious actions cause processes of change that involve construction and destruction. Once we understand, through study of physics, chemistry, and socio-psychology, how structures assemble and dissolve, we can evaluate the chain of reaction through processes of cause and effect that lead to and from a particular situation,  and then decide what action will be constructive or destructive. The Hermead presents one particular answer to the to-be-or-not-to-be dilemma of Hamlet.

In composing the Hermead as a epic poem of historical fiction that presents the lives of philosophers, I had great fun wearing their faces as masks and exploring how they might have lived and how that process of living might have inspired the key ideas each philosopher provided that became the foundation stones on which we have constructed our civilization.

We are explorers sitting around a campfire at night, experiencing the tales of the Hermead as we listen to the poet recite the tales of great cultural heroes who went beyond the perimeter of our village and returned from the underworld with enlightening concepts about the nature of the world.

Book Page: http://FaceBook.com/Hermead

Editions of the Hermead for sale: http://tinyurl.com/HermeadEditions

#Epic #Poetry #Quest #Bildungsroman #Romanticism #Modernism #PostModernism #MetaModernism #Conceptualism #HistoricalFiction #HistoryOfScience #Realism #Novel #WesternCivilization

Monday, February 22, 2016

Now That I Am Free

Now That I Am Free
© Surazeus
2016 02 22

Though stars gaze down at me through humming trees
and flower petals kiss my blushing cheek,
I send my words like fluttering birds on breeze
that rocks my boat on ever-flowing creek.

Each blooming valley, where swift horses fly,
appears like every other in my eyes,
silent woods watching me glide slowly by
while I drink fruit juice and become vast skies.

I open wood box full of gems and gown
and think about pretty girl in my bed
waiting for me to bring her new gold crown
which I wanted to place on her proud head.

I close its lid, then bind it secret tight,
and sigh to forget tall man in my bed
kissing my eager wife in cold moonlight,
and how he howled when I shattered his head.

She clutched my feet when I walked out the door
and assured me she bears my child alone,
but I left her weeping on the lonely floor
and sat by the stream with a heart of stone.

My hollow boat drifts on widening stream
and bears me away on blank shoreless sea
where she laughs at me in strange waking dream
and tears fall as rain now that I am free.

Whelias lays lyre on table by warm hearth
after chanting tune with heart-aching grief
and eats roast lamb while children play in mirth
and Karta writes his vision on frail leaf.

After everyone sleeps in warm starlight,
Whelias lies alone on feather-soft brace,
staring awake at the full moon all night
and dreams about her pretty tear-stained face.

When sun rises bright on fishing-town huts
Karta sees him slouch alone on the shore
so she brings him full plate of pears and nuts
and tells him all she knows of healing lore.

Gazing long in her eyes that sparkle green,
Whelias leans forward and kisses her lips,
then walks at her side in meadow to glean
herbs and bird eggs in baskets on her hips.

Holding her hands under shrouding elm tree,
he pledges, I will bring food to your hearth
if you bear children from no man but me,
for only you can give my soul new birth.

Caressing his cheek with fruit-plucking hand,
she pledges, I will bear children for you
if you guard my hearth and fruit-sprouting land,
for I will be faithful to you, and true.

Sitting together by fountain-filled pool,
Whelias and Karta watch their children play
while she wears gold crown with bright sparkling jewel
and molds elegant grail from river clay.

Whelias hitches wagon to prancing horse
then everyone rides on long winding trail
and joins tribe train that follows river course
to honey festival in sacred vale.

Arriving at ancient Temple of Song,
that sits on high hill where Flower Queen reigns,
they carry gifts and join worshipping throng
who sings sweet hymns while the gleaming sun wanes.

Wild-haired woman wearing old tattered gown
leaps suddenly from crowd, and thrusts sharp spear
in his heart, then snatches her jeweled crown
and howls in rage as shocked crowd parts in fear.

I was waiting for you in home you built
when stranger forced his way into our bed,
but you abandoned me to shameful guilt
so I wandered lost without wine or bread.

