Fountain Of The Flying Horse
© Surazeus
2018 11 16
Lightning illuminates my hollow heart
before dawn drinks death oozing from my eyes.
Our blind choreographer through red rain
teaches me how to dance over abyss
who watches me express my naked joy.
Through doorless corridor of broken masks
I dance with spiral of the laughing clock.
Walls reveal secrets no one thinks they lose.
Where is that person I think I might be,
faster falling from waterfall of fear?
Hunger gnaws my gut so I leap beyond
cracked wall of time to run forever far
wind-shuddering meadow to my pure lake.
I am not that person I see in water.
I am that person everywhere I look
who wears ten thousand faces with no names.
Ten thousand poets sea to shining sea
whisper wordless spells in stuttering accents
to prove they should reign as prophet of truth.
Will all our spells together reflect face
of Nobody we all pretend to be?
From ten thousand voices no clear word rings
loud as church bells that crack our window eyes.
My hollow heart brims rain that never falls.
I build great wall of silence from high heaps
of poetry journals no one ever reads.
We scribble formulas to calculate
psychic glamor from idol we all worship.
We clutch random words and roll shouting dice
to gamble our souls for coveted spots
in books that prove we are wise beyond years.
My hollow heart clangs at strike of your pen.
I walk streets in our great city of souls
and record impressions of what I see
to paint visions on masks of nameless faces
whose spirits vanish with our turning world.
Why do you stare at me to question why?
This map shows every venue in its maze
where listeners will adore you for cash
when you read prophecies with twisted tongue.
People in every special group of truth
compete with each other for prize of fame.
To settle disputes, call upon the sleuth
who will investigate joke of my name.
We all sing visions of our dreams in poems
that float in still pond as frogs of desire.
Those famous now will vanish after death
while the mute will be read for centuries.
We sit together in smoky cafes
among dusty books on shelves painted bright,
taking turns to stand on stage of fake fame
and read poems we carve on our bleeding breasts.
The runes of this poem map my endless quest
to express eternal truth in cute riddles.
Who will notice when Juvenal appears
to mock pretensions of important voice?
I will express my voice with clarion tone
to pledge through identity politics
my station of suffering for my lost cause
on endless hierarchy of victimhood.
We are all Buddhas on high pyramid
of authority based on what we lost.
I walk away from pyramid of power
to drink from fountain of the flying horse.
© Surazeus
2018 11 16
Lightning illuminates my hollow heart
before dawn drinks death oozing from my eyes.
Our blind choreographer through red rain
teaches me how to dance over abyss
who watches me express my naked joy.
Through doorless corridor of broken masks
I dance with spiral of the laughing clock.
Walls reveal secrets no one thinks they lose.
Where is that person I think I might be,
faster falling from waterfall of fear?
Hunger gnaws my gut so I leap beyond
cracked wall of time to run forever far
wind-shuddering meadow to my pure lake.
I am not that person I see in water.
I am that person everywhere I look
who wears ten thousand faces with no names.
Ten thousand poets sea to shining sea
whisper wordless spells in stuttering accents
to prove they should reign as prophet of truth.
Will all our spells together reflect face
of Nobody we all pretend to be?
From ten thousand voices no clear word rings
loud as church bells that crack our window eyes.
My hollow heart brims rain that never falls.
I build great wall of silence from high heaps
of poetry journals no one ever reads.
We scribble formulas to calculate
psychic glamor from idol we all worship.
We clutch random words and roll shouting dice
to gamble our souls for coveted spots
in books that prove we are wise beyond years.
My hollow heart clangs at strike of your pen.
I walk streets in our great city of souls
and record impressions of what I see
to paint visions on masks of nameless faces
whose spirits vanish with our turning world.
Why do you stare at me to question why?
This map shows every venue in its maze
where listeners will adore you for cash
when you read prophecies with twisted tongue.
People in every special group of truth
compete with each other for prize of fame.
To settle disputes, call upon the sleuth
who will investigate joke of my name.
We all sing visions of our dreams in poems
that float in still pond as frogs of desire.
Those famous now will vanish after death
while the mute will be read for centuries.
We sit together in smoky cafes
among dusty books on shelves painted bright,
taking turns to stand on stage of fake fame
and read poems we carve on our bleeding breasts.
The runes of this poem map my endless quest
to express eternal truth in cute riddles.
Who will notice when Juvenal appears
to mock pretensions of important voice?
I will express my voice with clarion tone
to pledge through identity politics
my station of suffering for my lost cause
on endless hierarchy of victimhood.
We are all Buddhas on high pyramid
of authority based on what we lost.
I walk away from pyramid of power
to drink from fountain of the flying horse.
No comments:
Post a Comment