Saturday, November 18, 2017

Game Of Reproduction

Game Of Reproduction
© Surazeus
2017 11 18

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Friday, November 17, 2017

Your Jester King

Your Jester King
© Surazeus
2017 11 17

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

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

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

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

Thursday, November 16, 2017

Apples On Trees In Autumn

Apples On Trees In Autumn
© Surazeus
2017 11 16

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Noble Hero Of America

Noble Hero Of America
© Surazeus
2017 11 15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

My Brain Is Broken

My Brain Is Broken
© Surazeus
2017 11 14

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our Guiding Star

Our Guiding Star
© Surazeus
2017 11 14

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Monday, November 13, 2017

Alarm Bells Of Anxiety

Alarm Bells Of Anxiety
© Surazeus
2017 11 13

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, November 12, 2017

I Am That Shadow

I Am That Shadow
© Surazeus
2017 11 12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday, November 11, 2017

Her Flashing Eyes

Her Flashing Eyes
© Surazeus
2017 11 11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eternal Flame Of Her Heart

Eternal Flame Of Her Heart
© Surazeus
2017 11 11

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

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

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

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


Friday, November 10, 2017

Aggressive Lust Of Men

Aggressive Lust Of Men
© Surazeus
2017 11 10

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

Thursday, November 9, 2017

Simulacra Of My Soul

Simulacra Of My Soul
© Surazeus
2017 11 09

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Tuesday, November 7, 2017

Voices Of Seven Billion Minds

Voices Of Seven Billion Minds
© Surazeus
2017 11 07

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

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

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

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

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

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


My Brain Invents God

My Brain Invents God
© Surazeus
2017 11 07

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

Sunday, November 5, 2017

Puzzles Within Puzzles

Puzzles Within Puzzles
© Surazeus
2017 11 05

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday, November 4, 2017

Ozymandias In Wonderland

Ozymandias In Wonderland
© Surazeus
2017 11 04

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday, November 3, 2017

Eternal Life Through Copulation

Eternal Life Through Copulation
© Surazeus
2017 11 03

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

Thursday, November 2, 2017

Mirror Mask Of Truth

Mirror Mask Of Truth
© Surazeus
2017 11 02

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Fallen King Of Somewhere

Fallen King Of Somewhere
© Surazeus
2017 10 30

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday, October 30, 2017

Forgotten Tomb Of Charlotte

Forgotten Tomb Of Charlotte
© Surazeus
2017 10 30

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

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

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

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

Blooming Rose

Blooming Rose
© Surazeus
2017 10 30

I know he said the rose is obsolete
but each weird facet of the universe
that unfolds in the petals of each day
reveal another aspect of the world
that renews itself through endless rebirth
of physical forms when male and female
reincarnate in children of the mind,
since bees brew honey from the blooming rose.

Friday, October 27, 2017

River Of Dead Gods

River Of Dead Gods
© Surazeus
2017 10 27

Many of my ancestors ten thousand years
lived along the Euphrates River shore,
feasting on the sunlight in hot wheat bread.
Come and dream by the river of dead gods.

In fifty years those fertile crescent cities,
now shattered ruins of religious faith,
will gleam with the business of craft and love.
Come and play by the river of dead gods.

The prophet wandering in waste land of fear
will return with tales of heroic deeds
his grandchildren will watch on movie screens.
Come and sing by the river of dead gods.

Where Ishtar, first mother of humankind,
first sang about the secret of rebirth,
only dust blows on empty ziggurats.
Come and feast by the river of dead gods.

From Achilles to Caesar to Ragnar
human society remains the same,
god-kings leading warriors to conquer truth.
Come and dance by the river of dead gods.

The ancient spirit of Liberty burns
with flames of war in nation of my heart,
urging us to forge global state of peace.
Come and laugh by the river of dead gods.

Thursday, October 26, 2017

Hands Instead Of Wings

Hands Instead Of Wings
© Surazeus
2017 10 26

When I wake up every morning to find
the entire universe completely changed,
I have to hunt lush meadows by the river
for a new name to call myself when light
beams through clouds to thread new wings on my heart.

I remove the mask my mother designed
and hang it on the tree where birds explain
principles of algebra weaving curves
so I can calibrate my soaring leap
beyond the edge of the world on new wings.

While gathering eggs and walnuts in baskets,
I wove from the tough sinews of my mind,
I find pyramid where people tend wheat
who explain that god can see all we do,
so I hide my wings in high mountain cave.

I climb the high pyramid, step by step,
and find the old man everyone calls god
who tells me he will feed me well for life
if I work each day in fields tending wheat,
then he gives me coins for my broken wings.

I wonder why people form social groups
and choose the wisest or the strongest man
to play god as ruler of all they do
so religious states live beyond our deaths
by hanging our lost wings on temple walls.

Our wandering tribes of hunting gatherers
expand into empires that contend to rule
resources of rivers in fertile plains
where we worship our first father as god
since he first taught us how to invent wings.

I fly my small white airplane in vast sky
and glide in clouds from sea to shining sea
like Icarus to touch the glowing sun
that weaves our world from flashing molecules
since we humans have hands instead of wings.