Whelias clutches spear that pierces his heart
while Karta cradles him by weeping sea,
and he stares forever at bleeding stars,
then sighs, I am lost now that I am free.

Sunday, February 21, 2016

Book Of Right

Book Of Right
© Surazeus
2016 02 21

These open doors I cannot pass through now
reveal secret code of numbers disguised
as princess who dresses like noble cow
while filling our glasses with sacred milk.

We cannot remember who wore mask last
to play crippled king on stage of desire
so you find me swinging from tallest mast
while ship of state sails into storm of fire.

I paint your face huge on ten thousand doors
that all lead back to garden of delight
while we play, dressed as wolves, on misty moors
because I invented that Book of Right.

Every god whose soul is preserved in tales
of sacred scriptures chanted in dark hall
were once living humans who lost their tails
so we sit and drink wine on broken wall.

When you find my skull in ancient Wych Elm,
from which you weave wicker baskets to hunt
eggs of birds and snakes in dark shadowed vale,
gather to sing by lake that fairies haunt.

This apple tree grows from my broken heart
though my horses run on wind-dancing plain,
so drink apple juice in Delphic moonlight
while you read my story in Book of Right.

Friday, February 19, 2016

Reign Of Justice And Peace

Reign Of Justice And Peace
© Surazeus
2016 02 19

When Gold Queen of a thousand apple trees
arrives on Laughing Lion of Lombardy
to wear the ancient Emerald City Crown,
we gather at swift River of Desire
and swim in the Lake of Honey at dawn
to celebrate reign of justice and peace.

But while she climbs the Pyramid of Eyes
the angry Scarecrow, head bristling with wheat,
claims right to wear the Emerald City Crown,
but when he places crown on his own head
it falls sideways and rolls into her hands
so she begins reign of justice and peace.

Wearing bear-fur cloak, angry Scarecrow snarls,
tries to cuff generous hands of Lion Queen,
and steal her rightful Emerald City Crown,
then raises sword to strike off her bowed head,
but Peter Pan leaps and cuts puppet strings
to revive her reign of justice and peace.

When Odin, hanging from the Tree of Life,
hears Onatah cry as she searches corn fields,
hoping to find lost Emerald City Crown,
he wrestles Baal on Pyramid of Power,
demanding he allow our Lion Queen
to begin her reign of justice and peace.

Pushing Odin backward to edge of fear,
Banker Baal, who wears bright mask of false gold,
tries to steal sacred Emerald City Crown
to crown his puppet Scarecrow who lies prone
while muttering, "We must break up the big banks,"
and prevent her reign of justice and peace.

Lifting magic wand of thick iron tube,
Odin aims law of equal rights at face
of Baal, who wears stolen Emerald City Crown,
and fires blast of flame that hurls ball of truth
which shatters brittle mask of Banker King
so Lion Queen reigns with justice and peace.

Though puppet master falls from pyramid,
angry Scarecrow crawls from grave of despair,
groping blindly for Emerald City Crown,
so Honey Queen mounts him on cross of hope
to watch over the fields of blooming wheat
while she begins reign of justice and peace.

Now Gold Queen of a thousand apple trees
rides high on Laughing Lion of Lombardy,
wearing the ancient Emerald City Crown,
to reward hard-working people with wealth,
and protect innocent people from harm,
which supports her reign of justice and peace.

Viral Joke

Viral Joke
Surazeus
2016 02 19

Samuel sips coffee in the book cafe
after typing a snarky joke in twitter,
then pauses, afraid his joke would go viral,
causing outrage from sea to shining sea,
and ruin his chances at publication,
or winning a famous prestigious prize,
then chuckles amused at his baseless fear,
knowing nobody will notice his joke,
like throwing a petal in the Grand Canyon,
so he clicks tweet button, heart beating fast,
stares at people walking by the green window,
feeling the Earth spin though infinite space,
and dreams about reigning as a good king
in a stone castle by the singing sea.

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

Daughter Of Mariana

Daughter Of Mariana
© Surazeus
2016 02 17

She runs so eager, fast across the park
of laughing flowers, she forgets to stay
rooted to this real world of mundane facts,
and flies instead beyond the Eye of Earth.

