Friday, March 24, 2017

Rebirth Of Astarte

Rebirth Of Astarte
© Surazeus
2017 03 24

Through the cluttered garden of burning orchids
she dances in the soul-enchanting wind
and weaves sunlight in laughter of lost hope
though death in the soil waits for ache of moonlight.

Slouching back in dark shadows of the shed,
she stares into deep dark gloom of despair,
and shivers at sweet memory of warm sunlight
that wakes aching desire to run in meadows.

His face was golden with the morning sun
and his eyes sparkled blue as the dawn sky
when he swept her off her feet with a kiss
then locked her in the sunless room of fear.

Why did he whisper in my tingling ear
as he laid me down in shadows of hope
that my sister wants to wear the gold crown
our mother placed on my head when she died?

My sister gave him large bag full of coins
to lock me hidden in this shed of death
where I eat purple mushrooms to survive
and dream the world expands from blinking light.

Digging down into the heart of the world,
she claws her way through underworld of death
and pushes out through the door of despair
to dance laughing in purple midnight rain.

Smeared in blood, and clutching sharp spear and stone,
the orchid demon climbs pyramid steps
and stands before her sister on her throne
who shrieks in horror at white of her eyes.

I am Death, she shouts in the crowded court,
and I come to claim the flame of your soul,
for I eat darkness and give birth to light,
so replace the crown of gems on my head.

Trembling at horror of death, she obeys,
placing ring of gold with thirteen white gems
on head of the goddess of life and death
who leaps and twirls, chanting in rays of red light.

We are born from the womb of Mother Earth
who animates our bodies with light beams
so drink the tears of the rain and awake
from darkness to beam rays of loving light.

Stepping before the tall man with gold hair,
she slips the purple orchid in his hand,
then whispers while she kisses his dry lips,
you locked me in the dark tomb of your heart.

She sucks his burning soul into her heart
where he mutates into small wailing child
who suckles milk from her breast as she sings
while she stands high on the pyramid ledge.

I am the goddess of stars, and my soul
glows brighter red than the light of the sun,
and I am the mushroom that sprouts in rain
who dreams the transformation of the world.

You father imprisoned me in his heart
but I dug through the dark heart of the world
and rose from death to rule the Earth and Sky
for I am the Sun who gives life to all.

I am Astarte, Great Mother of Mankind,
the queen who conquered sorrow, fear, and death,
and my tears cause the Earth to sprout with fruit,
so dance with me in dark garden of skulls.

Through the cluttered garden of burning orchids
she dances in the soul-enchanting wind
and weaves sunlight in laughter of lost hope
though death in the soil waits for ache of moonlight.

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Slopes Of Parnassus

Slopes Of Parnassus
© Surazeus
2017 03 23

I hear stark voice cry in the wilderness
that calls out to people who wander lost
claiming they know the way to paradise
but wander circles under empty skies
so they follow dreams flashing in their eyes,
another blind messiah in the rain
that soaks apple seeds on slopes of Parnassus.

I find the prophet in the wilderness
who studies old map of circles and lines
trying to find the way to the halls of heaven
where the mad king feasts in tower of gold
while his people wander lost in the waste land
clutching apple seeds in the hot dry wind
that bewilders ghosts on slopes of Parnassus.

I see wandering lost in the wilderness
ten thousand poets groping in the dark
who scratch split verses with sticks in the sand
to calculate how the brain perceives truth,
each one claiming to be the only one
who deserves the laurel crown of Orpheus
whose skull chatters spells on slopes of Parnassus.

The nameless Sibyl of the wilderness
who once reigned on the pyramid as goddess
gives me star-jewels to replace my eyes
and teaches us how to classify dreams
that generate virtual world of ideas
which helps us navigate vast maze of lies
through shining city on slopes of Parnassus.

The blind poet who rules the wilderness
with pencil and ruler to measure myth
sketches blueprints of archetypal tales
that design characters of tragic plays
who spring to life as Superman Messiah
they claim created the whole universe
in frail toy model on slopes of Parnassus.

I play broken lyre in the wilderness
to reweave the fabric of space and time
in the rhythmic dance of meter and rhyme
which generates the matrix of our brain
reflecting vast clusters of galaxies
so we dance circles around fires in rain
to worship Death Love on slopes of Parnassus.

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Plumbers Of Faith

Plumbers Of Faith
© Surazeus
2017 03 21

Morning light stabs his eyes through the cracked glass
after Robert lies awake all night long,
staring at shadows flickering on the wall.
Without dressing or combing his thick hair,
Robert walks down stairs to the living room
and sits beside his mother on the couch.

Clarice squeezes his hand and dabs at tears.
"I feel the whole vast city all around me,
enormous towers with steel skeletons
covered with tightened skin of brick and glass,
and filled with organs of machines and pipes,
throb and pulse alive like a sensual woman."

Clarice blushes as she looks at her son.
"Your real father whispered this in my ear
when he slid my dress up over my hips
while I was washing dishes at the sink
and filled me with sweet pleasure of his love.
I know you always thought John was your dad,
but your real father is some nameless plumber
who came to fix broken pipes in my basement
in the sultry summer of forty eight.
So that is why you heard John shout last night
because after fourteen years he realized
you are not his son, since you are much larger
and your eyes are blue and your hair is blond,
while he is more intellectual and thin
and his eyes are brown and his hair is black.
John was never much interested in sex,
at least with me, since I think he likes men,
so I had to trick him into my bed
not long after your real father and I
spent three days making love on the plush couch
while John worked late at the accounting firm.
I had to make him think you were his son.
Now that John knows you are not his real son
he told me to kick you out of his house.
I said you are only fourteen years old,
and just began your first year of high school,
but you heard him shout with impotent rage
that he refuses to house, clothe, and feed
the false bastard son of another man.
I tried my best to reason with him, but,
he insists you leave before he comes home.
I took five hundred bucks from his account
so take this money as your patrimony,
and take the motorcycle that he bought you.
Drive out west from New York to California
before he comes home and reclaims the bike."

Clarice gazes sadly into his eyes.
"Son, we had fun while you were growing up,
going to the beach, and learning to read.
I do not regret giving birth to you,
but now you have to go out on your own,
and make your own way in this world of men."

Strumming guitar on the high wooden stage,
Robert gazes out over city park
at thousands of hippies with flowing hair
who attend the large music festival.
"I left home when I was fourteen years old,
because my accountant dad was a square,
and drove my motorcycle way out west
over the vast waste land of hopeful dreams
on a sacred quest for the Holy Grail.
I arrived here in this magical land
where a star-eyed angel with golden hair,
that I met on Haight Street in San Francisco,
taught me how to play the lyre of Apollo.
So we started this psychedelic band,
and we call ourselves the Plumbers of Truth."

The slim blonde girl in flower-painted jeans,
and long golden hair that flows in the wind,
shakes her hips and rattles her tambourine,
then the band begins to play eerie music,
while Robert strums guitar and sings new lyrics.

"We are all a apart of everything whole.
We are all fragments of one divine soul.
Come dance with us around the spring May Pole.
The Cosmic Clown assigns us each our role.
We are all children of the Cosmic Clown,
who guides us to live in moneyless town."

"We are puzzle pieces in one whole frame.
We are all different, yet we are the same.
Come play your true part in the social game.
The Cosmic Clown gives us each a new name.
We are all children of the Cosmic Clown,
who teaches us to swim so we do not drown."

"We are all puppets of the Lord of Death.
We are all spirits of one divine breath.
Come wash your soul clean in communal bath.
The Cosmic Clown chooses love over wrath.
We are all children of the Cosmic Clown,
who shows us how to smile instead of frown."

"We are all angels who spring from Earth stone.
We are together and never alone.
Come chat with Jesus on God Telephone.
The Cosmic Clown gives us our life on loan.
We are all children of the Cosmic Clown,
who welcomes us home in a rainbow gown."

"We all travel one road, looking for home.
We play game of love in the cosmic dome.
Come journey with us on our quest for home.
Wherever we roam our heart is our home.
We are all children of the Cosmic Clown,
who leads us through the waste land to his home."

Robert plays solo guitar melody,
fingers twanging electric strings of light
that weaves elaborate web of bright sound
rippling on waves that lift boats of their hearts
as he leads the wild dancing crowd of hippies
over high rainbow bridge of eerie tones
far out across the galaxy of dreams
to swim into the streaming Milky Way
that vibrates surging waves in sea of souls
and sparkles fireworks in sky of their eyes.

True Love Lives Long

True Love Lives Long
© Surazeus
2017 03 22

Star woman, come twang the strings of my heart
and you will hear in music of my eyes
how much your love is an integral part
of this immortal spirit that we share,
woven into the fabric of our dreams
for true love lives long after we all die.

Star woman, come dance with me on the beach
where fruit trees laugh with our salacious joy
that rose reborn from the anguish of pain
when we lost each other in blinding rain
so we exchange our refreshed hearts to feast
for true love lives long after we all die.

Star woman, grab my hand with visceral trust
whenever you are falling in despair
since my heart aches with anguish of cruel hope
every time you suffer sorrow of loss
so I empty my heart to refill yours
for true love lives long after we all die.

Star woman, follow me on road of life
that leads from waste land to our paradise
since I now understand your aching heart
enough to know where you will want to go
while I sing the true faith I see in you
for true love lives long after we all die.

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

Our Fight Against Tyranny

Our Fight Against Tyranny
© Surazeus
2017 03 21

When the true Tree of the Knowledge of Good
and Evil sprouts from the mush of my brain,
who will replace my heart with clock of wood
so my eyes are stained blue by winter rain
in our noble fight against tyranny?

