Messianic Sleuth
© Surazeus
2018 03 11
The quiet morning in the southern town,
when blue rain drizzles on mute fields of woe,
blind children who adore the loving clown
gather in church to crucify the crow.
The nations of the world, named for dead gods,
clatter against each other with desire
to expand beyond wall-bound garden pods,
connected by nerves of electric wires.
Where Crispin travels on the nameless road
to find the ruined church of his lost dreams
the whispering ghosts of dead friends sing in code,
revealing truth of love by carefree streams.
Bound tightly by the golden ring of power,
that renders him invisible to eyes
of mind control, enchanting gem and flower,
Crispin twirls gold scepter at empty skies.
Would Alastor, the son of mighty Zeus,
avenge the murder of his princess bride
who was assassinated by the spruce
that grows from her grave where demons abide?
Breaking open church doors just after dawn,
young Crispin, wearing white robe of fake faith,
rides past blind zombies on the spotted fawn
to show them they worship the vampire wraith.
The bald priest in black robe, dripping with blood
of innocent children, howls at his face,
then plants his broken body in the mud
where roots of his brain envelop vast space.
From thick red soil his brain sprouts toward the sun,
expanding wide to shroud the broken land,
till the storm god declares him beloved son
and places scepter of death in his hand.
His heart aches from scission of ideal hope,
believing his soul on Icarian wings
soars from the hot air balloon on long rope
so people gaze at heaven when he sings.
But all this is the daydream of his brain
while he huddles shivering under dead tree
when red soil of his heart is soaked by rain
that cares not whether he is slave or free.
If Crispin was not broken by the scission
between reality and blinding faith
he might have traveled Earth on noble mission
to convert followers for the light wraith.
Standing before villagers in strange lands,
Crispin points up to the sun in the sky
and tries to explain with gesturing hands
how God sees all with huge omniscient eye.
This past one thousand years he walks alone,
followed by the wraith he believes is real,
so when he melts to sludge the timeless stone
he builds cities and machines from pure steel.
We transform the soil of the dreaming Earth
to build time machines we race on highways,
following Orpheus from Cave of Rebirth
to find employment in the market maze.
Driving his car in the quick traffic flow,
Crispin prays to the wraith he never sees,
laughing that fame and wealth is a game show
while food production depends on the bees.
Following the rules, he performs his role
in vast economic hunger machine,
while pondering energy of the black hole
that beams human drama on the silver screen.
The prophets who scribble spells in the dirt
gather in the church of the holy poet,
then clap politely when his eyeballs spurt,
evolving to god from the ammocoete.
Watching from the back of the soul-hushed hall,
Crispin weaves energy with finger spells
to compose satires with blood on the wall
that conjure Melusine from weird dream wells.
The universe is particles in void,
the White Whole flaring bright from the Black Hole,
and we are bacteria on one asteroid
who sing visions flashing the fragile soul.
On his interstellar stallion of truth
Crispin sails through the starlit emptiness,
returning to Earth as messianic sleuth
who sells you the secret of happiness.
© Surazeus
2018 03 11
The quiet morning in the southern town,
when blue rain drizzles on mute fields of woe,
blind children who adore the loving clown
gather in church to crucify the crow.
The nations of the world, named for dead gods,
clatter against each other with desire
to expand beyond wall-bound garden pods,
connected by nerves of electric wires.
Where Crispin travels on the nameless road
to find the ruined church of his lost dreams
the whispering ghosts of dead friends sing in code,
revealing truth of love by carefree streams.
Bound tightly by the golden ring of power,
that renders him invisible to eyes
of mind control, enchanting gem and flower,
Crispin twirls gold scepter at empty skies.
Would Alastor, the son of mighty Zeus,
avenge the murder of his princess bride
who was assassinated by the spruce
that grows from her grave where demons abide?
Breaking open church doors just after dawn,
young Crispin, wearing white robe of fake faith,
rides past blind zombies on the spotted fawn
to show them they worship the vampire wraith.
The bald priest in black robe, dripping with blood
of innocent children, howls at his face,
then plants his broken body in the mud
where roots of his brain envelop vast space.
From thick red soil his brain sprouts toward the sun,
expanding wide to shroud the broken land,
till the storm god declares him beloved son
and places scepter of death in his hand.
His heart aches from scission of ideal hope,
believing his soul on Icarian wings
soars from the hot air balloon on long rope
so people gaze at heaven when he sings.
But all this is the daydream of his brain
while he huddles shivering under dead tree
when red soil of his heart is soaked by rain
that cares not whether he is slave or free.
If Crispin was not broken by the scission
between reality and blinding faith
he might have traveled Earth on noble mission
to convert followers for the light wraith.
Standing before villagers in strange lands,
Crispin points up to the sun in the sky
and tries to explain with gesturing hands
how God sees all with huge omniscient eye.
This past one thousand years he walks alone,
followed by the wraith he believes is real,
so when he melts to sludge the timeless stone
he builds cities and machines from pure steel.
We transform the soil of the dreaming Earth
to build time machines we race on highways,
following Orpheus from Cave of Rebirth
to find employment in the market maze.
Driving his car in the quick traffic flow,
Crispin prays to the wraith he never sees,
laughing that fame and wealth is a game show
while food production depends on the bees.
Following the rules, he performs his role
in vast economic hunger machine,
while pondering energy of the black hole
that beams human drama on the silver screen.
The prophets who scribble spells in the dirt
gather in the church of the holy poet,
then clap politely when his eyeballs spurt,
evolving to god from the ammocoete.
Watching from the back of the soul-hushed hall,
Crispin weaves energy with finger spells
to compose satires with blood on the wall
that conjure Melusine from weird dream wells.
The universe is particles in void,
the White Whole flaring bright from the Black Hole,
and we are bacteria on one asteroid
who sing visions flashing the fragile soul.
On his interstellar stallion of truth
Crispin sails through the starlit emptiness,
returning to Earth as messianic sleuth
who sells you the secret of happiness.
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