Yet here in quiet garden of our home
her body remains wearing white straw hat
as gnarled hands, still dusty from school chalkboards,
plant seeds of memories in dreamless soil.

She looks at me and smiles with tender grace,
repeating her first smile the hour we met,
yet her eyes stare empty as tumbling space
between galaxies that spiral away.

Though I sometimes wrap understanding arms
around her shoulders, I feel fragile shell
of her diminished soul, like garden shack
of wind-fractured wood, shudder at my touch.

I wonder if she pauses on her flight
past every nameless planet, found so far
to spin around far distant suns of hope,
and glances back at where I read her book.

Because I often pause in cricket twilight
to listen for her gentle voice that cracks
windows of insight, like pond ice in March,
and watch her words swirl on green insect wings.

She waited seven years during world war,
touching blackest moss of cracked flower pots,
like Mariana wishing she were dead,
while eating pears by laughing gable-wall.

When I returned, her tears, that fell with dews
at eventide, nourished flowers that see
a million miles into my empty mind
and know how the sun weaves dreams in my brain.

Why Am I Me Alone

Why Am I Me Alone
© Surazeus
2016 02 17

One question only sparks my mind with light
to wonder about origin of souls.
Why am I conscious of myself alone
among countless creatures who ever lived
on every world that ever spun to life
in all the vast eternity of space
in every universe that blossomed bright
through every cycle of expanding time,
though all those memories of evolving life
glow whole in every atom of my brain?
Why am I me, here and now on this sphere,
contemplating random chance of existence
to see myself in every whirling atom
that vibrates with my fragile consciousness?

The Plantagenet Dynasty of the American Empire

The Plantagenet Dynasty of the American Empire

All Presidents of the United States from George Washington to Barack Obama are descendants of King Henry II, who ruled England from 1154 to 1189, so the imperial rulers of the American Empire are all part of the Plantagenet Dynasty of United States Presidents.

Within the Plantagenet Dynasty are numerous subhouses from various branches of the House of Plantagenet who ruled England and France from 1126 to 1485. The two most recent powerful Plantagenet Houses who have ruled the American Empire are the Jacobean Dynasty and the Hinckley Dynasty.

The Jacobean Dynasty

Six individuals can be counted as part of the Jacobean Dynasty -- John Kennedy, Robert Kennedy, Ted Kennedy, Bill Clinton, Maria Shriver, Hillary Clinton, and Donald Trump. They are all descendants of King James II who ruled Scotland 1437 to 1460.

The Jacobean Dynasty of US Presidents ruled over the American Empire from 1960 to 1963, and again from 1992 to 2000. They appear set to regain power in 2016.

The Jacobean Dynasty began when John Kennedy was elected as President, and briefly ended when he was assassinated in 1963.

The Jacobean Dynasty almost regained power when his brother Robert Kennedy was on track to win as President in 1968, but ended when he was assassinated during the Primaries.

The Jacobean Dynasty continued in partial power as Ted Kennedy ruled as a powerful Senator from 1962 to 2009.

The Jacobean Dynasty almost regained power when Ted Kennedy ran for President in 1980, but lost the nomination to James Carter of one of the numerous rival houses of the Plantagent Dynasty.

The Jacobean Dynasty began to regain power when Bill Clinton and Hillary Clinton ruled Arkansas from 1979 to 1981, and again from 1983 to 1992.

The Jacobean Dynasty regained imperial power when Bill Clinton ascended to the imperial throne and ruled from 1992 to 2000, reigning over one of the most prosperous periods of the American Empire.

The Jacobean Dynasty gained power in California when Maria Shriver, married to Arnold Schwarzenegger, became First Lady of California from 2003 to 2011.

The Hinckley Dynasty

Five individuals can be counted as part of the Hinckley Dynasty -- John Hinckley Jr, George HW Bush, George W Bush, Barack Obama, and Sarah Palin. They are all descendants of Samuel Hinckley who lived in Massachusetts in the 1700s.

The Hinckley Dynasty of US Presidents ruled over the American Empire from 1980 to 1992, and again from 2000 to 2016.