I leap through woods when the clown with one eye
chases me with an axe and howls my name
because I cannot fly into the sky,
but defeat the tyrant to gain world fame
in our noble fight against tyranny.

Why am I me, conscious of my own soul,
and no other person who ever lived
in all the teeming history of the world,
the only soul that God never deceived
in our noble fight against tyranny?

I duck and dodge the swinging of the stick
when gang of thieves attacks me on the road,
then slip away with eye-deceiving trick
to hide in the pond like the dreamless toad
in our noble fight against tyranny.

How fast is our planet spinning through space,
spiraling around the sun in vast void,
lost forever in this meaningless race
against death when I become an android
in our noble fight against tyranny?

I stand before the cheering crowd at dawn
and twang soul-enchanting string of guitar
of Phoebus who appears on the spotted fawn
then takes me to Heaven past the last star
in our noble fight against tyranny.

Though I was born from the heart of the queen
chanting hymns on the One Eye Pyramid,
who springs to life from our immortal gene
to weave our universe on flashing grid
in our noble fight against tyranny?

I sing hymn of Apollo in grand hall
but stare surprised to see that every face
is no one, but bright mirrors on the wall
invented by my secret memory trace
in our noble fight against tyranny.

Where can I run through labyrinth of doors
to free from chains our Queen of Liberty
when the Angel of Death on misty moors
asks me to help her solve this mystery
in our noble fight against tyranny?

She grips my hand and requests that I join
her holistic detective agency
to discover secret of the Owl Coin,
and who now rules the global regency
in our noble fight against tyranny.

What is the meaning of this hungry life
when we must fight against the angst of death
and hide to avoid political strife
by floating under trees with a deep breath
in our noble fight against tyranny?

I grasp the stick and stone in both my hands
and design good reason to hunt and plant,
then build stone towers in a thousand lands
till I can meditate in Hell and chant
in our noble fight against tyranny.

How do the people across the land feel
now that they realize the clown in a suit
conned them with the trick of a phony deal,
laughing as he hauls in their pilfered loot
in our noble fight against tyranny?

I tend my garden on the river shore,
humming hymns to Venus in glowing sun,
and wait for explosion of the world war
that will be chronicled by those who won
in our noble fight against tyranny.

Monday, March 20, 2017

Conscious God Mind

Conscious God Mind
© Surazeus
2017 03 20

Caught in sparkling mesh of the world wide web
I surf spiraling waves that surge and ebb
with emotions of seven billion souls
to construct cathedrals on social roles.

Transformed by corrosive gambit of words,
I morph into robot with human brain
who slithers through loops of chemical code
to chant spells for weird alchemy of rain.

Carving polished blocks from mountain bone,
I construct on hillside new Oikos home
where my soul can dwell safe inside hard stone
and dream human history inside glass dome.

Floating on crystal lotus starship disk,
I glide around our endless spinning globe
on quest for proverbs to avoid the risk
of facing death without star-woven robe.

While soaring through webs of galactic brains
I wait for great Prime Mover to demand
I obey laws of physics binding planes
of vast multiverse in one grain of sand.

I see waves of effect ripple out wide
from force of my movement through flowing space
so then I realize I cause changing tide
and conscious God Mind hides behind my face.

Sunday, March 19, 2017

Not Strong Enough

Not Strong Enough
© Surazeus
2017 03 19

Peter sits at the wood table alone
and eats cold toast with a slice of foul cheese,
pretending his heart did not turn to stone,
and thinks about the depth of silent seas.

The memory he tries to ignore the most
was the time he shouted a racial slur
at a woman while he leaned on a post
whose dark face dissolved in a drunken blur.

I know I am a good person, and kind,
he assures himself while shivering in wind,
and stares at the blinking stoplight, resigned
that he will never be able to mend.

The hurt he has caused to strangers and friends
devours his heart with the anguish of fear
that he can never hope to make amends,
so he sighs and drinks another stale beer.

Who cares about their lame sadness, he growls,
then yanks on his coat and stalks out the door
to wander dark streets where a vampire prowls,
while her last letter lies torn in the drawer.

Peter slouches on the park bench alone
and listens to wind snarling in the trees,
staring into the abyss with a deep moan,
but dreams about the depth of surging seas.

Raising ancient book of tales to the sky,
Peter laughs, then rips out pages of words
so fake names of long-dead heroes can fly
over hungry towers with restless birds.

Fumbling in his pocket for the lost key
that opens every broken door in town,
Peter stares down in the bottomless sea
at mirror that reveals he is a clown.

I painted pictures that I thought were great,
Peter shouts at the chair without a face,
but becoming famous was not my fate,
so I must approach my death with fake grace.

Every play composed by Edward de Vere
staged caricatures of himself as cad
so he wore the mask of William Shakespeare
to kill his failures and thus cleanse the bad.

Laughing at the irony of despair,
Peter paints new picture of a drunk fool
insulting a woman with mocking glare
who snaps her fingers to make him a ghoul.

Bearing dozens of paintings in his arms,
Peter walks to the park in drizzling rain
where he tosses them in flames, then chants charms
while burning the illusion of his pain.

I wish I could eat the cruel words I said
and express support for her sacred right
to choose how she wants to live life instead
but I would be blinded by loving light.

Throwing empty beer bottle at the wall,
Peter tries to sing Strong Enough by Cher,
but gropes toward horror in the dusty hall
while losing deep thoughts in a useless prayer.

I cannot redeem myself from this hell
since pride prevents me from making a change
so I will construct my own prison cell
and accept as normal what should be strange.

Peter stands on the edge of the real world
to stare in the abyss of timeless truth,
where fools who hurt other people are hurled,
then leaves rotting heart in the empty booth.

I am not strong enough to change my soul
and start treating everyone with respect
because I am not weak, stuck in a hole
I dug, so now my life is wholly wrecked.

Peter leaps from the bridge to fall with snow
and pretends he transforms into a hawk
who soars with angel wings on the rainbow
as he smacks broken on the river rock.

Saturday, March 18, 2017

Weeping Girl

Weeping Girl
© Surazeus
2017 03 18

When the brown moth with lightning on its wing
flutters from the tongue of the blue-eyed girl
her single tear that glitters silver moonlight
sparks orange and yellow flowers to bloom bright
from the desert hills where rain never falls.

Her pale face appears in odd slant of sunlight
wherever I go in country or town,
blue eyes piercing my hard heart with despair
as she calls me to find her in the world
hidden somewhere behind numberless door.

I push through the black door of frozen night
and walk the road of shards from shattered skulls
to find the weeping girl in long black dress
who stands beneath the broken tree of bees
and hands me rotten apple of my heart.

Shriek of her lost voice on cold blasting wind
tears across dark sky as bleak raven cry
and whispers in red fluttering maple leaves
that splatter raindrops on my upturned face
long after her name is erased by snow.

She looks back at me, face white behind glass,
blue eyes expanding to enclose the sky,
as the black car grinds away down dirt road
to vanish in wild flash of sunset sorrow
that gashes ragged wound within my heart.

Candle light glitters through bottle of wine
as I stare in deep vacuum of regret,
wondering why I was so sure that sun-flared hour
sending my daughter to the orphanage
would give her a better life than I could.

I glide my motorcycle down long road
winding through southern California hills
and walk to the pond where young hippies dance,
long hair flowing in the cool ocean breeze,
and gaze at the face of every young girl.

I wonder if the slender blue-eyed girl
who strums guitar on stage and dances wild
while she sings about star-swift Pegasus
who flies her over desert to the house
where Father Bear waits for her to return.

I wake among flowers by the blue pond
alone with bright stars that pierce my numb heart
long after the fairies vanished in moonlight,
and draw her face with long hair in brown sand
then position blueberries for her eyes.

The brown moth with white lightning on its wing
flutters from the tongue of the blue-eyed girl
who stands before me in the silver moonlight
so I lie down on soft breast of the Earth
for new apple tree to sprout from my head.

Friday, March 17, 2017

Salish Sea

Salish Sea
© Surazeus
2017 03 17

Gray sea waves slither over flesh-tan beach
where dun-winged sanderlings plough the slushed sand
who eat scuzzy green slime on bubbling mud
when tide washes back to the Salish Sea.

Trickles of water flash among white stones
smoothed by ten million years of flushing tides
when sun glitters on broad beach where dead trees
rot to frail splinters by the Salish Sea.

Black-capped chickadees land on rotting logs
and flutter striped wings as they feast on bugs,
then dart spirals into blue gusting wind
as beach stones vanish in the Salish Sea.

Tall man with red skin and flowing black hair
guides large canoes full of people in cloaks
of wolf fur to land on white pebble beach,
then gazes back over the Salish Sea.

Draping black-feather cape over his shoulders,
Skuta pulls raven mask over his face,
and scans blue shadows of moss-draped pine woods,
then leads hunt for food by the Salish Sea.

"Winter is coming soon and snow will fall,
so gather nuts that squirrels hide in pines,
and pluck thimbleberries, currants, and sumac,
then we sail home along the Salish Sea."

Skuta watches children run among pines
and fill tight-woven baskets with brown nuts,
singing as they crouch in thick seal-skin robes,
then gather laughing by the Salish Sea.

While men perch on stones by small waterfall
to spread nets that catch green-spotted rock bass,
women circle bushes to pluck ripe berries
where the sun gleams gold by the Salish Sea.

Clambering back in long red cedar canoes,
small Klallam tribe with baskets of fresh food
chant as they sail home to Khanginit vale,
and follow gulls over the Salish Sea.

