Clown Of Cosmic Chess
© Surazeus
2017 09 03
While buying flowers for his half-dead mother,
on Avenue of Lost Souls where blinking lights
never turn green to allow traffic flow,
he thinks he sees in shadow on the glass
the eminent poet dressed like a clown,
so he drops his keys at door of the church,
and follows the trail of torn tickets past
the garden gate and into the wild woods.
"Are you Adam?" he calls out to the clown,
but the glass elevator closes doors
and the sulking clown wearing plastic crown
of long-dead emperors ascends to stars
where changeless spirits walk the crystal halls
of the vast ever-shifting labyrinth.
"This Heaven, where Ideas of Plato beam
as perfect templates from which all real things
are molded thick by swirls of clashing atoms,
is nothing more than illusion of thought
invented by that first psychologist
who defines how our brains categorize
perceived objects according to their forms."
The sulking clown takes him for a long walk
on swirling clouds that billow like sea waves,
and shows him the sprawling cities of men
that glitter with billions of human souls
shining from each brain like fragile lightbulbs,
so he weeps and his tears become the rain
that drizzle endlessly on cement streets.
"Our souls are like transient light of lightbulbs
emanating from this frail shell of flesh.
When the glass shell, filament wire, and gas
are structured well by design, the frail bulb
will glow at spark of electricity,
but when the shell breaks the light dissipates
and vanishes in the infinite void.
Just so our frail bodies of flesh and blood
operate when all systems are intact,
but when our body and brain are damaged
the soul vanishes to nothing at death."
People trudge over the bridge in gold fog
on the conveyor belt of hopeful dreams
while searching the rain-gray clouds of the sky
for auspices that might reveal the truth,
but he leaves the bridge and walks to the shore
of the brook that sidles past his first home
on its way to a rendezvous at dawn
with the river that no one can cross twice,
and stands on the broken rock of salvation.
"I understand the reason why we die
because we leave shimmer of our true faces
in every mirror where we look for love
although the book that was written by God
before the universe explodes from light
in the Big Bang of orgasmic creation
now reveals the destiny we write
since we compose our death through our life,
each choice transforming the whole universe."
Then he looks back at the mountain of fire
and walks toward the apple tree red with flames
of immortal souls woven from bright rain
and eats the ripe fruit his father forbade
to feel sweet sparkles of passionate hope
surging through the veins of his tingling body,
and he shouts from the windy mountain top.
"This mountain gave birth to me before dawn
for I eat the dirt of its bulging strength
in each apple that shimmers with pure sunlight,
so now I can walk cement city streets
flooded from the hurricane of ambition
and understand the story of survival
written on the face of each human being
who escaped the destruction of wild winds,
but who would listen to these songs I chant
where ancient truths are disguised as folk riddles."
He places three flowers on her grave stone,
but watches her body crumble to dust
and her bones become the mountains and trees
where apple trees bloom and wild horses graze.
He calls her secret name to the vast sky
where he imagines the face of his father
emerges from the billowing white clouds
but the vision dissipates into rain
that falls through the hole in the sheet of time,
and hunger of the world gnawing his heart
urges him to dance on the changing world,
so he dances on the grave of all souls
for every creature who has ever lived
is now the dirt of the Earth where we dance.
"Dance with me in this bright moment in time
for all our memories with friends disappear
like tears in the rain that washes all clean."
He calls out into the darkness that shrouds
ten thousand cities now empty of people
and dances alone with his memories,
the clown of cosmic chess, the king of lies,
the last man to survive nuclear war,
while wind covers all our cities and roads
with mountains of dust from our fire-burned cells.
© Surazeus
2017 09 03
While buying flowers for his half-dead mother,
on Avenue of Lost Souls where blinking lights
never turn green to allow traffic flow,
he thinks he sees in shadow on the glass
the eminent poet dressed like a clown,
so he drops his keys at door of the church,
and follows the trail of torn tickets past
the garden gate and into the wild woods.
"Are you Adam?" he calls out to the clown,
but the glass elevator closes doors
and the sulking clown wearing plastic crown
of long-dead emperors ascends to stars
where changeless spirits walk the crystal halls
of the vast ever-shifting labyrinth.
"This Heaven, where Ideas of Plato beam
as perfect templates from which all real things
are molded thick by swirls of clashing atoms,
is nothing more than illusion of thought
invented by that first psychologist
who defines how our brains categorize
perceived objects according to their forms."
The sulking clown takes him for a long walk
on swirling clouds that billow like sea waves,
and shows him the sprawling cities of men
that glitter with billions of human souls
shining from each brain like fragile lightbulbs,
so he weeps and his tears become the rain
that drizzle endlessly on cement streets.
"Our souls are like transient light of lightbulbs
emanating from this frail shell of flesh.
When the glass shell, filament wire, and gas
are structured well by design, the frail bulb
will glow at spark of electricity,
but when the shell breaks the light dissipates
and vanishes in the infinite void.
Just so our frail bodies of flesh and blood
operate when all systems are intact,
but when our body and brain are damaged
the soul vanishes to nothing at death."
People trudge over the bridge in gold fog
on the conveyor belt of hopeful dreams
while searching the rain-gray clouds of the sky
for auspices that might reveal the truth,
but he leaves the bridge and walks to the shore
of the brook that sidles past his first home
on its way to a rendezvous at dawn
with the river that no one can cross twice,
and stands on the broken rock of salvation.
"I understand the reason why we die
because we leave shimmer of our true faces
in every mirror where we look for love
although the book that was written by God
before the universe explodes from light
in the Big Bang of orgasmic creation
now reveals the destiny we write
since we compose our death through our life,
each choice transforming the whole universe."
Then he looks back at the mountain of fire
and walks toward the apple tree red with flames
of immortal souls woven from bright rain
and eats the ripe fruit his father forbade
to feel sweet sparkles of passionate hope
surging through the veins of his tingling body,
and he shouts from the windy mountain top.
"This mountain gave birth to me before dawn
for I eat the dirt of its bulging strength
in each apple that shimmers with pure sunlight,
so now I can walk cement city streets
flooded from the hurricane of ambition
and understand the story of survival
written on the face of each human being
who escaped the destruction of wild winds,
but who would listen to these songs I chant
where ancient truths are disguised as folk riddles."
He places three flowers on her grave stone,
but watches her body crumble to dust
and her bones become the mountains and trees
where apple trees bloom and wild horses graze.
He calls her secret name to the vast sky
where he imagines the face of his father
emerges from the billowing white clouds
but the vision dissipates into rain
that falls through the hole in the sheet of time,
and hunger of the world gnawing his heart
urges him to dance on the changing world,
so he dances on the grave of all souls
for every creature who has ever lived
is now the dirt of the Earth where we dance.
"Dance with me in this bright moment in time
for all our memories with friends disappear
like tears in the rain that washes all clean."
He calls out into the darkness that shrouds
ten thousand cities now empty of people
and dances alone with his memories,
the clown of cosmic chess, the king of lies,
the last man to survive nuclear war,
while wind covers all our cities and roads
with mountains of dust from our fire-burned cells.
Wow. What a conclusion.
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