Apples Of Heaven
© Surazeus
2017 09 04
The years race past me like an avalanche
so I try to live like a Roman stoic
and surf the endless waves of social change
when billions of innocent people died
in one hundred years of aggressive wars.
While staring at art in museum hall,
where young women Muses once chanted tales
about strong Heroes who saved them from rape,
I see ancient statues of Greece and Rome
spring alive at my Pygmalion kiss.
Instead of castles of stone where kings rule
we now construct steel towers shrouded in glass
where chief executive officers rule
corporate empires while bourgeoisie clones slave
to build the American Dream from rainbows.
The government of the Soviet Union
was never communist, of equal work
where we cooperate instead of compete,
rather it was big-state capitalist
where rulers were more equal than the slaves.
I try to wear the masks of ancient gods
because I am the secret king of bards
but my personal voice always shines through,
projecting my eternal soul of Godin
because you applaud my antics on stage.
Before I read the novel Clockwork Orange
I read the book he wrote about linguistics,
how juxtaposed words are pregnant with meaning,
like black and cat, two separate concepts,
become the Black Cat of mysterious wisdom.
While watching the old movie, Time Machine,
I laughed to realize the motor car
is that machine which zooms us fast through time,
always forward faster and never backward,
for we can drive faster than we can walk.
Ten thousand years we rode on wooden wagons
pulled by strong horses, our most loyal friends,
but when we first drove cars down dusty roads
the solid world seemed to blur into spirals,
so spinning spiral represents time travel.
Soon everyone will write in poetry,
for those who stumble over angry words
will kill each other off in civil wars
and leave the world cleansed by their flowing blood
for those who sing in groves of apple trees.
The king of words who sang weird spells is dead,
long live the king of words who sings weird spells,
for we will always gather round the fire
and chant the legends of our favorite gods
while we burn statues of our favorite gods.
The Burning Man who stands on desert plain
raises two arms toward the infinite void
with aching hope to fly beyond this globe
so then the visionary who chants spells
runs into the flames and becomes loose atoms.
I ask Virginia Woolf why in her novel
someone must die, and she whispers surprised
that the visionary must always die
as sacrifice in the wild flames of wisdom
so the people of his nation may know.
I pause while singing epic about heroes
and try to hide in quaint suburban life
in desperate hope that no one hears my song
so they will not crucify me at dawn
on the last telephone pole in Montana.
The jester without mouth on Bleecker Street
scatters photos of people without names
till Gabriel descends on burning wings
and takes me back to Bohemia where Idunn
gives me the last real apple in the world.
From those ancient woods where springs bubble clear
Pan and Loki lead me through labyrinth
of mirrors where I see faces of poets
who sang before me on the stage of lies
that glitters gold inside the walls of Asgard.
Now John and Frank are playing chess in Heaven
to determine the fate of every poet
who competes for the rose petal of fame
but Apollo and Phoebus steal the crown
of laurel leaves and hide it in the cave.
The singing fool who strums his cracked guitar
walks the hot sidewalk of a thousand cities,
while cars blast pop songs on loud radios,
and chants secret prophecies as weird riddles
that only deaf birds in dead trees can hear.
The grand illusion of our national greatness
shimmers overhead like a frail soap bubble
as shield to protect our American Way
from nuclear missiles of hostile fear
that scream as thunderbolts in hands of Zeus.
The more I try to imitate the poets
who sang with the fire of insane desire
the more my own voice howls wild hurricane
of suspicious wisdom dug from the cave
of illusions where Plato found the diamond.
When we climb the great pyramid of fame
who will we find reigning like the blind god
but the dark-hatted charlatan who smiles
through the gold-plated mask Apollo wore,
so he appoints me Phoebus Lucifer.
I throw the mask of Apollo far off
the pyramid of ambition to sprout
my own face in the apple on the bough
that hangs heavy over the wall of Heaven
so children can feast while the serpent sleeps.
Once we drain the Earth of oil like vampires
and our cars rust in rain on empty highways
will we return to our most loyal friends,
the horses who ran with us on lush hills
to gather apples on the Tian Shan Mountains.