Shading blue eyes as he walks dun-sand beach,
Albert Sjoberg watches ghosts in canoes
follow their leader in black raven mask
sail lost forever on the Salish Sea.

Thursday, March 16, 2017

Reach For Stars

Reach For Stars
© Surazeus
2017 03 16

Sweet music flows in undulating waves
of special salivating sonic swirls
that spiral through springs of genetic coils
which spring as fountains from deep mountain caves.

I feel electric emulator flash
when eccentric waves of elegant spurts
propel my brain on blasting rocket wings
far out into vast void of spinning eyes.

On mountain peak of Starship Earth I leap
so globe of granular sparks spirals wide
through empty void by calculating love
on linear graph of rotating waves.

I surf crystal waves of ecstatic hope
across neural network of my flashing brain
where every moment of enlightenment
blinks bright to store ancestral tales of lust.

Each moment my ancestors woke from death
I dream alive in plays my minds compose
so I remember how well they survived
through role I play to generate new life.

Each god some world religion venerates
embodies new soul of humanity
preserving in acts of cause and effect
strict formula that teaches making love.

Each person elevated to tribe god
evolved beyond common crowd to transcend
bridge of evolution from chimp to human
when overcoming fear to become wise.

I worship every god of every tribe
for they preserve in drama of their lives
each step of evolution we attain
growing beyond ourselves to become gods.

We are Egg Eyeball in sea of waves
who sings while sprouting tail of wiggling sperm
and thus evolve four limbs on dreaming brain
to crawl from muddy lake and reach for stars.

Our brains generate, from visions our eyes
extract from spiraling waves of light,
small static model of dynamic world
so we can navigate ocean of change.

Oceanus teaches me how to shape
hylic matter of tree wood into ship
which bears us safe over chaotic waves
that leap as flickering flares of blue light.

Each flashing wave over bottomless sea
sings subtle melody of sharp desire
that urges me to express in mind words
clear vision I compose from beams of light.

Each face I see in labyrinth of life
preserves dreams all their ancestors conceive
on journey of evolution we map
from sea in stream down lake up tree on hill.

I roll large stones to form surrounding ring
that I extend as walls of paradise
that I raise as tall tower where I keep watch
and sing spells to guide souls through my mind maze.

From sea womb I crawl river beam of light
and rise from Lake of Dreams to stand on shore
where Mother Tree offers nutritious fruit
so I reach for stars while singing with love.

While our globe spins through infinite space
I sit still on green hill of timeless wind
and carve dream pictures on tablets of stone
preserving memories of human minds.

Countless billions of people who once dreamed
and walked the varied landscapes of this world
have lived and died in slow turning of time,
then vanished to dust though their children live.

Their brains glowed virtual model of this world
so they thought the whole universe of shapes
was itself great virtual model of thought
dreamed in the mind of wise omniscient god.

How laughable we fragile humans are
to imagine this wavering virtual world
that flickers in tangled web of our brains
does more than mirror the vast universe.

When we are small children we watch our parents,
giants striding across the strange new world,
and after they die we relate their tales
our children preserve as myths of their gods.

Grand deities and supernatural gods
worshipped by millions of mortal humans
were mortal humans whose virtual dream worlds
replicate visions in unthinking minds.

Those supernatural gods that people worship
spring as cartoon characters in our minds
from text of stories like flames spring from wood,
so our reading their tales keeps them alive.

While standing in pale yellow sunset rain,
after eating mushrooms Alice gave me,
I dream how I evolved from wiggling sperm
two billion years ago to become human.

I dream I wiggle in blue sea of eyes
toward shimmering red glow of hungry desire
and penetrate soft throbbing heart of hope
where I replicate one thousand new selves.

I dream I follow silver flow of light
up fresh-water stream to crawl crystal stairs
toward gleaming lake on glowing mountain slope
where I dance laughing in cool waterfall.

I dream I crawl on belly with four arms,
blinking in rainbow beams on shining mud,
toward star-glittering pool where I float in bliss,
tending eyes that sprout replicants of me.

I dream I climb huge entangled trees
and leap along network of winding vines
to pluck fruit, then cuddle with one I love,
sucking juice and kissing in white moonlight.

I dream I lose my long limb-gripping tail
and crawl trembling through underbrush toward sea,
then walk upright in swirling ocean waves,
dancing and singing as I reach for stars.

I dream I float singing songs of desire
in surging ocean waves along white beach
and stand on two legs to watch my large tribe
as we copulate then eat wriggling fish.

I dream I run with gang of chanting souls
and crowd in huge cave safe from thunder storm
to dance on dragon teaching us to sing
then roast long serpents that slip from her womb.

I dream we stride quiet on river shore,
gripping stick and stone as we hunt quick cows,
then roast thick steaks on flat-top pyramid
and dance chanting around hot roaring flames.

I dream I rise from Lake of Dreams at dawn
and pluck sweet fruit of life from singing tree
then pull little child from my beating heart
and teach him with song how to reach for stars.

I dream we follow cows across wide plains,
plucking mushrooms that sprout from pungent soil,
then dance around brilliant diamond of eyes
to share visions with breath-words of our mouths.

I dream my mother leads me through bright woods
and names every object with pointing hands,
and names every action with pursing lips,
then I sing vision I dream in her eyes.

I dream we tend fruit trees inside brick walls
where serpent slithers hissing among leaves,
but when we eat sweet fruit of knowing love
cruel father drives us from his paradise.

I dream we stack bricks on high ziggurat
where Ishtar brews sweet honey mushroom wine
then she chants songs revealing birth of Amen
who taught us how write dreams in red mud.

I wake from dream alone in purple mist
on hillside behind old house where I live
in Seattle, staring at the same stars
first mother saw ten millions years ago.

From moment of conception of each soul
in all my mothers and fathers who lived
I rose reborn again in pulsing flesh
and searched for soul to copulate again.

Since first mother eyeball egg of our soul
woke in the primal ocean of our world
we dream reborn again life after life,
all their memories glowing in our brains.

I know all their names singing in my mind,
awake in the long dream-time of my soul,
adding to the glow of my consciousness
as we reach for the stars and sing with joy.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Yellow Sunlight On Trees

Yellow Sunlight On Trees
© Surazeus
2017 03 15

Soft yellow sunlight of late winter gleams
on thin tree limbs outside half-open door.
The swift gushing river of sorrow teems
with aching regrets that haunt me no more.

I listen to traffic on black road hum
before leaves are ready to sprout in spring.
My children all leave before Kingdom Come
though I feel no more beat of angel wing.

The death of my wife strikes me to the core
so all our plans are nothing but lost dreams.
My heart once ached sweet but now it throbs numb
though I attend church to hear angels sing.

I stand on long white road heading nowhere,
feeling how oak trees really do not care.
I look in dark pond and see face of death
yet cry to bright sky to give back my breath.

I stand with her shadow on wild sea shore
and ask her again with rueful smile why.
Why live if I have nothing to hope for,
I ask bird with broken wing trying to fly.

I remember wisdom of ancient lore,
pondering how our truth becomes a lie.
My brain is a sponge that bloomed from a spore
and thinks the globe is its own private eye.

I stare down the snake while stealing his pear
and preserve my pain in new shibboleth.
I find queen of love alone on her chair
so she plays her harp while I take a bath.

Searching far for yellow sunlight on trees,
I walk through stone walls to the end of time.
Watching her gold curls blow in the soft breeze,
I express my love by playing her mime.

Sorrow gouges a hole deep in my heart
that fills with purer pleasure after rain.
Everything I own I haul on my cart,
walking signless road across ruined plain.

Great city of towers once glittered bright
till battle for power shattered its dome.
I wander aimless in soft winter light,
planting apple seeds wherever I roam.

Dictators always fall from blinding pride
but kill too many souls on their way down.
I stop by deep lake where lost souls abide
who dance without laws, ruled by the blind clown.

The young girl with gold curls in a white dress
takes my hand and leads me up the high hill.
She kisses my cheek and makes me confess
I love her in secret against my will.

I hold her in my arms where flowers bloom
and breathe fragrance of faith in her gold hair.
She tells me my death spells not global doom
so when flowers sprout I begin to care.

She takes my soul that gushes from my brain
and molds new angel with my dreaming eyes.
Though I am not real you are not insane
since God mirrors your soul from empty skies.

We lie together in pink and gold flowers
and paint Easter eggs while we kiss and sing.
She smiles down at me from ten thousand towers
yet I walk alone while college bells ring.

When she tells me her mother died last year
I want to hold her but she runs away.
Though empire falls we have nothing to fear
since no god exists who demands we pray.

Where can I go now when millions are dead
if no king anywhere now rules this Earth?
Nameless souls are all shadows in my head
each begging I make love to give them birth.

Soft yellow light pierces my aching soul,
causing new fruit trees to sprout from my brain.
Though I know I am part of Cosmic Whole
I stand alone, looking for her, in rain.

God Who Made This World

God Who Made This World
© Surazeus
2017 03 15

Racing nowhere on highway of lost souls,
I see plastic masks behind window glass
that angels who fell from heaven now wear
so I look upward at the blazing clouds
and search for Jesus on chariot of fire.

I see no messiah on flaming wings
descend from adamantine hall of gems
so while I think about that ancient tale
I see the real historical event
on which the old Christian legend is based.

Christians believe God reigns like a great king
on enormous mountain of jeweled stars
and crowned his son as Prime Mover of Earth
who became Jesus to teach selfless love
and fights Lucifer to save us from death.

When God crowned Jesus his good son as heir
his right-hand minister rebelled in rage
and angels of Heaven split in two camps
to fight spiritual war between good and evil
over who controls minds of mortal souls.

