Highway Of Phony Fame

Highway Of Phony Fame
© Surazeus
2017 11 30

Ten thousand poets, lost in mirror maze
of the manufactured self, stand in halls
and prophesy the voice from the abyss
of echoing dreams where Narcissus lost
his true name, so Gabriel carves our names
on the white diamond of weird consciousness,
composed of our ancestral memories.

We stand in the slanting light of sun rays
that beam through broken windows of cathedrals
and trace the silhouettes of our own souls
on the cracked floor of the Museum hall
where wise Athena waits impatiently
for us to write the epic of lost heroes
in masks we wear to express our own feelings.

Will sad Narcissus ever hear the voice
of sweet Ophelia who wanders on shore
of the shining lake where we all first woke
from dream of flashing cells after we crawled
silver river streams to cave of illusions,
since the first broken statue of Apollo
silently requests that I change my life?

I open the hymn book of angsty lyrics
and express the voice of countless dead poets
whose wailing ghosts crowd dark Museum hall
like flies stuck in dusty tangled cobwebs
of my world view after I returned late
from tripping in the waste land of mute words
where Eliot chants spells in the thunderstorm.

To build new house that will accomodate
every wandering troubadour, who sings spells
that might rejuvenate our national pride,
I first must destroy old academy,
then reconstruct Museum of Apollo
whose statue lies broken in river mud
beside the bleeding-heart statue of Jesus.

Ten thousand poets sea to shining sea
walk the golden highway of phony fame
and sing spells of their visions to the crowd
of three hundred million people who sit
in movie theaters to watch space operas
where Luke battles his father for the crown
of laurel leaves Apollo wove for Daphne.