On lone street corners of small nameless towns
I play guitar and chant the ancient spell
that Hermes programmed in my sparkling brain
so I can cause flowers to laugh in rain
while draped in wet cloak of my useless wings.



Wednesday, October 25, 2017

Why Are Men Aggressive

Why Are Men Aggressive
© Surazeus
2017 10 25

Alison stands on the hill in moonlight
overlooking the city that shines bright
with perfect lives of people inside homes
and offices, where forest elves and gnomes
watch television and talk on cell phones,
and waves her hands over pile of cat bones
while chanting spells in arcane languages
to calculate the cost of averages,
but nothing happens except gentle breeze
swirls around rotting tree where honey bees
brew visions of gods that glow in our dreams,
so she whispers to shadows on gold streams.
"Why are men aggressive with sexual hope,
forcing all molested women to cope?
We follow light of visions in our minds
to calculate how spinning Earth rewinds
our social interactions through the door
that mirrors when we step on new world shore
to wrestle tangled vines with measurement
and organize our thriving settlement
that grows from colonies of fertile farms
into vast empire with nuclear arms
I wield like sword she named Exalibur
but leave my kingdom to play traveller
to other worlds where people wearing masks
brew love potions preserved in crystal flasks.
I hide no secrets in this riddling verse
you cannot find in any private purse
that women carry when they shop for clothes,
then stop to ask me what the wizard knows
who transforms broken wings of fallen angels
preserved in books set neat on market tables
in rows like coffins in old cemeteries
where blinded children gather ripe blueberries
so you will have to open my dark heart
then load all your possessions on the cart
that creaks while refugees on rain-wet road
flee persecution, weighed by heavy load
of monetary debt that king incurred
who listened to the plotting of the bird
that stole my magic ring when I played dead
so they would take this crown back off my head.
We play our roles in power games of control
on public stage with ostentatious goal
of ruling every nation on this globe
while dressed in jeweled crown and ermine robe,
but though I wield scepter of wisdom well
in elegant battle to tolling bell,
I stop in watchtower to contemplate truth,
while I fancy myself the clever sleuth,
and realize simple truth that makes me laugh
while duplicating souls with hectograph
how we all fall into abyss of death
and consciousness vanishes without breath.
To understand why men cannot control
aggressive lust, with biological goal
to impregnate every warm fertile womb,
and decide who is worshipped in grand tomb,
observe how men in every age of change
kill kind respectful men whom they find strange
and sire new generation from their seed
who act on impulse of their thrusting need
and force young virgins against their free will
to bear reincarnations with honest skill
who then compete through political games
over who will charter our social names.
Ten thousand years the toughest men would fight
and kill weaker rivals with hateful spite
then chase young women by the sparkling pools
so they bore their children, while witty fools
played games of hide and seek among the trees,
and honest lords kept rings of shining keys
to open solid doors where pregnant brides
gave birth to children with the ocean tides.
So with each generation of strong males
who through aggression further tip the scales
and fight in fiercer wars that blast the world,
since all our souls are from molecules purled,
our men become much more intent with lust
and seek their own gain over what is just.
With every generation stronger men,
who wield both the sword and the lawful pen,
sire more children from their reluctant wives
so every bolder generation strives
through strength and wit to rule the fertile lands
and commission projects from crafting hands,
and thus through evolution of their seed,
that favors survival of those with greed,
our men are driven blind by lust to breed
and build empires based on national creed.
My body is puppet of my free will
but I must retreat to this private hill
when men try to manipulate my heart
and treat me like I am some mindless tart.
Though I know why they act without control,
programmed by success of masculine role
to procreate new souls before they die,
I will look every man straight in the eye
and insist they transcend animal nature
to act with respect toward every live creature
with civil performance of human role,
and thus confirm their soul with self-control.
Men are responsible through honest goal
to control their actions with legal thole
and sail their ships along bright river flow
from honest intention to learn and grow."
Alison lies back and watches glowing stars
while listening to the hum of passing cars.

Monday, October 23, 2017

Spirit Of Takoma

Spirit Of Takoma
© Surazeus
2017 10 23

Mist swirls among pines to reflect the eyes
of people who lived in this pungent grove
ten thousand years before this silent dawn
I sit beside the greenhouse full of ferns,
waiting to work before attending school,
and feel Mount Takoma throb in my heart.

After living in flat Texas ten years
since I was four years old, I stare in awe
at sleeping volcano scraping the sky
named Takoma, mother of all clear streams
that flow from the snow sparkling on her slopes
so I kneel and drink water of her eyes.

I climb steep trail that winds around high peaks
and name each flower blooming from dark soil
with secret words I find in sparkling snow
on sacred mountain that spews flames of love
the past five hundred thousand years of breath,
for she is the mother of singing wind.

On Naches Peak I stand on waves of wind
and gaze at Mount Takoma looming large
as wild Olympus where human gods sing,
so I sing the journey of my ancestors
from Ararat to Parnassus on wings
of ravens who guide me across the sea.

I see the mouth of Nichiwana River
where travelers from Sibir and Alaska
sailed boats into the heart of Onatah
and spread to every corner of the land
where Sun Spider Woman in canyon cave
weaves sunlight into my heart-warming cape.