No supernatural conscious god of power
reigns as creator of vast universe
so this myth about war between two gods
of good and evil is based on events
of contest for power all human tribes play.

Two thousand years ago in land of Sin,
ancient king worshipped as god of the moon,
that strong man reigned on flat-top ziggurat,
declaring himself god who made this world,
and crowned his son to reign king after him.

Who was his loyal minister of state,
he appointed to judge cases in court,
that felt he should inherit the gold crown,
and thus rebelled against his mortal god
then conducted brutal war that he lost?

Cast down from heaven off high ziggurat,
rebellious messenger lead exiled gang
across the wilderness of hungry fear
to build new ziggurat on river plain
where he crowned himself god who made this world.

The Christian myth of god who reigns on high,
challenged by his rebellious minister
more qualified to rule than royal son,
describes a thousand empires of our past
that rose and fell in political games.

Instead of kings, followed by first-born sons,
we now elect to rule as president
most clever man who outwits other men
when they campaign across our diverse land,
convincing more to vote for him as god.

Instead of ancient dynasties of kings
who claim descendance from great divine god,
in frequent revolutions overthrown,
we conduct election cycle of choice
to control wild revolution of change.

Though from the population random men,
driven by ambition, try to win votes,
yet only men descended from those kings
who ruled our ancestors centuries ago
succeed in winning game of rulership.

Long ago we replaced proud divine gods
with arrogant kings claiming divine right,
then replaced them in turn with presidents
who must win our hearts with improvement plans
but then we vote them out if they should fail.

No more can men crown themselves divine gods
yet many try to assert strong control
by killing all opponents to their rule
but dictators cannot maintain bold power
without faithful support from common men.

Racing nowhere on highway of lost souls
I see faces of gods as mortal people,
whose belief, in false supernatural god
who made this world, perpetuates fierce game
of mortal men attempting to play god.

Why must we always have one mortal man
ascend to height of power on ziggurat
and play god as if he were wiser than us
when we could all live in communal peace,
equal citizens in garden of fruit?

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Blue Mist Of Guilin

Blue Mist Of Guilin
© Surazeus
2017 03 14

When I walk down the busy city street
I see ten thousand people without names
who seem no more than robots in my eyes,
so I want to understand hopeful dreams
that glow behind placid mask of each face
and feel the spark that motivates their actions
so I see how each individual person
moves on unseen path of their private quest
in that vast complex play of social games
that swirls across the landscape of our world.

I stand on ocean shore in Oregon
and contemplate path my ancestors blazed,
traveling west over ten thousand years,
and wonder why they always walk away
from crowded cities of established power
to journey lonely through the wilderness,
struggling through waste land to find paradise
and build new city on free river shore
till their fertile descendants multiply
and crowd the landscape with contentious drama
so another small group of exiles pack
and journey further west toward glowing sun
that guides their way over mountains and seas
on endless quest for secure paradise
west from plains of Egypt through hills of Greece
across Europe to hills of Oregon.

When humanity spread from land of Khem
we fanned out far across vast continents,
following rivers into rugged hills
till cities flourish in every lush vale
where fruit trees bloom on shores of flowing streams,
but now that we populate every land
there is no wilderness left to explore,
so if I sail from shore of Oregon
and glide east across vast Pacific Ocean,
I would find myself in high hills of China
where red dawn glows first over ancient lands.

I want to go and climb some tall straight peak
that shimmers in the blue mist of Guilin
to sit ten thousand years among white clouds
and sing with birds who play on peach tree limbs
so I can dance with the far-spinning world
where the song of Kwan Yin enchants my soul.

When long ago on the plains of Shinar
Nabu designed new ideograms of thought
to signify words of language we speak,
pictures that resemble objects and actions,
he taught us how to carve lines in wet clay
so visions of our minds are set in stone
that glows with spirit of our consciousness
ten thousand years of world-spiraling time
till tablets crumble into dust in wind.

When Kadmos simplified his ideograms
as letters to indicate sounds we speak
that can be rearranged as many words,
fierce arguments erupted into war
that split Sumerians into rival camps,
till those who wrote with new alphabet won,
so Sin, the Moon God, organized his group,
who chose to write with complex ideograms,
and sailed east in crowded fleet of large ships
to land where sun first rises from the sea
and founded land still named for his son Chin.

While dancing in the blue mist of Guilin
I want to match each ideogram of thought,
designed by Nabu in the Hall of Ishtar,
to tag its equal word from all world tongues,
connecting every concept of our minds
in one world song that vibrates in our hearts
so when we gather on the Tower of Babel,
tall ziggurat that shimmers among trees,
ten thousand languages merge into one.

When I walk down the busy city street
I see eight billion people with new names
whose faces flicker on the small glass screen
of smart phone tablet that glows in my hand,
and see the visions of their thoughts in words
which they express by tapping little keys
in code of ideogram and alphabet
which now unites us all in one world tribe.

I hear Kwan Yin play tunes on silver flute
that enchant my soul as I dance alive
in swirling, timeless, blue mist of Guilin.

Eve My Goddess Muse

Eve My Goddess Muse
© Surazeus
2017 03 14

While sitting in clear sunlight among trees,
where wind rustles leaves and birds chirp sweet songs,
I read long passage in Paradise Lost
that describes beautiful First Mother Eve,
her long flowing hair like vines full of grapes,
her body moving with elegant grace,
and her eyes where all the sparkling stars
of whirling time glow bright with blooming love.

Distracted from the stately lines of verse,
I look up and in large crowd of people see
Eve herself still walking alive on Earth,
gliding in halo of ethereal light
among the common mortals of this world.

I try not to gaze in worshipful awe
as I stare entranced by her radiant eyes,
amazed that such sweet elegance and grace
still exists in this world of ugly hate,
since for ten thousand years strong men in forts
kidnap all beautiful girls in the land
and keep them locked in walls of paradise
where they breed new tribe of royal elite.

Eve catches my eye and smiles with a wink
that dazzles my eyes with glamorous love,
then sits beside me on the wooden bench
and takes my hand to gaze deep in my eyes.

"I am a real woman, and not your muse.
Treat me like a human being with respect,
for I am equally human as you,
instead of staring at me with awed eyes
as if I were some rare immortal goddess
composed of precious light woven from stars.
Although it is true, I have to admit,
that all humans are made of molecules
forged in the furnace of the glowing sun,
but we both share those fundamental atoms,
so you are as divine as you see me.
Approach me like a human made of flesh,
and not some divine goddess made of light.
I am a free agent with my own will
and not some flawless muse without a soul.
I star in the drama of my own life,
refusing to play servant of your needs
in minor role as your helpmate or wife.
Allow me to play equal role as friend
in our shared drama of domestic bliss
where you help me as I help you the same,
both together side by side on long road
of companionship, bound with mutual love
to support each other in game of life.
Treat me like a real woman, not your muse."

Then, kissing my lips with passionate love,
that makes my mind spin wild with radiant truth,
my goddess muse rises on angel wings
and soars away over arching rainbow,
leaving the real Eve still alive on Earth
who ignores my smile as she walks on by.

Although she vanishes into the crowd
the bright image of her elegant soul
glows forever in the sphere of my eyes,
so I rejoice that Eve is still alive
in spirit of every woman on Earth
to brighten our world with her loving eyes.

Marriage Of Like Minds

Marriage Of Like Minds
© Surazeus
2017 03 14

Since rancid tendrils of laughing plants grip
dream-soaked sponge of my pulsing brain with lust
that spurts as sparkles of sunlight from rain
I grasp her hand and whisper in her ear.

"You are the living goddess I adore
and though I worship you as sacred muse
I feel emotions of desire you hide
that pulse with love from your octopus heart."

Pushing me on our bed, she mounts my hips,
and pins my arms outstretched like Christ hung high,
then sucks at pulsing fountain of my heart
to drink wild spirit swirling through my brain.

"You are the living warrior I adore
and though I worship you as divine knight
I feel emotions of desire you hide
that pulse with lust from your octopus heart."

We generate children who spring full-formed
from cracking shells of our exploding minds
who twist our souls in capes they wear to fly
and enclose dreams inside one great eye.

Sweet swelling jolts of electric desire
pulse through this aging shell of flesh I wear,
longing to be pure being who drinks warm light,
so I laugh as my body creaks with age.

Though we will die when spinning wheel of time
twangs thread of fate woven into our brains,
I savor each waking moment we share
to taste pungent flavor in fruit of love.

Relish with me sweet tangy aftertaste
of capricious sensation which extends
wings of our minds so we soar against wind
of solar waves transforming us to light.

Thus we will wiretap pungent ambiance
of seasoned spices sparked by hungry kiss
that strums vibration of pleasure we share
when we slow-dance in marriage of like minds.

This strange mystique of romance we ingest
models latest enthusiastic rage
of laughing liberty to savor love
which ensures new generations spring high.

Monday, March 13, 2017

Adon And Astarte

Adon And Astarte
© Surazeus
2017 03 13

Young Adon strides with eager pace of hope
through lush garden of apple trees and herbs,
touching branches, tendrils, limbs, shoots, and vines
heavy with ripening fruit of sweet juice
that blossom from his hands in tender care.

"For many years, since I was a small boy,
guided by my mother through fertile groves,
taught by her attentive example how
to tender plants so they will flourish well,
I organized all fruit trees, worts, and herbs,
that sprout untended in fierce wilderness,
in square-plotted garden inside stone walls
that surround my paradise of safe peace,
secure against hunger of beasts and men.
My father, who long reigns as garden guard,
now brings from distant garden fertile girl
to live beside my hearth as faithful bride
who will transform my soul to little boy
so he will tend our lush garden of fruit
while I will play the role of garden god
like fathers and sons play eternal roles
for many generations in our land."