© Surazeus
2017 09 04
The years race past me like an avalanche
so I try to live like a Roman stoic
and surf the endless waves of social change
when billions of innocent people died
in one hundred years of aggressive wars.
While staring at art in museum hall,
where young women Muses once chanted tales
about strong Heroes who saved them from rape,
I see ancient statues of Greece and Rome
spring alive at my Pygmalion kiss.
Instead of castles of stone where kings rule
we now construct steel towers shrouded in glass
where chief executive officers rule
corporate empires while bourgeoisie clones slave
to build the American Dream from rainbows.
The government of the Soviet Union
was never communist, of equal work
where we cooperate instead of compete,
rather it was big-state capitalist
where rulers were more equal than the slaves.
I try to wear the masks of ancient gods
because I am the secret king of bards
but my personal voice always shines through,
projecting my eternal soul of Godin
because you applaud my antics on stage.
Before I read the novel Clockwork Orange
I read the book he wrote about linguistics,
how juxtaposed words are pregnant with meaning,
like black and cat, two separate concepts,
become the Black Cat of mysterious wisdom.
While watching the old movie, Time Machine,
I laughed to realize the motor car
is that machine which zooms us fast through time,
always forward faster and never backward,
for we can drive faster than we can walk.
Ten thousand years we rode on wooden wagons
pulled by strong horses, our most loyal friends,
but when we first drove cars down dusty roads
the solid world seemed to blur into spirals,
so spinning spiral represents time travel.
Soon everyone will write in poetry,
for those who stumble over angry words
will kill each other off in civil wars
and leave the world cleansed by their flowing blood
for those who sing in groves of apple trees.
The king of words who sang weird spells is dead,
long live the king of words who sings weird spells,
for we will always gather round the fire
and chant the legends of our favorite gods
while we burn statues of our favorite gods.
The Burning Man who stands on desert plain
raises two arms toward the infinite void
with aching hope to fly beyond this globe
so then the visionary who chants spells
runs into the flames and becomes loose atoms.
I ask Virginia Woolf why in her novel
someone must die, and she whispers surprised
that the visionary must always die
as sacrifice in the wild flames of wisdom
so the people of his nation may know.
I pause while singing epic about heroes
and try to hide in quaint suburban life
in desperate hope that no one hears my song
so they will not crucify me at dawn
on the last telephone pole in Montana.
The jester without mouth on Bleecker Street
scatters photos of people without names
till Gabriel descends on burning wings
and takes me back to Bohemia where Idunn
gives me the last real apple in the world.
From those ancient woods where springs bubble clear
Pan and Loki lead me through labyrinth
of mirrors where I see faces of poets
who sang before me on the stage of lies
that glitters gold inside the walls of Asgard.
Now John and Frank are playing chess in Heaven
to determine the fate of every poet
who competes for the rose petal of fame
but Apollo and Phoebus steal the crown
of laurel leaves and hide it in the cave.
The singing fool who strums his cracked guitar
walks the hot sidewalk of a thousand cities,
while cars blast pop songs on loud radios,
and chants secret prophecies as weird riddles
that only deaf birds in dead trees can hear.
The grand illusion of our national greatness
shimmers overhead like a frail soap bubble
as shield to protect our American Way
from nuclear missiles of hostile fear
that scream as thunderbolts in hands of Zeus.
The more I try to imitate the poets
who sang with the fire of insane desire
the more my own voice howls wild hurricane
of suspicious wisdom dug from the cave
of illusions where Plato found the diamond.
When we climb the great pyramid of fame
who will we find reigning like the blind god
but the dark-hatted charlatan who smiles
through the gold-plated mask Apollo wore,
so he appoints me Phoebus Lucifer.
I throw the mask of Apollo far off
the pyramid of ambition to sprout
my own face in the apple on the bough
that hangs heavy over the wall of Heaven
so children can feast while the serpent sleeps.
Once we drain the Earth of oil like vampires
and our cars rust in rain on empty highways
will we return to our most loyal friends,
the horses who ran with us on lush hills
to gather apples on the Tian Shan Mountains.
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