The Hinckley Dynasty began when George HW Bush was elected as Vice-President under Ronald Reagan.

The Hinckley Dynasty almost took total power when John Hinckley Jr attempted to assassinate Reagan, which would have made his cousin George HW Bush President. Meanwhile Bush remained as Vice-President for eight years.

The Hinckley Dynasty continued when George HW Bush became President for four years, during which he began the Thirty Year Oil War when he invaded Iraq to gain control of its oil wells.

The Hinckley Dynasty was briefly overthrown when Bill Clinton, of the Jacobean Dynasty, ascended to the imperial throne of the American Empire for eight years.

The Hinckley Dynasty continued when George W Bush stole the election twice, defeating powerful members of rival houses, and he ruled with an incompetent rubber fist for eight years, nearly destroying the American Empire through incompetence, greed, and warmongering by continuing the Thirty Year Oil War.

The Hinckley Dynasty gained more power when two Hinckleys, cousins Barack Obama and Sarah Palin, ran for President and Vice-President respectively on the tickets of both major parties.

The Hinckley Dynasty continued when Barack Obama ascended the imperial throne of the American Empire for eight years, restoring the American Empire to its former glory through competence, compassion, and expansion of civil rights for all citizens.

Struggle for Power

The Hinckley Dynasty appeared set to continue its hold on power over the American Empire when Jeb Bush decided to run for President, but Donald Trump, of the Jacobean Dynasty, entered the race and pummeled him into irrelevance, thus ending the reign of the Hinckleys.

The Jacobean Dynasty appears set to regain imperial power over the American Empire with Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump running for President on the tickets of both major parties. It appears more likely that Hillary Clinton will ascend the imperial throne.

During the War of the Roses, which lasted for over thirty years from 1455 to 1487, the Houses of Lancaster and York fought for control, until they united under Henry VIII.

While there is a new struggle for power between the rival houses of Jacob and Hinckley, the House of Plantagenet continues its two-century hold on imperial control over the American Empire.

Tuesday, February 16, 2016

New Great Figure

New Great Figure
© Surazeus
2016 02 16

Among whipping lashes of angry rain
and desperate streetlights, I see figure eight
in gold dots on swift mud-splattered white bus
blink through infinite mirrors of gray eyes
and weave electric wires of dreaming souls
in labyrinth of door-cluttered cityscape
that flashes like computer motherboard
on our globe spinning through vast boundless space.

Friday, February 12, 2016

Ghosts From Stars

Ghosts From Stars
© Surazeus
2016 02 12

So many pretty people in weird world
want to be my friend on the social networks
but I cannot tell by their sparkling eyes
if they are real humans or ghosts from stars.

I dance slow in the labyrinth of your eyes
bringing you good news about a new savior
who waits for you on distant nameless world
to cross the blind desert with ghosts from stars.

We surf the cosmic waves of super light
that ripple from two colliding black stars
woven by twanging strings Apollo plays
so dance around the fire with ghosts from stars.

I descend the Grand Canyon of Illusion
and find the oldest woman in the world
weaving my brain from sticky strands of light
when she molds new bodies for ghosts from stars.

When I was a young man in Palouse hills
a vision flashed before my double eyes,
Sun Spider Goddess molding life from light,
so I write new bible for ghosts from stars.

I build a tower of stone on nameless hill
somewhere between Avalon and Idaho
to record your dreams in new epic tales
which reflect the mirror of ghosts from stars.

I love you all who walk this world with me
though I know not yet your stories or names
for we are puppets of Sun Spider Mind
who animates our souls with ghosts from stars.

Come, climb my pyramid of midnight hope
when Ishtar beams down on whole ray of light
and fills our eyes with dancing words of love
so we return home to play ghosts from stars.

Thursday, February 11, 2016

River Flows In My Veins

River Flows In My Veins
Surazeus
May 1997, Kansas City, Missouri

My head is dizzy with the spinning world
popping alive with zillions of watching eyes
their desire dreams roiling waves of color
washing over the beach of my placid heart
that shudders with the dream-beat stomp
of dancing feet running up the river shore
following those veins into the naked lands
for blue river of laughter flows in my veins.