Approaching fountain grove through veil of vines,
lithe Adon pauses in cool shadowed bower
and peers through leaves to see beautiful girl
with long black hair, surrounding slender face,
skin red as apples shining in the sun,
perky breasts that swell with ambrosial milk,
and eyes green as pungent grapes on the vine.

Before he steps from shadow of the trees,
eager to meet her and learn her sweet name,
young Adon sees his father in gold crown
throw off his robe and try to grab her hips,
but she jumps away from his hungry thrust.

"I am Astarte, daughter of Inanna,
pure and honest priestess of the love goddess.
You must not try to fertilize my womb
since I reserve its power for my new husband.
When you came to our great temple of girls,
where Inanna trains us in arts of love,
to cook food, sew clothes, and raise children well,
you claimed I would be bride of your son.
You brought me to play his faithful wife
so I will let no man enter my heart
that he alone conceives children I bear."

Adon smiles with love at her loyal words,
and prepares to emerge to claim her love,
but stares shocked when his father grabs her hair,
jerks back her head that causes her to cry,
then forces her to bend down to his will.

Seething from rage that blinds his glaring eyes,
strong Adon reaches for a stick and stone,
to rush forward and protect his new bride,
but trips and stumbles in billowing heat,
then scrambles to his feet with angry shout,
looking up in time to see broken club
his father swings smack him hard on the head.

When Adon wakes and clutches throbbing head,
he finds his bride weeping by the pool,
so he lifts up her face with tender care,
wipes away her tears with caressing fingers.
"Sweet Astarte, my goddess of true love,
I heard you express loyal faith to me,
so I accept your love and give you mine
regardless of what my father has done.
I give you my heart with eternal love
for you gave me yours before you met me."

Gazing deep into her star-sparkling eyes,
he kisses her lips with adoring passion,
so she weeps in warm embrace of his arms,
and they snuggle all night by shining pond,
together under trees heavy with fruit.

Adon and Astarte walk in grove of trees,
tending plants as her belly swells with child,
smiling and laughing as they share life tales,
and when she stumbles from pregnancy weight
he grasps her hips with tender loving care
to help her as she waddles at his side.

Stopping by the pond where flock of swans glide,
Astarte presses both hands on his face.
"While I tried to resist his forceful lust
he overpowered me with aggressive strength.
I tried to save my womb for you alone,
so I cherish your understanding love,
treating me with love though my child is his,
since you could cast me out of paradise
but instead protect me at your warm hearth.
Like my mother I can bear many children,
for I was seventh of fourteen she bore,
so after this foul child of hate is born
lay it on the altar stone before dawn
and, though it wails in helpless ignorance,
sacrifice it with a knife through its heart
and burn it in flames of justice to ash
to punish your father for his vile crime.
He would win if we let his lust child live.
Once you kill this child of his faithless lust
I will bear many children from your seed
and we will raise them well with honest faith."

Adon gazes in her sparkling green eyes.
"I will perform your wish as you command
for you are the goddess of love in flesh,
and you create life with your fertile womb,
so you decide the fate of every child
born from your body by the seed of man."

When silver moon shines through the trees of fruit
Adon kneels before Astarte in woods
who clutches branch and screams in pain from labor,
then pulls the new-born child from her wet womb
which wails in the eagerness of new life.
Adon holds new-born boy in open hands
and hesitates while gazing in its eyes
that resemble his own when he looks down
to see his own face in still shining pond.

Astarte clutches his arm with a frown.
"You must sacrifice it on altar stone
because your father forced his seed in me,
and letting it live rewards his behavior,
so stab it dead and burn it in hot flames
before sentiment clouds your loving eyes."

Leaving Astarte exhausted on grass,
tended by three midwives who wash her clean,
Adon bears new-born boy to altar stone
where he presses it down with his left hand
while wailing boy wriggles to escape grasp,
and raises knife that gleams in silver moonlight.

Leaping from dim shadows with glaring eyes,
his father clutches his wrist tight and shouts.
"Stay your hand before you kill my son.
Though I brought her to play bride of your hearth,
I could not resist the sweet fertile scent
that emanates fragrant as blooming flowers
from the moist meadow of her tender womb.
Punish not innocent child for my crime.
Let this boy live and punish me instead.
Son of my seed, kill not son of my seed,
for this new boy is brother of your flesh.
Sacrifice me in place of this good child."

Adon glares into dark eyes of his father.
"This new-born boy should be son of my seed,
but since you forced yourself into her womb
Astarte commands that I kill this child,
and since as mother she decides the fate
of every child who springs from her womb
I will obey sacred law of her will."

Yanking his hand free from oppressive grip,
Adon thrusts the sharp blade with angry growl
deep into beating heart of his shocked father
who gasps in surprise, clutching at his chest,
and staggers to fall at foot of old tree
where his gushing blood soaks its thirsty roots.

Staring in the eyes of his baby brother,
Adon sighs in anguish at aching loss
of both father and brother for his crime,
then stabs his chest and burns him in hot flames
till ash of his flesh and bones swirls in wind.

Adon and Astarte walk hand in hand
in garden grove where trees hang ripe with fruit.
Astarte kisses both his hands and smiles.
"One cycle of seasons in life and death
has passed since you sacrificed that foul child,
and slew your father when he tried to stop
your just administration of my law.
Now you are god inside these garden walls,
guardian over our secure paradise,
since you rebelled against your father god
and overthrew tyranny of his lust
with bold intention of most noble goal
to establish yourself sovereign of Heaven.
Because you reign secure on throne of Heaven
and my body healed from bearing his child,
the time is ripe in changing of the seasons
for you to insert your seed in my womb
and fertilize my heart with sacred lust
so I may reincarnate your noble soul
and mold your spirit in your reborn son.
Treat him with honest respect of true love,
and oppress him not like your father did you,
and he will never try to overthrow you,
and instead obey you with calm respect.
Treat others how you want them to treat you."

Behind the shining gates of paradise
within secure walls of Heaven at dawn,
Adon and Astarte stand beneath tree
where apples gleam in beams of gold sunlight,
and kiss with sweet pleasure of mutual love
while birds twitter among wind-rustling leaves
then make sweet love with passionate desire.

Street Singer In Miami Beach

Street Singer In Miami Beach
© Surazeus
2017 03 13

I walk long city street of cracked cement
past rusting warehouses and factories
with pack of books and guitar on my back,
heading nowhere on my vain quest for truth.

Another coconut falls from palm tree
to roll on thin meridian of white sand
that stretches straight between two busy roads
where cars glide slow through flashing traffic lights.

Homeless men with long beards in tattered suits
push shopping carts to collect coconuts
near expensive restaurants with shiny glass
and three thin cats dart down broad alley way.

I follow them and sit in shadowed nook
to stuff wood pipe with marijuana buds
that glow in lighter flame when I puff deep
and inhale visions of the timeless world.

Floating on golden cloud of rainbow beams,
I stand on street corner where people stroll
who flow in and out of blue-glass shop doors
so I feel vibration of secret dreams.

I stare at infinite sky of concepts
that closes tight around our spinning world
where all the dramas of human desire
flash across the eyeball of history.

Turning on tape recorder, that hangs low
on leather strip and pulses near my heart,
I strum six guitar strings and hum my soul
to tune my voice in harmony with light.

"I wonder if the bright sun in vast sky
is enormous eye of celestial soul
who dreams us all alive inside her mind
so I will sing the light beams of her name."

I open third eye in my head and smile
at eyes of faces floating like balloons
and see tall businessman in clean grey suit
drop a torn dollar bill in my brown hat.

"What do I do with a torn dollar bill
that imitates hope of obedient will,
transforming into the swift laughing bird
who soars reborn from light beams of her eyes."

Three teenage girls with long gold flowing hair
flash shy flirtatious smiling eyes at me
then giggle as they kiss me on the cheek
and stuff dollars in pockets of my pants.

"Three angels from bright clouds appear to me
to give me apples from the Tree of Life
then dance wild in the moon glow of my heart
till they vanish in light beams of her soul."

Skipping with joy, they vanish in large store,
and I see young boy, bouncing rubber ball,
with his mother walk out onto the beach
where she reads a book while he chases waves.

"First Mother rises tall from Lake of Dreams
and teaches her son to sing magic spells
while he gathers apples from breathing trees
that shimmer in the light beams of her love."

Young girl with long black curls and golden eyes
plays with her ginger cat on wooden bench
while her mother fries ground beef on a stove
and sells fresh tacos from silver food cart.

"While playing my lyre on lush Arcadian hills
I meet star goddess riding on golden lion
who gives me grail of honey apple juice
that wakes my soul with light beams of her heart."

I feel a hundred towers of steel and glass
vibrate around me like organic cells
where cars stream through network of throbbing veins
while the world spins slowly in empty void.

"Our world that spins around the glowing sun
ten billion years or more on spiral waves
regenerates our bodies from her soil
so we awake in light beams of her love."

I watch the swirling crowd of people flow
swift past my still point of the turning world
and wonder at their names and goals in life
and where death will find them on road of time.

"Though I wander forty-two signless roads
searching for answer to meaning of life
wherever I roam my heart is my home,
my way revealed by light beams of her eyes."

Satisfied with the song I improvise,
to create meaning from random events,
I turn the tape recorder off and write
title of my poem, Light Beams of Her Mind.

One person claps and someone else hoorahs,
and three people put dollars in my hat,
while crowds of people keep on walking past,
and I watch sunlight gleaming on sea waves.

