Spartan Of Paloosa
© Surazeus
2018 05 02
I am a Spartan hunting in the Waste Land
with a Cougar loping swiftly at my side.
We run with the wind in Arcadian hills
and climb Star Mountain to see the whole world.
When I meet Odysseus and Beowulf
we talk about the ring that Siegfried forged.
We find him on the Island of Lutetia,
chanting riddles in the lost vampire code.
I hitchhike from Seattle to Miami,
singing tales of heroes like troubadours.
Odysseus works as a broker on Wall Street
and Beowulf pitches for a baseball team.
Siegfried finds Liberty in ring of fire
so he kisses Sleeping Beauty at midnight.
I wear magic ring of gold on my head
that gleams with halo of my divine power.
Stopping in the apple grove for a rest,
I hear Cynewulf singing to the children.
Hail Earendel, Angel of the Light,
visiting all men over Middle Earth.
I look up and see him on flashing wings,
flying his Cessna Skyhawk among the clouds.
While walking the shore of Laconian Gulf,
I search for Horus in the Cave of Songs.
Confessing the agony of my soul,
I howl in weird cantos of my dream songs.
I wear antic disposition of Hamlet
though I am but mad Northwest in Seattle.
We weird humans mythologize ourselves,
inventing grand tales from our wanderings.
In the court of William the Troubadour
I learned art of singing beautiful lies.
I run back to my cave when Plato tries
to lock me in the Theater of Shadows.
I strum the old turtle-shell lyre of Hermes
and sing surreal riddles of Nostradamus.
Arriving at the theater of Korinthos,
I watch Thespis imitate the mad king.
I play antics with Yorick for King Lear
who orders us both beheaded at dawn.
I am the lonely Spartan of Paloosa,
singing for the nymph of Wawawai Canyon.
Before journalists, novelists, and poets
singers shared stories and news court to court.
I killed Dianus Virbius in fair fight
so now I am the King of the Golden Bough.
I wear mask of Virbius over my face
to hide the pain of my failure at life.
Journalists report the latest events,
then novelists depict the anti-heroes.
Poets express feelings of aching hearts
to immortalize the heroes of action.
Homer sang about madness of Achilles
and wily cleverness of Odysseus.
Wordsworth and Whitman sang about the self,
so now I sing about seekers for truth.
© Surazeus
2018 05 02
I am a Spartan hunting in the Waste Land
with a Cougar loping swiftly at my side.
We run with the wind in Arcadian hills
and climb Star Mountain to see the whole world.
When I meet Odysseus and Beowulf
we talk about the ring that Siegfried forged.
We find him on the Island of Lutetia,
chanting riddles in the lost vampire code.
I hitchhike from Seattle to Miami,
singing tales of heroes like troubadours.
Odysseus works as a broker on Wall Street
and Beowulf pitches for a baseball team.
Siegfried finds Liberty in ring of fire
so he kisses Sleeping Beauty at midnight.
I wear magic ring of gold on my head
that gleams with halo of my divine power.
Stopping in the apple grove for a rest,
I hear Cynewulf singing to the children.
Hail Earendel, Angel of the Light,
visiting all men over Middle Earth.
I look up and see him on flashing wings,
flying his Cessna Skyhawk among the clouds.
While walking the shore of Laconian Gulf,
I search for Horus in the Cave of Songs.
Confessing the agony of my soul,
I howl in weird cantos of my dream songs.
I wear antic disposition of Hamlet
though I am but mad Northwest in Seattle.
We weird humans mythologize ourselves,
inventing grand tales from our wanderings.
In the court of William the Troubadour
I learned art of singing beautiful lies.
I run back to my cave when Plato tries
to lock me in the Theater of Shadows.
I strum the old turtle-shell lyre of Hermes
and sing surreal riddles of Nostradamus.
Arriving at the theater of Korinthos,
I watch Thespis imitate the mad king.
I play antics with Yorick for King Lear
who orders us both beheaded at dawn.
I am the lonely Spartan of Paloosa,
singing for the nymph of Wawawai Canyon.
Before journalists, novelists, and poets
singers shared stories and news court to court.
I killed Dianus Virbius in fair fight
so now I am the King of the Golden Bough.
I wear mask of Virbius over my face
to hide the pain of my failure at life.
Journalists report the latest events,
then novelists depict the anti-heroes.
Poets express feelings of aching hearts
to immortalize the heroes of action.
Homer sang about madness of Achilles
and wily cleverness of Odysseus.
Wordsworth and Whitman sang about the self,
so now I sing about seekers for truth.
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