My head is dizzy with the spinning dance
of children somersaulting around fire-rings
who toss stones stacking high cold walls
building paradise from the dust of despair
to party where the goddess on her throne
keeps watch from the tower of glowing eyes
for blue river of laughter flows in my veins.

My head is dizzy with the rampaging hunt
of wild gangs spreading up the river veins
girls and boys playing games of lovers mate
killing and feasting and making sweet love
bodies exploding with children who crowd
ancient valleys with faces hot by moonlight
whose sizzling lust of laughter and screams
beams bright our faces dripping with sweat
for blue river of laughter flows in my veins.

My head is dizzy with the roar of voices
shaking the stone foundations of old temples
built on pyramids wet with victims blood
glittering with sparks from bursting eyeballs
that melt into the One Eye of Watching Sun
whose glare pierces the wicked with guilt
but swells proud the good heart with love
sweet as melons dripping orange sugar-juice
for blue river of laughter flows in my veins.

My head is dizzy with the rumble of machines
squeezed from dirt by the Hammer of Force
thundering over plains like elephant herds
to crush the egg-shell cathedral of crystal ice
where the goddess twitters tunes on her flute
that tingles my nerves with threads of rainbow
beaming my cells light with soft butterfly wings
for blue river of laughter flows in my veins.

My head is dizzy with the whisper of Angels
painting my skull with rose-stripe petals
wrapping their wings around my floating soul
roots curling from my spine through black soil
to grasp the diamond of star-sparkling smiles
swallowing despair to suffuse velvet flesh
with ripe-melon firmness of enveloping hugs
for blue river of laughter flows in my veins.

Tuesday, February 9, 2016

Dragon Brain Wine

Dragon Brain Wine
Surazeus
2010 08 22

When light of midnight moon gleams
in mushroom ring by whispering streams
men go mad and star elves dance wild
therefore wise fools follow sweet fae child
as I long for sweet Dragon Brain Wine.

I trudge dry dusty shore of river bed
crying out for rain under scorching sun
for river flows no more from melting snow
that fell cold and sweet on mountain vale
as I long for sweet Dragon Brain Wine.

Deep in thick dark forest of twisted oak
tangled with vines by black starless lake
I find cabin of weird witch Teasel Ninetails
who cackles while she tends pond of frogs
as I long for sweet Dragon Brain Wine.

My darling fairy queen with golden hair
and eyes blue as a lake of white swans
was kidnapped and now my heart aches
and I hold out basket of cinnamon spice
as I long for sweet Dragon Brain Wine.

Teasel ancient witch with wrinkled skin
and three eyes roving every direction
wraps black tattered cloak of demon skin
and gives me list of ingredients to find
as I long for sweet Dragon Brain Wine.

Trudging swamps where banshees wail
I collect gobs of Dragon Brain Mushrooms
that shimmer with red and purple spirals
and throb with glitter of midnight moon
as I long for sweet Dragon Brain Wine.

Clawing up jagged granite cliff of despair,
I swipe Phoenix eggs with scarlet spots
that pulse with primeval light of stars
and golden eyes that watch me in dreams
as I long for sweet Dragon Brain Wine.

Sneaking in garden of rainbow serpent,
I pluck ripe apples from Tree of Life
and yank ginger roots from golden soil
and mint leaves from pond of singing frogs
as I long for sweet Dragon Brain Wine.

Clambering over vine-covered stone walls,
I snip roses from tangled bush of thorns
and find enchanting girl with gold hair
who caresses my cheek with soft hands
as I long for sweet Dragon Brain Wine.

Embracing my fairy queen to my heart,
I kiss her lips and taste her cherry soul
and gaze lost in sparkle of her blue eyes
so we glide boat over lake of dreams
as I long for sweet Dragon Brain Wine.

Followed by Rosamuntha rose princess,
I walk meadow of flowers on a mountain,
gathering petals of a thousand blooms,
and we laugh free as she tickles my ribs
as I long for sweet Dragon Brain Wine.