After improvising seven more songs,
I pack away tape recorder and guitar
then walk eight blocks to the library hall
where I drink water and read history books.

At sunset I buy tuna sub sandwich
and eat at old picnic table by the sea,
then walk along the boardwalk past hotels
and watch stars twinkle red through swirling clouds.

I leap over the wood rail to white sand
and lie among tall tufts of pale green grass
beneath the boardwalk where it has a roof
to stay dry when rain drips through wood planks.

I listen to footsteps on walk above
and drift half asleep on ocean wave song
while cars glide by on busy night-life street,
and the silver moon shimmers on my face.

Sunday, March 12, 2017

Faceless Queen Of Love

Faceless Queen Of Love
© Surazeus
2017 03 12

I hear no bells ring in the misty night
though I make new mask for each soul who dies
and with old key unlock the door of light
that leads me to her palace in the skies.

I climb the winding spiral stairs of hope
and stand before the faceless queen of love
who dreams my mind inside her microscope
while turning her new horoscope above.

She slams my book and glares into my soul
that weaves my brain in web of galaxies
till I become one with universal whole
which reveals fate within our liberties.

When I look in the mirror of her eyes
I see that I am her and she is me
so I sail my ship under empty skies
on sacred quest across the twisting sea.

She proves to me with calculated spell
that consciousness of god glows in my brain
so when I stare down in the empty well
I sing till its deep void is filled with rain.

I know it seems I dance swift through the maze
of legends kept obscure by secret codes,
but follow numbers that explain each phase
when we hold hands and walk on signless roads.

She whispers in my ear each word to write
but fragrance of her breast enchants my mind
so I explain the secret of her rite
that wakens me to truth though I was blind.

Though empires rise and fall in waves of power
and mortal men are fools when they play god,
I hide inside the shadows of my tower
and seek the way that transforms lead to gold.

My beating heart expands to embrace all
who walk the naked Earth in search for truth
explaining why we need to build new wall
and worship god who hides in temple booth.

I sit in cave of shadows all alone
and chant new spells in language no one knows,
then carve First Mother from white ringing stone
whose role is played by nameless girls in shows.

What secret will you find inside my heart,
she whispers in my eye with lips of rose,
so bring me apples heaped in four-wheeled cart
then brew sweet cider while you sing with crows.

Though no one understands these spells I sing,
I follow my queen in her labyrinth
where her true kiss repairs my broken wing,
my faithful bride of purple hyacinth.

When we first meet on shore of singing stream
we share the weird tales of our separate lives,
then walk together on road of our dream,
recording songs for her temple archives.

What madman sits alone in sunless gloom
and scribbles letters on frail fractured leaves,
recording play of creation to doom
that captures essence of what he perceives.

I hear new bells ring in the crystal night
so I crack old mask for each soul who dies
and with world globe reveal the beams of light
that mold model of the world in our eyes.

When singing angel appears at my side
she offers new-bound book of ancient tales
so I reveal cave where the mad king hides
who measures success on accoutred scales.

The faceless queen of love transforms my soul
from eyeless sperm who swims in sea of dreams
through each stage of evolution control
so almost god I follow gushing streams.

I obfuscate the story of my life,
traveling the land sea to shining sea,
and how on misty isle I met my wife
who builds the temple where we all dance free.

Fools Of Eden

Fools Of Eden
© Surazeus
2017 03 09

When angels stand on castle walls
to watch our nuclear war
while Venus sings in waterfalls
and Janus locks her door,
I climb high walls of paradise
to steal its magic fruit
blooming from the trees of Eden.

Since angels catch me stealing fruit
and make me cull the weeds,
I hear sweet Venus play her flute
while I plant apple seeds,
so I sneak in her room at night
and wake up kissing light,
locked behind the gates of Eden.

I find old king inside dark room
pretending he still rules,
so we escape his silent tomb
to educate his fools,
but they all try to take me down
when he gives me his crown,
to map all the fields of Eden.

I organize fast-running boys
in clever gang of thieves
who raid the villages of toys
and dress in gilded sleeves,
then dance with girls by fountain pools
while I invent new tools,
employed by the fools of Eden.

We build machines that zoom on wheels
so fast across the land
that space is warped by movie reels
and time whirlpools like sand,
and people evolve robot brains
where cities shine in rain,
crushing paradise of Eden.

I find Orpheus by the gate
who wields the sword of flame
then teaches me to play his lyre
to code new social game,
so I leave walls of paradise
to prophesy empire
that may repair the gates of Eden.

Lone Singer

Lone Singer
© Surazeus
2017 03 11

While drifting half asleep I think I hear
enchanting voice of sweet beautiful girl
shimmer on the air that inspires my soul,
so I walk through the crowded city streets
past time portal to find myself before
this present world one hundred years ago.

I follow invisible road of hope
to ancient tree that glows on lonely hill
and there I see grandmother of my grandmother
singing to herself in bright timeless sun.

Eyes gazing at the blue sky shining bright,
she sings wordless melody of desire
that stops the harsh relentless flow of time,
and dreams the Earth suspended in gold beams,
so change slows down, and every pulsing flash
of vibrant life throbs in tune with her heartbeat.

She sings to nobody so none can hear
heart-aching melodies of lust for life,
though vision of her mind beams in halo ring,
but she cares not that anyone might hear,
while echoes of her song vanish in wind,
and sings whether anyone hears or not.

The lone singer leaves her spirit behind,
singing forever under fruitful tree,
and her ancient song still reverberates
across the silent emptiness of time
though she herself crumbled away to dust
long before I was born from her lost song.

Saturday, March 11, 2017

Ship Bound From Hell To Heaven

Ship Bound From Hell To Heaven
© Surazeus
2017 03 11

While steering old wood ship on surging waves
far from the solid foundations of land,
the blind captain mumbles about gray clouds
that hide the glowing eye, that spy of God,
from watching his quest to discover way
for escaping from Hell and finding Heaven.

"Each object that exists down on this world
I know is temporary toy of dust
modeled on eternal original
that God designed while dreaming in deep sleep
and all will vanish when he wakes from death
so escape from Hell so we can find Heaven."

Howling winds from arctic mountains of ice
toss his tiny fragile ship on huge waves
that swirl around the bottomless abyss
which gapes from yawning mouth of hungry god
who swallows all living souls down in death
which escape from Hell but cannot find Heaven.

Looming black through gusting winds of moonlight,
towering rock capped by castle of white bone
bursts from darkness at naked lightning flash,
but then evaporates in swirling mist
imposing limits on infinite light
showing how to escape Hell back to Heaven.

Then old blind captain with two burning eyes
turns and stares into vacuum of my soul
and traces outline of vast galaxy
that sprawls across the limitless expanse
of my brain to birth billions of new worlds
that transform landscape of Hell into Heaven.

"I gave you wings, woven from angel feathers,
to fly beyond the spinning top of Earth
and gather lilies on the moon while Death
reveals the Jewel of Love that pulses red
within the cavern of your hungry heart
so you can transform Hell back into Heaven."

With wild enchanting tune of lucid laughter,
while surfing waves on vertigo of bliss,
I wake with sparkling flash of aching hope
and open my left hand to show two dice
which I toss in the game of life and death,
hoping to win key for both Hell and Heaven.

"One toss of the dice cannot reveal truth
even when cast in timeless circumstance
against the shipwreck of your maudlin life
for only in the abyss of your mind
can you play god and create fertile worlds
by transforming Hell into fertile Heaven."

Breaking through shipwrecked coffin of lies,
that formed the cradle where I woke in dream
and watched gold curtains flowing in sunlight,
I explore pathless forest to dark cave
where young witch with black eyes waits for my song
that describes nature of both Hell and Heaven.

I dip gold grail of my heart in cold fountain
and place it shining bright in her red hands,
so she drinks hot blood gushing from my heart
and draws circle like God Eye on my forehead
so I can see past illusion of truth
that this real world mirrors both Hell and Heaven.

I give young witch, with long hair flowing black
like storm clouds flashing with gold lightning strikes,
two apple seeds that she transforms to girls
who walk beside me to the crumbling tower
and lay one feather each on cold hearth stone
because they know that Hell is also Heaven.

Returning to the beach where blind wolves howl,
I find the ship I built with bleeding hands,
splintered against the rock of true salvation,
still floating deep beneath the swirling waves
that burst from my eyes as lost memories
when I sailed on ship bound from Hell to Heaven.

The young witch scatters kernels of white rice
across the barren island of my heart
that flourishes lush with fruit trees and flowers,
and whispers in the seashell of my ear
the secret spell that wakes me from my trance
when I was reconstructing Hell as Heaven.

"You are my safe island where I sing free
so green within the deep blue swirling sea,
therefore I ask that you construct for me,
from the bones and flesh of your broken heart,
forged by fire of love, your own sacred key
that will open doors to both Hell and Heaven."

The red witch of the sea kisses my eyes
then gives me rose and peach to wake my mind,
so I embark again on broken ship
that currents swirl across the blue abyss
and sail back home to garden of her soul
where she reigns as Queen in my Hell and Heaven.

Blind captain of the broken ship spins wheel
and guides its fragile shell beyond Earth sphere
to white-sand beach where the king of the world
appears before my eyes in lion form
to give me secret jewel full of dreams
so I can design and build Hell and Heaven.

On fraught way of my quest for Holy Grail,
I find no prophet chanting in dark cave,
and no supernatural god on white clouds,
for I find nothing more than my own soul
and woman I love in garden of fruit
so we dwell together in Hell and Heaven.