While Hesiod played bone flute on Helicon,
and Apollo played lyre on fertile slope
of Parnassus to chant legends of Heroes,
I play guitar on adamantine slopes
of Mount Takoma where wise Spider Woman
weaves new body for my eternal soul.

When I am wandering lost in ancient wood
I step through mist to stand on narrow peak
and feel this giant sphere of dirt and water,
which nurtures our souls, spinning in vast void,
and gaping emptiness of vast abyss
fills my beating heart with soul-vibrant atoms.

Before my eyes, in beams of singing sun,
the Spirit of Takoma flashes bright
as young woman who generates our souls
and sparks my brain with fingers of moonlight
so I can dream whole history of our world
and how pulsing atoms evolve to man.

Sunday, October 22, 2017

Divine Harmonious Chord

Divine Harmonious Chord
© Surazeus
2017 10 22

The quiet dusk of evening in the trees
reveals ancient secrets of life and death
encrypted in the writhing chirps of birds
that carry my memory on quick breeze
deep enough into the sun of my breath
that I must invent ten thousand new words.

Though men, who fancy they act on the stage
of political power, play frantic chess
of public spectacle on glowing screen
of televisions, I hide on the page
of my new bible key to the address
of Heaven where all die in the last scene.

The old woman in the dead raven tree,
who teaches my aching heart how to sing
magic spells written on petals of flowers,
gives me lyre to set every trapped soul free,
but I wander lost with my broken wing,
locked in some blind room of her stricken towers.

The laurel crown she once placed on my head
withers in the red wheel barrow of truth
where white chickens lay eggs in my mute heart,
so after the last king has fallen dead
I will escape Heaven as the blind sleuth
who weaves legends in our national chart.

I walk the wind-battered beach on wild sand
that whispers down dunes to calculate wealth
stolen from the hard-working hands of fools
whose mute ghosts still haunt their lost renamed land
so I enter temple of gods through stealth
I learned from the clown who invented tools.

I mold mud into faces of the dead
and hang them staring on the cobwebbed wall
while the many-faced god recites their names
to record their deeds on thick plates of lead
that stand ten million years in shining hall
where generations of children play games.

Look deep enough into the blank abyss
where horror churns sweet chaos into honey
and you will see in mirror of my eyes
true face of the goddess who demands a kiss
but keeps my hands if I cannot give money
though I still know the light code of the skies.

Everything that ever happens persists
rippling waves of cause and effect through force
of atoms woven in vast web of souls
who dream the moment swirling atom twists
through spiral of time from the beaming source
that spins the world forever on light poles.

So when I rise from lake of eyes at dawn
I watch the sun originate from gloom
to beam the world of forms from naked dreams
though I am the child of both king and pawn
when I sing geometric shapes in room
where my heart waterfalls in wrenching streams.

Though we explore the endless labyrinth
of social rules beyond the wall of law
we cannot find the hall of singing girls,
yet she stands in white with blue hyacinth,
translating for me the wise raven caw
whose spell explains why atomic world whirls.

I wake astonished from ten thousand years
of copulating to attain rebirth,
and thus evolve monkey to man to god,
but stand now on the mountain, gripping spears,
to battle for the unity of Earth,
while worshippers hide within its facade.

If anyone finds their way through the maze
of our memories, mapped by cosmic tales
that calculate how archetypes record
fierce contest for power through nostalgic phase,
translate our lives in intricate details
that vibrate our divine harmonious chord.


Friday, October 20, 2017

Because I Wake Each Dawn With Death

Because I Wake Each Dawn With Death
© Surazeus
2017 10 20

Because I wake each dawn with Death
and walk the road of hope
the sun threads through my dreaming brain
sharp rays of aching love.

I search for Death who calls my name
along the river shore
then climb the mountain cliff to reach
the garden of her fruit.

With sticks and stones I fight the snake
to chase him from fruit trees
then pluck ripe apples from their limbs
to give each soul I meet.

We sit inside the ring of stones
where white-haired women chant
and share old tales of warriors
who freed us from dark caves.

When darkness falls and stars gleam bright
I wonder if tonight
my glowing soul will fly away
and leave my body dead.

I dance in gold moon light with Death
who kisses me with love
but when I fill her with my soul
I sink in dreamless gloom.

I wake at dawn and see her face
as she walks by my side,
sweet Death who took my flashing soul
and generates new child.

Because I wake each dawn with Death
I give her fruit to eat
and while she suckles our new child
I build high walls of stone.

Wednesday, October 18, 2017

Woman In Silver Mist

Woman In Silver Mist
© Surazeus
2017 10 18

While sitting in my quaint suburban home,
listening to Mozart on the radio,
I gaze out the window past shimmering veil
of our great nation of America
and see frail woman in white on dark road
who grips a knife that drips with burning blood.

Through swirling sparks of mist that blur my eyes
she rises from shadow of ancient woods
and grips my arm with hands of gnarled oak bones,
then her blue eyes, red as the sun at dawn,
pierce my heart with anguish of nameless horror,
and then she faints into my trembling arms.

