Code Of Thought Rhyme
© Surazeus
2018 03 18
In the brutal competition of words,
bumping each other on the stage of fame,
blind poets wield pens mightier than swords
to slash conceptual silence of the game.
We twist thoughts unwoven from burning brains
to weave tapestries of language disputes
clacking puzzles of cripples in day rains
since clowns howl while banging on broken lutes.
Disassembled world view of modern truth
glitters scattered on cold cathedral floor
while priests take confession in mirrored booths
and choose who enters academy door.
Last of the Parnassians in the Waste Land
broadcasts fascist propaganda on the radio
to rail against usury of the Black Hand
while stuck on the lost island of Calypso.
Follow me through the labyrinth of myths
where funhouse mirrors reflect Masks of God,
forged in the fires of Hell by the blind smiths
who trick you into voting for the fraud.
The spotted owl in the dead Tree of Life
moon-eyes my soul to transcend aching flesh,
reincarnated by my startled wife
who weaves flashing atoms in spirit mesh.
How can you say we mock the verse you spell
when vision conjured by the words you choose
dissipates in mist from the tragic well
where Melusine taught us misguiding ruse?
The nothing you express in aching song
your friends praise with fake trinkets as awards,
but when the true voice vibrates from your tongue
cacophony is all your poem records.
You sing together in dissonant choir
while shouting social justice at the crowd
to lead angry mobs who attack the liar
and crucify the king who once reigned proud.
Avoiding the pyramid of false fame,
where haughty word priests rule schools of mute bards,
we climb holy mountain of the spell game
to prophesy through changing Tarot cards.
When the thunder in the empty sky speaks
riddles about the wizard with six hands
we sail nowhere in the Argo that leaks
to the island where skulls sing in white sands.
So if you map your way through maze we build
you may yet find the key of secret truth
that might unlock the tower where love was killed
before you get caught by the holy sleuth.
The tower of song with lofty parapet
where we compose weird spells of prophecy
conceals the entrance to the star-swift jet
we fly to mountain of true honesty.
The trick to orchestrate astrology
to change fateful flow of cause and effect
is how we engineer ontology
designed by the world-shaping architect.
By slanting truth in beams of divine light
we conjure world view from puzzle of dreams
assembled by our messiah in midflight
while falling from blasted tower in swift streams.
The flashed hallucination in my eye,
dreamed in the half-sleep of aching desire,
retrospects the ghost who wants to know why
our memories play tricks through the signifier.
The process of social change realigns
people into teams with their own world views
who each develop strange secretive signs
that incite conflict through mistrust of clues.
The candor you express in honest poems
conceals arrogance behind contest hoax
while the blind troubadour of lies who roams
sea to shining sea steals all your lame jokes.
Blind poets wield pens mightier than swords
through brutal contests of mock or be mocked
to battle over word chairs and awards
in tower of prophecy where truth is locked.
Your poems are weeds on the huge mountain slope
that wither in the silent sun of time
when spells are carved in ruined church of hope
to reveal truth in the code of thought rhyme.
© Surazeus
2018 03 18
In the brutal competition of words,
bumping each other on the stage of fame,
blind poets wield pens mightier than swords
to slash conceptual silence of the game.
We twist thoughts unwoven from burning brains
to weave tapestries of language disputes
clacking puzzles of cripples in day rains
since clowns howl while banging on broken lutes.
Disassembled world view of modern truth
glitters scattered on cold cathedral floor
while priests take confession in mirrored booths
and choose who enters academy door.
Last of the Parnassians in the Waste Land
broadcasts fascist propaganda on the radio
to rail against usury of the Black Hand
while stuck on the lost island of Calypso.
Follow me through the labyrinth of myths
where funhouse mirrors reflect Masks of God,
forged in the fires of Hell by the blind smiths
who trick you into voting for the fraud.
The spotted owl in the dead Tree of Life
moon-eyes my soul to transcend aching flesh,
reincarnated by my startled wife
who weaves flashing atoms in spirit mesh.
How can you say we mock the verse you spell
when vision conjured by the words you choose
dissipates in mist from the tragic well
where Melusine taught us misguiding ruse?
The nothing you express in aching song
your friends praise with fake trinkets as awards,
but when the true voice vibrates from your tongue
cacophony is all your poem records.
You sing together in dissonant choir
while shouting social justice at the crowd
to lead angry mobs who attack the liar
and crucify the king who once reigned proud.
Avoiding the pyramid of false fame,
where haughty word priests rule schools of mute bards,
we climb holy mountain of the spell game
to prophesy through changing Tarot cards.
When the thunder in the empty sky speaks
riddles about the wizard with six hands
we sail nowhere in the Argo that leaks
to the island where skulls sing in white sands.
So if you map your way through maze we build
you may yet find the key of secret truth
that might unlock the tower where love was killed
before you get caught by the holy sleuth.
The tower of song with lofty parapet
where we compose weird spells of prophecy
conceals the entrance to the star-swift jet
we fly to mountain of true honesty.
The trick to orchestrate astrology
to change fateful flow of cause and effect
is how we engineer ontology
designed by the world-shaping architect.
By slanting truth in beams of divine light
we conjure world view from puzzle of dreams
assembled by our messiah in midflight
while falling from blasted tower in swift streams.
The flashed hallucination in my eye,
dreamed in the half-sleep of aching desire,
retrospects the ghost who wants to know why
our memories play tricks through the signifier.
The process of social change realigns
people into teams with their own world views
who each develop strange secretive signs
that incite conflict through mistrust of clues.
The candor you express in honest poems
conceals arrogance behind contest hoax
while the blind troubadour of lies who roams
sea to shining sea steals all your lame jokes.
Blind poets wield pens mightier than swords
through brutal contests of mock or be mocked
to battle over word chairs and awards
in tower of prophecy where truth is locked.
Your poems are weeds on the huge mountain slope
that wither in the silent sun of time
when spells are carved in ruined church of hope
to reveal truth in the code of thought rhyme.
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