Surviving wreckage of wild mindless storm,
caused by the random toss of dice from fate,
we sail together, holding hands with hope,
bearing books that relate history of life
in epic of humanity I sing,
and journey on ship bound from Hell to Heaven.

Friday, March 10, 2017

Broken Mask Of God

Broken Mask Of God
© Surazeus
2017 03 10

Long winding road of endless memories
threads shining path through labyrinth of dreams
where everything that ever happens plays
in endless loop of action and reaction
inside the television box of brains
so I wear mask of every god who lived.

As I express strange desires of my heart
in bold performance of new deeds and words
while moving through vast labyrinth of doors
I design new person of my real self,
inventing character of god I am
so tale of my life preserves soul I dream.

Yet I find myself stuck in random scenes
in dramas that no messiah directs
when people wandering blindly on weird ways
assemble on the stage of nowhere lands
and clash in contest of wills to control
who lives and dies in game of life and death.

I stop nowhere along road of my life
and sit beneath tall tree, heavy with apples,
to eat and stare at clouds that swirl and flash
in shapes that resemble people I know,
watching them transform into animals,
so I hide my soul behind mask of god.

When I was young the old man in black robe
told me my body is shell of wet clay
that contains bright flame of immortal soul
which will soar back upward to realm of light
then flow forth downward to impersonate
new-born baby by wearing mask of god.

I watched as he convinced innocent people
that if he burned their bodies in hot flames
then their immortal spirits would escape
prison of flesh in this harsh world of pain
so they could return to sweet realm of light
and dwell in pleasure, wearing mask of god.

When people of my clan vanished in flames,
bodies disintegrated to cold ash,
I knew that wicked priest was telling lies,
convincing them to die in searing fire
so he could steal fertile meadows we owned
and wear mask of god my father once wore.

I tried to reveal his insidious trick
by explaining how spirits of our minds
are based on healthy function of our bodies,
and our souls vanish to nothing at death
so souls disappear when flesh is destroyed,
but they ignored the mask of god I wore.

He lead them one by one to ring of stones
and held hands high toward bright indifferent sun,
proclaiming they would now escape this flesh
and dwell forever with immortal god,
then burned their bodies in hot writhing flames
that melted mask of god to reveal death.

I wander lost in wilderness of lies,
far from the fertile vale of gushing streams
where my ancestors tended apple trees
since our First Mother rose from Lake of Dreams,
searching for new paradise to maintain
while death priest wears my broken mask of god.

Thursday, March 9, 2017

Slavery And Liberty

Slavery And Liberty
© Surazeus
2017 03 09

Descended from Anne Bradstreet, Puritan Poet,
I am related to noble John Brown
who fought to abolish vile slavery
by leading revolution to break chains
and free all people to live in liberty.

Descended from Henry Lee, tobacco farmer,
I am related to General Robert E. Lee
who fought to protect his home state Virginia
that operated based on slavery,
but surrendered his sword of civil war
and accepted liberty of all people.

Related to both social legacies
I embody in white male privilege
opposing world views that will always clash
in cosmic conflict between light and dark
which defines history of United States
since twin brothers Remus and Romulus
fought over who would reign as Jupiter.

I hereby stand in marble cupola
that shines on rooftop of Capitol Hill,
erected on the ranch my fathers owned,
bearing Scales of Justice like Artemis,
and Sword of Liberty like Minerva,
to present myself Watcher in the Tower
who tends the Flame in our National Hearth
as the first Angelus of Anglonesia.

Now taking off the gold mask of Apollo,
after striding across the theater stage,
I bow humble before applauding audience
and smile amused as I sign autographs,
then go with actors to the Pegasus
to eat burgers with root beer late at night
and talk about thriving theater scene,
then head out home to sleep as King of Nothing.

Castles Made Of Air

Castles Made Of Air
© Surazeus
2017 03 09

My mind will often dream in reverie
lives of my ancestors ten thousand years,
remembering how they struggled to survive
by dramatizing their actions and speeches
through intense scenes of social interaction
so I experience emotions and thoughts
that urged them to innovate how they lived.

One common theme that glows in many scenes
plays how they constructed enclosing walls
of wood or stone around fresh flowing fountain
to create secure paradise of hope
in safe haven where they could cultivate
fruit trees and nutritious herbs for their food
and protect thriving families from harm.

Each scenario always starts the same,
the eager gatherer waking at dawn
then wandering far from town across the land,
collecting material in leather bags
from verdant meadows beside flowing streams
with sweet blissful love for the natural world
where he dances and sings joy of his heart.

But then some vicious monster with sharp teeth,
fierce wolf, bold bear, or gang of greedy men,
will burst from dark shadows of jolting fear,
threatening to devour his fragile soul,
so he will grab the nearest stick and stone
to fight with brutal acts of striking force
till he defeats the monster of despair.

Heart pounding at horror of painful death,
he will return to his vulnerable village
and start devising ways to protect lives
by placing boys in ring with fighting poles
to form protective pale for cooking hearth,
then planting poles in more permanent ring
and soon replacing poles with blocks of stone,
with watchers in towers and guards at the gate.

When walls of paradise loom high and strong,
strict rules of behavior will be devised
as policies designed to enforce peace
with crowned king directing angel police,
and thus strong castles sprout across the land.

Ten thousand years around our spinning globe
major points of power appear on the land,
sprouting first at the mouths of major rivers
where they control traffic to inner lands
so River Gods begin the long process
of uniting villages into vast empires
controlled by mortal gods on ziggurats
who demand people obey them or die,
then holy books of religions are written
to deify Founding Father as God
endowed with Divine Right to rule the world.

Your god is nothing more than character
embodying spirit of the ruling man
who lives nowhere but inside our minds
yet symbolizes our will to survive
encoded in the myth of his success
at building walls of stone around the garden
where our children play free, eat fruit, and sing,
and I dream their lives while our world spins lost
in silent infinity of the Void,
safe within our grand castles made of air.

Beatles Baby

Beatles Baby
© Surazeus
2017 03 09

When I meet people and tell them my name,
and tale of my wanderings across the land,
born in misty Oregon, raised in Texas,
attended high school and college near Seattle,
hitchhiked far east to Denver and Miami,
designed websites and attended grad school
in frozen Michigan, lived on the coast
in North Carolina, then wrote my epic
in the sultry hills of southwestern Georgia,
I like to say I am a Beatles Baby.

Though my mother listened to Elvis Presley,
and my father sang in a Christian choir,
I was a fetus when the Beatles toured
across America sea to singing sea,
appearing from the sky of roiling storm
like four angels bringing harmonious light.

After Kennedy was shot in November
while riding in a limousine in Dallas,
my young parents were married in December
in a small red-brick church by the green sea,
then my soul was conceived in January
just as the Beatles arrived in America.

The Beatles sang on Ed Sullivan Show
in February when I was still a embryo,
then girls screamed in ecstatic joy of lust
as the Fab Four toured across this great land,
while I floated in the warm sea of eyes,
dreaming the evolution of mankind.

Right after the Beatles sang their last concert
on a sultry soul-surging night in August
in a giant stadium in San Francisco
I was born in the misty town of Portland
on a gloomy fall midnight in September
in the shadow of huge sleeping volcano
in ancient pine forests of Oregon,
proclaimed as the Fool in his Nowhere Land.

I wonder if this explains the intense urge
that electrifies my mind with desire
to stand on the mountain in lightning rain
and chant long vision of evolving Earth
that spirals through the vast galactic web
of my brain cells sparkling with howling souls
who soar on eagle wings around the world
then transform into singing apple trees.

We silly humans with brains full of dreams
are always inventing myths of ourselves.

Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Knocking At My Door

Knocking At My Door
© Surazeus
2017 03 08

If moonlight through the curtain slats glows dim,
and small forgotten raindrops on the glass
collect the twinkle of my eye I lost,
I will not let my dreams drip in the phone
as disconnected spheres of flashing hope,
for she would drink my fresh tears with delight,
and tell me she is drinking wine I gave,
when plangent Death comes knocking at my door.

These halcyon hours of hapless discontent
I shelve with novels about forlorn heroes
no one bothered to compose while they smoked,
so I pretend to wear the doleful mask
that some great movie star once left behind
after they ate at last cafe in town,
yet no one applauds my most tragic scene,
when plangent Death comes knocking at my door.

My serendipitous success was patched
by coarse but regular games to serrate
the endless days when I must ramify
exterminated projects to rebuild
this naked soul of mine exposed to wind
that blusters over jagged beach of skulls
where our wrecked homes are never pulverized,
when plangent Death comes knocking at my door.

Through splintered door I try not to escape
our rugged relationship I repaired
more often than I care to quantify
so when I calculate frangible spirit
of hope that sprawls on dead leaves of brown grass
I know I never can align the rule
that recuses my role as neophyte,
when plangent Death comes knocking at my door.

She sneered at my nefarious plan to play
the wicked king whose flagrant disregard
for deep-rooted conventions one should know
based on the prototype god we admire,
assigned as archetype when I was born,
but I refuse to manifest my soul
as specimen encased in paradigms,
when plangent Death comes knocking at my door.

This tendency to drift on curving wind
beyond the rancid bayou of my heart
blinds broken signs that should identify
the secret bourn when I found my true soul
ensconced within the cavern where lust hums
clandestine spells about the furtive freak
who scratches my secret name on hard stone,
when plangent Death comes knocking at my door.

Though patent blueprints of gardens I dream
are fractured by the lacerating plot
of mad conspiracies contrived by fools,
confounded by the protocol of truth,
I will proceed to strategize my trick
with obvious subterfuge that marks the scheme
which terminates my goal to rule the world,
when plangent Death comes knocking at my door.