I carry her through wood of laughing ravens
to river shore where water sparkles bright,
but all the houses of our little town
groan as black skeletons in heaps of ash,
burned by wild flames that sear my aching heart,
and she hisses as she weeps in gray smoke.

"The raiders stormed our feast hall at midnight,
chopped off the heads of all our honest men,
and raped the girls who could not get away,
then burned everything we built with our hands,
while I hid all night in the old oak tree,
shivering in the rain of horror and fear."

I carry her to grove of flowers and herbs
where I clean her wounds, feed her apple juice,
and sing sweet melodies to soothe her fears
when she wakes frightened in moonlight and weeps.

We sit together when the robins chirp
cheerful tunes in the swirling mist of dawn
to eat strawberries and walnuts while they play.

She wakes in evening twilight with soft smile
that shimmers with joy of her healing heart,
so we hold hands and walk on river shore
where moonlight gleams on white wings of the swans
who glide on the pool that reflect gold stars.

I smile with joy and give her blooming rose,
then her blue eyes, clear as lake ice at dawn,
pierce my heart with desire of aching love,
and we kiss like honey bees on white blossoms
of apple trees that fall on our moist skin
as we make love under the singing moon.

I bring her stew and apple juice each day
where she sits singing in sun-dappled grove
while her belly swells like apples that grow
large and round in the kiss of sun and rain,
and I sing as she smiles with pleasant joy.

She bears young boy with eyes blue as the sky
glowing like bird eggs after storm clouds pass,
and he smiles while suckling milk from her breast
as she sits among apple trees and stares
through swirling mist at the red glow of dawn.

Returning with rabbits for evening stew,
I find our boy alone among gold flowers,
giggling as he reaches out little hands
to touch the wings of scarlet butterflies,
so I run through woods of whispering fear,
searching for the lost woman in the mist.

She sits among the ruins of her home
where skulls of her children lie cracked in ash,
and she weeps, clutching at her broken heart.

I cuddle her close to my loving heart
while her gnarled oak hands cling to me in fear.

I lift her from the cold ash of the past
and guide her through the woods of swirling mist
to grove of apple trees where our new child
coos bright at the sight of her tear-streaked face,
and reaches out his hands for her embrace.

She lifts him from the flowers with soft sighs
and cradles his head while she smiles through tears,
then gazes at him with adoring love
while he suckles fresh milk from her warm breast,
and hopeful sorrow clutches at my heart.

Returning to the present in my home,
I wonder at their names and where they lived,
and if that boy, born from sorrow of death,
was my ancestor who lived long ago.

I smile while watching birds play in the trees
outside my window where red apples hang,
and wonder with weird sensation of awe
why that memory glows in my mind now,
and what sparked it to play in waking dream.

Rising from my seat, I walk through my home
and watch my children in computer room,
one painting pictures and chatting with friends,
and the other editing video clips
to make a movie of her friends at school.

All our ancestors live inside our minds,
and the memories of their lives glow warm light
to dispel the shadows of ancient fears
which guides our way as we live each new day.


Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Global Empire Sonnet

Global Empire Sonnet
© Surazeus
2017 10 17

While watching evening news on television
about our new president threatening war
against some small and weak commonist state
imprisoned on the far side of the world,
I saw Homer, blind sage of brutal war,
strumming his harp in the Capitol Dome.
I whistle for Pegasus to descend
from clouds where Plato and Jesus play chess,
then direct his swift flight to Stone Henge plain
where I snatch Excalibur, blade of Justice,
from the ancient heart of the Stone of Scone,
then hide my face with mask of Hercules.
When Destroyer and Creator contend
our nation mushrooms into global empire.

Monday, October 16, 2017

Patriarchal Walls

Patriarchal Walls
© Surazeus
2017 10 16

Snow swirls at midnight on the Bridge of Spies
where the Weeping Clown waits in tattered cloak
to be exchanged for young Bellerophon
who carries broke wings of Pegasus.

Appearing from the swirling mist of fear,
the Eyeless King, clutching his silver gun,
holds out the ancient Book of Secret Tales
for Cinderella who receives its spells.

"The names of everyone who ever lived
are written on its pages with my blood,
so when you read their secret thoughts in code
their idols beam from holographic gem."

While Cinderella turns each crumbling page
the letters fly away like buzzing bees
and drink the pollen from our dreaming brains
that sparkle as honey in falling rain.

She gazes from the tower of laughing skulls
and strums gold harp while chanting wordless spells
that sew wings of Pegasus on my back
so I can fly above her labyrinth.

Then Cinderella pauses from her song
and tries to tell me how she was abused
by her uncle, boyfriend, date, and professor,
but all her words are twisted into flowers.

I wander lost in labyrinth of mirrors
where every man reigns in his home as king
but women dressed in long white gowns who fight
for liberty are smeared with tar of hate.

How shall we smash strong patriarchal walls
and build new social system that portrays
woman as the goddess who creates life
by planting seeds that sprout to apple trees?

Sunday, October 15, 2017

American Pastoral Of Death

American Pastoral Of Death
© Surazeus
2017 10 15

Halfway through my life, lost in city streets,
I meet Richard Wilbur by garden gate
who teaches me trick of Dionysian beats
so we rewrite weird formula of fate.