Climbing dead tree on high broken cliff,
I slip my arm past buzzing honey bees
and break seven combs dripping nectar
though tree leans creaking over deep vale
as I long for sweet Dragon Brain Wine.

Holding hands with sweet rose princess,
I return to cabin deep in mist gloom wood
and present wagon loaded with ingredients
and smoke weed as Teasel brews juice
as I long for sweet Dragon Brain Wine.

Ancient witch with three wild roving eyes
blue as mountain ice hands me green bottle
so I drink deep refreshing liquid of dreams
brewed from flames at heart of our world
as I long for sweet Dragon Brain Wine.

My body transforms back through shapes
till I return to slender dragon of dream sea
so I crawl singing toward glittering sun eye
and swim in cool waves with bride of eggs
as I long for sweet Dragon Brain Wine.

White dragon with soft lion fur feathers,
I crawl up from star sea to mountain peak
and sing mad wordless songs of desire
then fairy queen kisses me with her eyes
as I long for sweet Dragon Brain Wine.

Transforming forward ten million years,
I morph from dragon to elf to angel,
and stretch my arms on mountain peak
when fairy queen kisses my loving soul
as I long for sweet Dragon Brain Wine.

I kiss sweet Rosamuntha in misty glade,
holding her close while our hearts beat fast,
and our souls merge in swirl of star eyes
spiraling upward in galaxies of loving wings
as I long for sweet Dragon Brain Wine.

I scribble unreadable words of my dreams
on parchment of dragon skin thin as leaves
while Rosamuntha sits on my lap at dawn
and I float lost in sweet sparkle of her eyes
as I long for sweet Dragon Brain Wine.

Awaken my heart and open wide my eyes
with visions of time when Earth unfolds
blossoming patterns of forms now reborn
so I remember dreams of every soul who lived
as I long for sweet Dragon Brain Wine.

Monday, February 8, 2016

Chronicle Of Mankind

Chronicle Of Mankind
© Surazeus
2016 02 08

Where every poet walks the halls of dreams
through labyrinth of old forgotten myths,
I linger by my heart-incipient stream
and play sweet melodies on bird-bone flute
to make the skeletons of long-dead gods
dance again with human flesh as their masks
that whole incarnate spirits of lost souls
so all their energy of conscious will
now emanates from atoms of my brain,
and I relive entire lives of dead persons
who urge me forth from silent lonely home
to dance in rain and sing their aching hopes,
thus every poet wakes inside my eyes
who teach me to sing Chronicle of Mankind.

Metamodern Mythopoeia in the Hermead

Metamodern Mythopoeia in the Hermead

This article on metamodernism, linked and quoted below, describes clearly the ethos of polarity which is the impulse in me which embodied itself as the Muse who inspired me to compose an epic about philosophers, my artfully crafted myth.

Back in 1980 when I was 16 and still a Christian, before I became Atheist three years later, I felt like I was called by God to be a prophet. In 1983 when I was attending a Philosophy class at a Christian college, the professor explained the Ideas of Plato, how God cannot exist because existence refers to things that "stand out" within the limits of time and space, whereas God can subsist because it is the substance which "stands under" the forms of existence.

I realized the universe is nothing but atoms, spiraling pulses of energy that coagulate into complex bodies of chemical processes that sustain the formation of the brain which becomes conscious and generates a virtual reality which reflects that vast complex real universe.

While contemplating these myteries over the years, I realized that God is the archetype of the Tribal Leader, and that an ancestor of mine was commissioned by his tribal leader to compose stories that chronicle the life of the tribe which would imbue their experience with an overarching narrative of meaning. The genetic memory of that experience forms the programming of my own mental impulses to compose a new myth for myself to replace the Christian myth which I discarded as inadequate to explain this world.

I felt the same impulse to compose the Hermead, my epic about the lives of the philosophers whose ideas form the foundation of our civilization. I simply constructed in coherent epic narrative form the scattered legends of ancient philosophers, creating a Bible, or library of texts, that relate the human experience of exploring the nature of our world. I modeled the Hermead after the narratives of the Bible, telling the stories of the founding fathers who developed the philosophical principles that form the programming of our world view.