Since I must now design the recipe
of psychic mantras for objective goal
of fabricating truth from ancient seeds,
before my foes can subsidize deep roots
that could endow foundations of desire,
I now will broadcast words from serpent tongue
so I inseminate the fertile vale,
when plangent Death comes knocking at my door.

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

Hall Of My Dreams

Hall Of My Dreams
© Surazeus
2017 03 07

While sitting beside red brick wall at noon,
savoring the sweet eternal glow of light
threading atoms through fabric of my soul,
my mind projects strange vision of this hall,
where I work every day composing maps,
as it might appear in ten thousand years.

I see this brand new hall composed of bricks
shrouded by thick forest and draped in vines,
and spacious rooms now well-lit by glass bulbs
dark and tangled thick with huge spider webs
while all its doors long vanished in star light.

When some intrepid explorer, swinging blade
to hack away the hungry roots of nature,
stumbles on its ruins of red brick walls,
and steps slow through its halls into large rooms
full of tables where plastic boxes stand
mute and blank, will they recognize machines
that once glowed with tales in pictures and words
when they linked our minds in vast world wide web?

What weird monstrous angel, that will evolve
from my descendants, crouches in dim shadows
of this room where I generate virtual worlds,
and sing wordless melodies my brain dreams?

Nothing but dust crumbled from my dead brain
will remain, when even the wind and rain
shatters red bricks of fundamental truth
to goops of mud swirling in river flow,
nothing but my songs carved across my skull.

But who will hold my old skull in their hand,
gaze in bottomless vacuum of my eyes
to dream the history of our universe,
and wonder why I called myself some name
that lost its true meaning centuries ago?

As long as they not worship me as god,
and chant the words of spells that I compose
as holy scripture that describes the state
of life, the universe, and everything,
that will be illusions because no light
glows on the fluid substance of whole shapes,
then I will linger in the words I sing
and haunt the shimmering web of all their brains
while I code new myths in hall of my dreams.

I want to strip and swim in the cool stream
while savoring glow of my ancestral dream.

Monday, March 6, 2017

Too Old To Be A Famous Poet

Too Old To Be A Famous Poet
© Surazeus
2017 03 06

Though I write metered rhyming verse
about the ocean and birds,
and keep a loaded gun in my purse
with a book of secret words,
I am too old to be a Famous Poet.
Nobody reads my lame poems and I know it.

Though I stand in the smoky bar
and shout in the silver mic
on becoming One with the Star,
then race home on my old bike,
I am too old to be a Famous Poet.
Everybody loves my wit and I know it.

Though I hitchhike across the land
to play guitar on the street,
and scribble all my poems by hand
on your oil-smeared order sheet,
I am too old to be a Famous Poet.
I cannot sing like Dylan and I know it.

Though I publish modernist poems
in collage of modern life
about migrant worker who roams
with starving children and wife,
I am too old to be a Famous Poet.
I remixed Ashbery lines and I know it.

Sunday, March 5, 2017

Narcissus At Lake Of Eyes

Narcissus At Lake Of Eyes
© Surazeus
2017 03 05

When I leave well-lighted home after dark
and walk under stars half hid behind clouds
the voices and words that clutter my mind
streamed from television and internet
vanish to silence in infinite gloom.

I walk narrow path winding between pines
to stand on shore and gaze into black lake
that reflects infinite abyss of nothing,
and then, illuminated by street lamp,
my own face appears in mirror of night.

How like Narcissus I am God who looks
at mindless nature and sees my own soul
reflected back from shimmering molecules
so since I feel so conscious and awake
I wonder if vast universe is too.

I wonder if God is some Narcissist
who designed my mind that dreams virtual world
so he can see his own infinite soul
when he looks at me through my tiny eyes
that shimmer from bouncing beams of sunlight.

While staring at my own eyes in dark pool
I laugh and speak aloud so my small voice
rings out intrusive on the silent night,
yet we humans are God trying to wake up
from the tangled molecules of our brains.

When we look out at the vast universe
we see our own selves reflected back clear
in complex calculations of desire,
so we are Narcissistic soul of God
although no conscious God exists at all.

God is the reflection of our own souls
that we perceive when we open our eyes
 and gaze at the swirling mirror of time
so we invent the God we want to see
based on dark secrets of our aching hearts.

Through evening breeze the vibrant strings
of some wood harp ring from inside my heart,
so I walk through the shining door of time
and find Godina under ancient oak
strumming the harp of my heart with sweet love.

I see reflected in her glittering eyes
the conscious soul of God outside my mind
awake with conscious hope inside her mind
and as I gaze entranced at her bright face
I vanish in the weird spell of her words.

When she awoke from agony of hope,
and wove new vision in her dreaming mind
to beam bright virtual world on chanted words,
Godina became God of conscious love
and tuned this mind reborn inside my brain.

Cinemism and Collagism

Cinemism and Collagism

Collagism is a more accurate term to describe the poetic principle behind Modernism, Postmodernism, and Metamodernism.

In 2002, I devised the term Cinemism to describe my personal poetic principle that shapes how I compose poems by employing the basic techniques of cinema for the narrative art of telling stories of human action in verse which hearkens back to the classical style of the great epic poets of the past, such as Homer, Ovid, Vyasa, Ferdowsi, Dante, Chaucer, Spenser, Milton, and many others.

I have devoted my entire poetic career to creating a personal paradigm which explains the complexity of human psychology within the context of the natural physics of the universe, and designing the poetics of Cinemism in contrast to Collagism in order to compose a coherent linear narrative that organizes the chaotic landscapes of human experience into my epic poem, the Hermead, which presents the lives and ideas of philosophers as the universal experience of human kind in our search for wisdom of truth based on facts we can verify through logical analysis of perception.

The following extensive quote from an essay written around 1972 by David Antin, discussing linear narratives from chaotic landscapes of human experience, presents the poetic principle of Collagism that have dominated poetry the past century. While I have written many Collagist poems, I have been developing Cinemism as a better method for composing narrative poetry.

Radical Cohereny: Selected Essays
on Art and Literature, 1966 to 2005
Pages 168-170

Modernism and Postmodernism:
Approaching the Present in Modern American Poetry
David Antin

There are two verbal habits or strategies that Auden has always employed and that these poets regard as fundamental categories of the modern mind: appeals to "history" and to psychoanalysis. Talking about Eliot in a 1955 essay Schwartz refers to a "sense of existence which no human being, and certainly no poet, can escape, at this moment in history, or at any moment in the future which is likely soon to succeed the present." According to Schwartz two aspects of this "view of existence which is natural to a modern human being" are "the development of the historical sense and the awareness of experience which originate in psychoanalysis." Though the awareness of experience originating in psychoanalysis may seem somewhat fin de siecle or Wagnerian to us now, what Schwartz means by this is fairly clear. What he means by the "historical sense" is not so clear. One would normally suppose a historical sense to consist of some view of the relations between sequentially related epochs. Marxism supplies a kind of eschatological view of history and Auden frequently refers to this, along with several other views which are by no means consistent with it. Still, if you look for it, you can find several historical sense along with several ahistorical senses in Auden's poetry. But a "historical sense" is the one thing you cannot find in poems like The Waste Land or the Cantos, which we may assume Schwartz would have considered the principal modern works. The Waste Land and the Cantos are based on the principle of collage, the dramatic juxtaposition of disparate materials without commitment to explicit syntactical relations between elements. A historical sense and psychoanalysis are structurally equivalent to the degree that they are in direct conflict with the collage principle. They are both strategies for combating the apparently chaotic collage landscapes of human experience and turning them into linear narratives with a clearly articulated plot. It is not easy to see what advantage such systems offer a poet unless he was convinced of their truth, which would, I suppose, mean either that it would be relevant to some purpose to use these systems as conceptual armatures upon which to mount the diverse and colorful individual facts of sociopolitical and personal human experience, or else that these systems conformed more perfectly than any other with a vaster system of representations to which the poet was committed for some valued reason. If this is what Schwartz intended we would be confronted with a truly "classical" poetry which would devote itself to the particularization of general truths. While we might imagine such a poetry, we have never really been confronted with it. The poets of Schwartz's generation never presented anything like the kind of detailed particularity of human or political experience in their poems that would have been a necessary condition for such a poetry of metonymy. Even if the poems had fulfilled this necessary condition, such a poetry would require either a commonly accepted theory of history or psychoanalysis or at least a precise knowledge of the details of such a theory and the additional knowledge that such a theory was being referred to, as well as a set of rules for referring the concrete particularities of experience to particular aspects of the theory. Such a situation only obtains for a few people in narrowly circumscribed areas of what we generally call science; that is to say, it obtains only for those who share what Thomas Kuhn in his book The Structure of Scientific Revolutions calls a paradigm. Even in a rather trivially reduced form of this situation such as The Waste Land, where Eliot has himself advised us that the poem is built on the plan of a particular mythical narrative, there is no agreement on the way the particular parts of the poem relate to the myth. There is so little agreement on this that most critics who are involved with such concerns cannot decide whether the poem does or doesn't include the regeneration that is intrinsic to the myth.

For better or worse "modern" poetry in English has been committed to a principle of collage from the outset, and when "history" or psychoanalysis are invoked they are merely well labeled boxes from which a poet may select ready-made contrasts. ... In the main, poets have not resorted to a sense of history or to psychoanalysis because of the successes of these viewpoints in reducing human experience to a logical order, but because the domains upon which they are normally exercised are filled with arbitrary and colorful bits of human experience, which are nevertheless sufficiently framed to yield a relatively tame sort of disorder.