From crowded city streets of honking cars
moon-eyed Richard leads me to fertile fields
of lush Arcadia that glows from white stars
and teaches me secret of sparkling seeds.

The roots of flowers and trees from ancient core
of our huge pulsing planet curl through gloom
deeper into granite mountains to bore
cracks across spinning galaxies that bloom.

Inside each egg that beams from eyes of stars
living creatures wake to dream evolution
so we grow fish to monkeys driving cars
till everyone sings spells with elocution.

At gleam of dawn when Aurora will kiss
my sponge brain awake from oceanic dreams
I kneel in meadow to tend blooming herbs
while singing hymns in tune with flashing streams.

When ancient father with long snow-white hair
lies weak among flowers to drift in death
I plant seeds in his heart and eyes that share
woven vines of memory through my breath.

Leaning on staff under broad willow tree,
I tend sheep like sun herds fluffy white clouds,
and sing my love for the girl of the sea
who veils our marriage grove with wind-blown shrouds.

Ten thousand years of armies crossing plains
pave webs of roads from stone and asphalt sheen
so villages mushroom from bitter rains
into vast cities that conquer the scene.

Alone in small glass rooms of city towers
the blind shepherds paint quaint pastoral scenes
of couples making love among lush flowers
that sparkle in the memories of our genes.

When I left wild rugged hills of Arcadia
on noble quest to save the world from war
I got lost in American Bohemia,
searching in vain for the world-linking door.

I stood for years on street corners to sing
about the age of pastoral innocence
in meadows now paved with vast parking lots
where cars instead of sheep and horses play.

While wandering through the labyrinth of tales
I swerve sideways off the expected path
and blaze through the waste land new secret trails
that calculate truth with soul-slanting math.

With eager hands before apocalypse
I gather sweet blackberries for Amelia,
returning to Elysium on weird trips
to swim the Mississippi with Ophelia.

When we both enter the museum hall
to sing the ancient myths in new pop songs
we dance forever on the broken wall,
unable with magic to fix all wrongs.

We gaze beyond the veil of skin to dream
how swirling clouds reveal the naked truth
that though we must bathe in the flowing stream
we die drinking from the Fountain of Youth.

That shining idol, image in your mind,
you think is me, is but ghost your words conjure,
so take my hand with trust and we will bind
weird visions into one world view we ponder.

These calculations hidden in weird words
trace intricate tracks of psychic details
so I protect my brain with mental wards
that weigh cause and effect on moral scales.

The banker with quick calculator brain
gazes at pastoral paintings on steel wall
while glass towers blink in forever rain
and shepherds now work to build border wall.

Virgin Maria bearing the Christ Child
huddles behind cactus in blistering sun
to hide while agents patrol border wall,
hoping to reach the wealthy Promised Land.

Shrouded by blackness of eternal night,
Maria counts stars that flash through the gloom,
and maps Golden Way through the blinding light
till she wakes in the doorless Oval Room.

While sketching faces on cracked glass of hope,
Maria calculates process of change
that helps herd electric sheep on steep slope
before the satellite glides out of range.

I am the last robot composed of flesh
since my mother generated my soul
by weaving atoms from rays of the mesh
that links our hearts in superconscious whole.

Rising from cool stream in the heat of June,
Maria leads me through the brambled night
where laughing skulls of kings and gods are strewn
so spirits disperse in psychotic flight.

So through the woods by stone walls on old lanes
we pick blackberries by prophetic cave
and brew sweet rum from timeless sugar canes
to drink as Maria sings in the nave.

How words convey my thoughts on each brain wave
the eyeless wizard in the ruins chants,
so when Ophelia in clandestine conclave
revives me, we see God blossom in plants.

Join us on stage before the end of time
to sing American Pastoral of Death,
though secret of life is hidden in rhyme
that we reveal with our last dying breath.




Saturday, October 14, 2017

Temporary Clusters Of Atoms

Temporary Clusters Of Atoms
© Surazeus
2017 10 14

Perched on the park bench like a hunting dog
about to run while chasing down a prey,
Joshua watches people in picnic halls
or walking around the lake at sunset.
"How I wanted so much, with aching heart,
to believe that we will live after death,
that, if we believe with unwavering faith
that Jesus is God who created all,
he would resurrect our eternal souls
after we die in this material plane
to live again in perfect body forms
for all eternity in realm of light.
Yet when I observe this world with clear eyes
I see the truth that we are nothing more
than temporary clusters of quick atoms
that vibrate with soul of hungry desire.
Each atom of this boundless universe
vibrates with energy of conscious flash
that when composed in neurons of the brain
attains higher level of consciousness,
evolving through each generated body
to transform from fish swimming in the sea
into potent god soaring among stars.
But for now we are frail humans of flesh
who struggle to survive in hostile nature
so we can copulate with fertile mate
to generate new body that sustains
dreaming brain which records all memories
each generation of ancestors lived,
and hope we develop society
that fosters talents of each individual
so we can evolve beyond mortal coil
and become supernatural gods with power.
Thus I can understand why people cling
to archaic belief in the afterlife,
desperate to live beyond blankness of death,
but I extract those lies from my world view
and seek to understand nature of things
so I can reincarnate in my children
since I will know nothing after I die
and vanish from the seething flow of time
while my atoms reassemble again
into another person with bright soul.
I long for the superpowers of a god
but I am content with the simple powers
that humans gained in game of evolution,
tasting the fleeting sweetness of this life
before I vanish in the lightless void."