I invented meaning for my own life and gave myself a purpose where there is no purpose or meaning, just for the fun of writing stories. I have invented my own religion for fun, and to celebrate the power of the imagination in philosophers and scientists who seek to understand the universe.

There is no God, there is no meaning, and I was never a prophet, for I do nothing more than assemble letters in words that form sentences that generate visions in the mind of the reader, which I hope accurately reflect the real world we perceive. The joyful visions I experience while composing the tales of the epic poem the Hermead is the only purpose of the act of composition itself is the dreaming of my mind.

[Re]construction: Metamodern ‘Transcendence’ and the Return of Myth
Brendan Dempsey

"This post-postmodern ethos, eschewing both the naïve metaphysical systems of the past as well as the superficial materialism of postmodernity, has occasioned a project of reconstruction — one in which new myths and paradigmatic models are now being artfully crafted for the twenty-first century."

"This new, qualified transcendence is already informing cultural production. Indeed, when most potently expressed, one sees a kind of metamodern mythopoeia at work — that is, the construction of entirely new paradigmatic models, which, because knowingly created, seem to operate as much as works of art as myth. This metamodern mythopoeia would seem to include both the postmodern condition of doubt and knowingness as well as a more modernist optimism, a naïve faith to create new mythic systems of meaning and thusly induce a sense of greater depth and sublimity. In metamodern mythopoeia, mythologies are invented: liturgies, hymns, ceremonies, scriptures, deities, all as an artist paints a scene. ‘Theology’ becomes a creative and exploratory act, done for the sensation of the thing itself within in the realm of immanence. The most successful metamodern mythopoeia are compelling; indeed, they create an almost convincing sense of transcendence. One even entertains the possibility of being converted to one’s own invented religion…"

"However, metamodern mythopoeia never decidedly affirms or rejects the idea of the grand narratives of faith and transcendence. Indeed, it is precisely this ambiguity which allows for transcendent experience in the first place: metamodern faith must presume a kind of atheism if one is to have the freedom to create ‘God’."

Read the whole fascinating article here:
http://www.metamodernism.com/2015/10/21/reconstruction-metamodern-transcendence-and-the-return-of-myth/

Book Page for the Hermead
http://facebook.com/Hermead

Buy editions of the Hermead
http://tinyurl.com/HermeadEditions

Friday, February 5, 2016

Gleam Of Her Black Eyes

Gleam Of Her Black Eyes
© Surazeus
2016 02 05

While walking in a bright glass-shining mall
in Atlanta on a warm winter afternoon,
I see a slender woman with black hair
that shimmers around her oval sun-gold face.

I pause at flash of memory that beams
from eight thousand years ago when we stood
holding hands on sun-baked coast of Shin Sea
and wept with heart-aching love that we should part.

She boarded ship and sailed on cobalt sea
toward rising sun that beamed light in my heart
while I walked back to follow setting sun
many lives from Sumer to Oregon.

So now I know she made it safe to China
where her wise children multiplied and thrived,
and mist of morning hope in distant hills
still sparkles in soft gleam of her black eyes.

I smile and nod my head as we pass by,
and she smiles sweet as Kwan Yin holding bloom
of Lotus blushing pink from morning dawn
that glitters on lost sea of memories.

Though all my brothers and sisters spread out
from lush Eden to populate wild lands,
we gather on huge Ziggurat of Ishtar
and sing Ode to Joy with eight billion voices.

Thursday, February 4, 2016

White Moon Of Your Face

White Moon Of Your Face
© Surazeus
2016 02 04

Mist swirls down from white moon among tree limbs
where sleeping birds dream wind over grass fields.
Rivers of eyes flow glowing on my breast.

Leaves flutter from open books on blind hills
where children chase shadows through gold sun rays.
I will never tell you my tale of sorrow.

Flowers blossom from twigs of my fingers
so I give apples to everyone I meet.
Rain washes my silent tears into soil.

White moon of your face lights my winding road
through bellicose forest of grasping hands.
Frail basket of my heart is empty now.