Mute Comedian
© Surazeus
2017 11 20
Alone on crowded down-town city street
I listen to the darkness whisper secrets
long hidden in the eyes of every person
who walks past me in labyrinth of history.
The law-giver, the prophet, the fire priest,
the tale-singer, the preacher, the comedian,
and the poet all appear from the smoke
on the stage of the flat-top pyramid
and speak the magic spells that conjure visions
of plain folk who perform heroic action.
The ranting jester leaps and somersaults
before the serious king who grips his sword
and both chop off the heads of hypocrites
then place their cracked skulls on the alter stone,
like wise Orpheus whose spell-babbling head
uttered prophecies in Church of Lost Souls
for ten thousand years till his skull transformed
into television where Talking Heads
dispense propaganda as evening news.
In rain before the movie theater
I sing without words to ghosts without ears
stories without heroes where nothing happens,
then breathe their spirits lost in car exhaust
sweeter than the scent of apples in Autumn,
but when Hamlet shows everyone my skull
they understand at last the reason why
our planet is shaped like a giant eyeball.
The characters in epic tales and novels
are mannequins in business suits who stare
from the vacuum of their eyes that reveals
dramatic purpose of the universe
because we invent that purpose when death
waits in the shadows with the smoking gun.
On undulating mountains of the sun
I built grand cathedral of golden beams
to rival temples of Assur and Zeus
where tales of heroes will appear on screen
of flashing televisions on brick walls
while anti-heroes slouch in crowded halls
and pretend to rescue maidens from harm.
Though I am one insignificant robot,
who marches to the beat of the deaf drummer,
I stole wings from Icarus, and leap far
off the mountain of salvation to fly
above the endless winding maze of town
where no one knows they are trapped without eyes.
Notice both the preacher and the comedian
berate the audience of common folk
with tales about unethical behavior,
condemning or mocking all selfish actions,
and thus teach platitudes to modify
actions of their hands so they follow rules,
rebellious fools who protest haughty kings.
Alone I walk in teeming crowd of people
to journey far across the universe
and sing the wordless spells of dying gods
that no one ever hears, for all my words
are pollen in the wind of countless voices.
© Surazeus
2017 11 20
Alone on crowded down-town city street
I listen to the darkness whisper secrets
long hidden in the eyes of every person
who walks past me in labyrinth of history.
The law-giver, the prophet, the fire priest,
the tale-singer, the preacher, the comedian,
and the poet all appear from the smoke
on the stage of the flat-top pyramid
and speak the magic spells that conjure visions
of plain folk who perform heroic action.
The ranting jester leaps and somersaults
before the serious king who grips his sword
and both chop off the heads of hypocrites
then place their cracked skulls on the alter stone,
like wise Orpheus whose spell-babbling head
uttered prophecies in Church of Lost Souls
for ten thousand years till his skull transformed
into television where Talking Heads
dispense propaganda as evening news.
In rain before the movie theater
I sing without words to ghosts without ears
stories without heroes where nothing happens,
then breathe their spirits lost in car exhaust
sweeter than the scent of apples in Autumn,
but when Hamlet shows everyone my skull
they understand at last the reason why
our planet is shaped like a giant eyeball.
The characters in epic tales and novels
are mannequins in business suits who stare
from the vacuum of their eyes that reveals
dramatic purpose of the universe
because we invent that purpose when death
waits in the shadows with the smoking gun.
On undulating mountains of the sun
I built grand cathedral of golden beams
to rival temples of Assur and Zeus
where tales of heroes will appear on screen
of flashing televisions on brick walls
while anti-heroes slouch in crowded halls
and pretend to rescue maidens from harm.
Though I am one insignificant robot,
who marches to the beat of the deaf drummer,
I stole wings from Icarus, and leap far
off the mountain of salvation to fly
above the endless winding maze of town
where no one knows they are trapped without eyes.
Notice both the preacher and the comedian
berate the audience of common folk
with tales about unethical behavior,
condemning or mocking all selfish actions,
and thus teach platitudes to modify
actions of their hands so they follow rules,
rebellious fools who protest haughty kings.
Alone I walk in teeming crowd of people
to journey far across the universe
and sing the wordless spells of dying gods
that no one ever hears, for all my words
are pollen in the wind of countless voices.
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