Fantasy Of Solarian

Fantasy Of Solarian
© Surazeus
2017 10 13

Across the galaxy of sparkling stars
the god Zarathian with flowing wings
soars singing on wild waves of flashing light
and weaves lush planets from his brain neurons.

From sloshing ocean waves on countless spheres
new life forms bubble from hot thermal vents
and crawl up silver sparkling streams to lakes
to stand in waterfall with dreaming eyes.

The ancient cosmic god glows in the mind
of every living creature who first wakes
from mute atomic dream to hum weird words
in magic spells that conjure dreams in brains.

We look into the mirror of the pool
and see our own face looking back at us
and so we dance in grove of apple trees
with others who reflect our secret face.

Old bearded man appears from swirling mist
and tells us he created us from mud
and breathed the animating breath of life
to flash our eyes awake with beams of light.

"I am Zarathian, father of all,
and you are replications of my soul
whom I created when I sowed my seed
in womb of Mother Yartha before dawn."

I run on leaping legs back to the pool
where I stare down at mirror of my mind
and see my own face separate from the others,
and whisper, "I am me, Solarian."

Young long-haired boy runs leaping through the trees
and climbs the mountain high to touch the moon
but shining silver eye gleams out of reach
and all the world spins far below his feet.

"Each time I talk I hear his voice, not mine,
speak words I heard him speak since I was born,
and when I gaze in mirror of the pool
I see his face behind my unique face."

Solarian descends steep mountain slope
and steps into the ring of giant stones
where white-haired Zarathian sits on throne,
gripping beam of light he pulled from the ground.

"I am Solarian, son of the sun,
and I created all this world from light,
weaving mountains and seas from flashing beams,
so I will sit on throne of words to reign."

Leaping quick from the throne with howling scream,
Zarathian lunges to smash his head,
but wily Solarian ducks and strikes
swift to thrust sharp diamond blade in his heart.

Eternal soul of light gushes as blood,
red beams of spirit spurting from his breast,
and old Zarathian falls on his back,
chanting wordless music of aching death.

Grasping ring of gold that glitters twelve gems,
Solarian places crown on his head,
snatches scepter with gleaming emerald,
then sits on throne before astonished eyes.

"I am Solarian, born from the Earth,
reincarnation of Zarathian,
so now I reign as wizard on high throne
and speak with voice of eternal stars."

Crumbling mushrooms in brass cauldron of juice,
Solarian stirs potion while he hums
melody about how bees brew sweet honey,
then drinks it deep into his thrumming heart.

Across the galaxy of spinning stars
the god Zarathian on beating wings
soars singing on wild waves of pulsing light
and weaves lush garden from his brain neurons.

Looking up from the vision of his face
in shimmering pool, Solarian sees
young woman with silver eyes gleaming stars
who smiles and hides her face behind gold mask.

Opening his eyes in the meeting room,
Samuel looks around at his counselor
and circle of patients who heard his tale,
then smiles nervously and spreads his arms wide.

"I love to fantasize I am a god
or powerful wizard in ancient times,
because this wretched world we live in now
gnaws like rat poison at my aching heart."

Thursday, October 12, 2017

Atheist Prophet Of Wise Ungod

Atheist Prophet Of Wise Ungod
© Surazeus
2017 10 12

I am the atheist prophet of wise Ungod
who weaves our dreaming souls from beams of light
and sends us spinning through the universe
like a rock skipping across the vast sea.

The Ungod was lounging by her Black Hole,
drinking atoms from pulsing fountain flow,
when from one tiny drop of spinning atoms
she forged our star system by accident.

While sipping hot helium wine from stars
the Ungod snapped her fingers with a laugh
and sang sweet ecstasy of aching love
to float in dream inside our molecules.

Her endless dream of flashing beams of light
that flicker in our sloshing ocean waves
still sparks awake the neurons of our brains
so we remember her first conscious thought.

Deep down inside the core of our sponge brain
we dream that moment when Ungod awoke
with beaming consciousness of molecules
that spiral flashing through the void of death.

I hear her call my name at flash of dawn,
my mother singing, "Wake, Zarathian,
and teach your children how to sing in words
clear visions of our eyes that guide our way."

The Ungod who created nothing sings
deep in the urgent passion of our cells
so we invent her face from random swirls
to personify her galactic soul.

I am the atheist prophet of our Ungod
whose conscious hope inspires our searching eyes
to see her face shine on mountains and clouds,
our own mothers who taught us how to sing.


Equal Citizens Of America

Equal Citizens Of America
© Surazeus
2017 10 12

After discussing the latest statistics
about sports teams on television show,
the sports journalist pauses and folds hands
as he gazes into the camera.
"Now I must express stark fear in my heart
in commentary on social events.
I watch my children walk out the front door
every morning on their quest to learn truth
with classmates who live in our neighborhood,
and worry about how they will confront
various threats and dangers of this world,
hoping they will grow wise and perform deeds
that benefit with equal force of good
everyone who shares our society.
Yet since the tincture of their skin is white,
because our ancestors dwelled in cold lands
where clouds blocked the burning rays of the sun,
which caused them to grow more pale over time,
they benefit from extra privilege
that our white-based society affords,
attending college and attaining jobs
so they can purchase homes and working cars
and raise a new generation of children
who will advance far in wealth of success,
building on the success of my own life
as I built on the success of my parents.
While children of families whose skin is dark,
because their ancestors dwelled in hot lands
where burning rays of the sun were not blocked,
which caused them to grow more dark over time,
they struggle against systemic racism
and must work twice as hard to gain success
while facing constant aggressive remarks
designed to lock them in the lower class.
I worry enough about my own children,
but I cannot imagine how much stress
black parents of black children must endure
as we watch events unfold on the news
where police in too many of our cities
shoot and kill unarmed black people in fear,
more than thirty over the past five years,
yet suffer no punitive consequence.
We must ensure that opportunities
for education and jobs in our cities
are open for attainment from hard work
for every person dwelling in this land
who applies imagination and heart
to work in ways that benefit us all
who cooperate through competitive work
to build a better nation where all people
are equal in the justice of our law.
No matter the color that tints our skin
we share this land as equal citizens.
That is the news for today, so good night,
and may God bless land of America,
nation of liberty for every person
where black lives matter in justice for all."

Wednesday, October 11, 2017

Statue Of Truth

Statue Of Truth
© Surazeus
2017 10 11

The azure of the window traps the sky
of my eyes within labyrinth of your heart,
so every morning when I ask you why
you give me keys that activate the cart
I drive along the winding road of death,
and lie among flowers to catch my breath.

The cup of every flower brims with blood
that drips from my eyes in lost memories
so honey of my heart fills your rosebud
which generates robots from my brain keys
before I swim down into bright abyss
on quest to find Truth, inspired by your kiss.

The steel bridge with wires ringing in wild wind,
connecting our hearts across silent void,
by mutual spells of fake destiny pinned
to yet unravel light from true ovoid
from which all eye-wide dreaming creatures spring,
shimmers with the fear of my broken wing.

Behind this oblique veil of gliding words
lurk demons who animate our sponge brains,
expressing diagrams through chirping birds
to demonstrate calculus of lush rains,
so I now understand cause and effect
that programs our universal aspect.

No matter how deep in the maze of tales
you chase elusive butterfly of spells
you must weigh your brain on the spinning scales
then baptize your soul in the stagnant wells
to cleanse your mind of deceptive beliefs
and map myth with new pattern of motifs.

The endless beforetime before our birth
and endless aftertime after our death
extend before atoms swirled into Earth
since I am the wizard who designed chess
so now I mold stone in statue of Truth
that keeps me wise as I begin to sleuth.


Tuesday, October 10, 2017

Tenets Of My Religion

Tenets Of My Religion
© Surazeus
2017 10 10

Brenda leans against the dead willow tree
watching gold sunrays beam like flaming brand
through swirling black rainclouds after wild storm,
and drapes her pale arm tight around his shoulder.
"Whenever I was hurt and got upset
my grandmother would laugh and kiss my cheek,
then stare at the burning sun and declare
in raspy voice grated by cigar smoke.
My dear, in case no one told you today,
I must remind you of the facts of life.
We are born from the lust our parents felt,
we must kill other life-forms to survive,
then we decay in misery and pain
till we die and vanish from the dream time
of this giant ball of dirt that spins lost
in the boundless void of the universe.
On the road of life we will always go
alone in the silent despair of hope,
and, though we attempt to communicate
complex thoughts that clatter inside our mind,
no one will understand our secret soul
like we will never understand their secret soul
they hide behind their mild congenial mask.
Though we deem ourself central to the play
of social life in which we think we star,
important to the process of survival
of our tribe in fierce contests for control,
commissioned by authority to act
with noble intention to produce good,
we are expendable in game of power,
replaced by other people with our skills
when we are damaged or destroyed by time.
All events that happen to us in life
happen for no good particular reason,
just random events of blind chance that clash,
undirected by any conscious mind
who plans and controls events of this world.
No mastermind directs the play of life
so we are each alone on road of time,
designing our own reason to maintain
passionate intensity of desire
that motivates our lust to reproduce.
We did not exist through infinite time
that calculates billions of years of change,
before our parents generated this body
of frail flesh that sustains our dreaming mind,
and after this brief flare of light in gloom,
we call living, we will die, and our mind,
now flashing with visions from memories
that record our experiences of life,
will disperse to swirls of unconscious dust
as the universe sparkles on without us.
After we die our name and all our deeds
will be forgotten, and our memories
will all vanish lost, like tears in the rain,
as if we never existed in flesh.
So cheer up and drink some sweet apple cider,
then invent some meaning for your own life
and live with passion of pleasure and love
to the full capacity of your heart,
so you taste its sweetness and bitterness
before death snuffs out the flame of your soul.
Her words are branded on my beating heart
and illuminate the road that I blaze
through the hostile wilderness of despair.
These tenets form the base of my religion
that guides my progress through the labyrinth
of this weird indifferent waste land of life."
Brenda drinks cider, gulping down sweet juice,
then hands him the jug with a crooked grin,
and birds chirp as rain drops drip from lush leaves.
Kissing his mouth, she pulls him down to lie
hidden among flowers and buzzing bees.

Friday, October 6, 2017

Charismatic Flash Of Fame

Charismatic Flash Of Fame
© Surazeus
2017 10 06

When I heard the famous poet on stage,
whose eyes exude the charismatic flash
of fame from adulation of the people,
declare in sing-song verse their folksy wisdom
through surreal jumps of leaping images
that reflect slanting beams of divine truth,
when I was shown distorted metaphors
that fragment in collage of references
archetypal concepts of mental states
which dissolve our persona of the I,
through fleeting memories, to cosmic self
of timeless soul whose vast butterfly wings
accelerate our flight on quest for truth,
how soon accountable I became weird,
till rising from the silent audience
I glided from hushed auditorium
and wandered through the labyrinth of doors,
each one opening to another world,
from the castle of their exclusive club
in the mystical night-air of the spirit
to stand on the highway of moving cars
and sing to the deaf as they chase the rainbow,
while gazing at the stars of flashing eyes,
about the flowing of the universe.
You cannot see my true face in the mask
that hides galactic neurons of my brain.

Thursday, October 5, 2017

Onatah The Bountiful

Onatah The Bountiful
© Surazeus
2017 10 05

O bountiful for fertile farms 
where everyone shares work,
for orchards lush with apple trees
that sparkle in sunlight.
Lush Onatah! Vast Onatah!
You bless our souls with love,
and welcome home all refugees
from sea to shining sea.

On Onatah, this sacred land,
where golden corn grows tall,
we give each soul a helping hand
to build one feasting hall.
Lush Onatah! Vast Onatah!
You bless us all with life,
confirm our souls with self-control,
our liberty in law.

The spirit of the evening land
appears from swirling mist
and bears in hand the brimming cup,
inviting all to feast.
Lush Onatah! Vast Onatah!
You bless us all with truth,
and guide us to your pyramid
with Light of Liberty.

Where Old Spirits Abide

Where Old Spirits Abide
© Surazeus
2017 10 05

Sun shimmers through the leaves of distant trees
who whisper secrets I forgot through breeze
of tense despair in flutter of their leaves
since everyone knows why the widow grieves.

I walk somewhere on seven beams of light
to fly beyond the bounding wall of sight
and touch the atoms that vibrate inside
our flashing cells where old spirits abide.

I hear the birds in trees discuss my fate
how I attempt to transfer chords of hate
on trembling stairs of hope to higher plane
so I can sing with you in kissing rain.

But when that bullet splattered out your brain
I heard your scream halfway across the world
and try to stand tall as the Earth is hurled
through empty void that swallows my full heart.

I walk alone on every road in town
to map Cartesian grid of aching hope
but I must follow our crucified clown
who guides my way with mountain-climbing rope.

I paint the names blank from every street sign,
then perch on bridge to drink this glass of wine,
tasting blood in remembrance of my friend
and husband, now a mute ghost in my mind.


Wednesday, October 4, 2017

Pleasure Of Light

Pleasure Of Light
© Surazeus
2017 10 04

While floating on my back in the dark lake
I feel beams of sunlight thread through my cells
on piercing needles of knowledge that spark
endless visions of bodies which transform
nine stages of evolution through eggs,
sperm to worm to fish to lizard to mouse
to monkey to man to angel to god,
in fertile reproduction of our souls.

When I at last transform into a god,
with flaming wings that spin white puffy clouds
into wild thunder-blasting hurricanes
that flash strikes of lightning into dark souls,
I want to dance across tall city towers
of steel and glass, forged from granite bones
of dinosaurs, and orchestrate swift flight
of molecules that spiral through the web
of neurons sparkling in our dreaming brains.

But I am nothing more than mortal fool,
wide-eyed dreamer of ideal paradise
encased in fragile shell of skeleton
stuffed with meat and vessels pumping hot blood,
imaginative spirit trapped in flesh
of tangled neurons flashing memories
to generate world-view vision of truth
like a soap bubble beaming rainbow eyes.

While walking on the singing beach of time
I see the face of every breathing soul
who ever woke with dreaming brain of hope
in history of this spinning ball of dirt,
eyes drinking streams of light to generate
hologram that reflects real perceived world,
and so I sing their names in whirling wind
to weave persona masks on tapestry
recording epic tale of conscious life.

I crawl over mud under gleaming sun,
eyes searching for shapes in colorful blurs,
and follow the scent of water to find
shimmering pool of delicious delight
where I float in timeless motion of change
as waves of liquid envelope my soul
and cleanse aching sorrow of hungry fear
so all I know is the pleasure of light.

While staring at white clouds, I laugh amused
because my brain always attempts to see
creatures alive in ever-shifting shapes,
causing me to understand with insight
how my ancestors thought huge clouds were gods,
so I gaze beyond illusion I design
at the clouds themselves to see their true essence,
swirling clumps of water vapor congealed
in elaborate shifting patterns of fractals,
water drops that beam light into my soul.