Church Of Dead Gods
© Surazeus
2018 12 13
Junk of memory cluttering my hollow head
clatters in dramatic scenes of performance
when stereotypes disguised as holy angels
clown around in sudden flashes of insight
to display folly of human desire
for immortal fame in Church of Dead Gods.
Strange people without names materialize
as glamorous ghosts beaming before my eyes
who say absurd things outside social context
with clear expression of suppressed emotion
that echoes anguish through the silent room
so I snap awake and reply to no one.
That person seems so vivid in my mind,
with special features and peculiar voice,
almost conjured from idol of real soul
somewhere close by whose brain radiates vibes
in psychic signals my brain can translate
to project their image on empty air.
I cannot see them if they are not here,
yet I sense countless souls of aching hope
whose spirit flames flicker in crushing doom
when their brains beam electric signals sharp
as fragments from deconstructed world view
so from sand I forge television tubes.
Our grand narrative of national fate,
where God orders hierarchy of wise men
to organize clear action of society,
cracks apart under intense scrutiny
that reveals structure of authority
favors white men composing song of truth.
Though I am this white man whose face resembles
Cronus, Crow Wizard of the Hidden Land,
I laugh at narrative of national pride
that props artificial dome of America
as land of the free and home of the brave
who must follow manifest destiny.
Since I am Earendil, brightest of angels,
I fly over Middle-Earth, bearing message
of salvation for lost souls of mankind
willing to obey the king without question,
so work to fulfill mission of his heart
and he will reward you a home in Heaven.
Shot down by the swift airplane over France,
Earendil crawls through Underworld of skulls
where he finds dancing skeleton of Icarus
still clinging to the wings his father made,
so he whistles through the Temple of Nature
where ghosts whisper secrets from broken pillars.
When ancient kingdoms are crushed by world wars,
and messiahs are crucified on telephone poles,
escape the false world view where divine God
crafts material things from eternal ideas,
and study atomic structure of nature
that pulses bright with particles of light.
Though I was called to play Prophet of God
I could not find that God who called to me,
so, stripping off broken Icarian wings,
I stand on town streets with guitar to sing
stories about fools lost on quests for truth
that Woman is the sacred Holy Grail.
Sitting on bench by brick library hall,
I gaze at clouds shaped like the human face
and understand how my ancestors saw
immortal God of Light watching from Heaven,
so then I laugh amused when I realize
there are no gods, only us human beings.
While holding hands with precious girl I love,
as we walk among trees late afternoon,
I look to see her skeleton glow gold
from immortal spirit of pulsing atoms
incarnate in flashing soul of her eyes
when my sweet wife looks back at me and smiles.
Searching long for fame in Church of Dead Gods,
I wear face of each legendary god,
and perform their role on the stage of history
so I understand their real motivation
when I am anointed with dragon oil
to reign as Christus Gothus in Elysium.
When you pause at tomb where my skull sings spells
and kneel before marble monolith of truth,
you will read, And in Arcadia I am
Son of Cronus, resurrected by love
of Artemis who took seed of my hope
and made new child for me to live again.
I lounge by Star River in pungent grass
to watch children of my wives splash and play
hide and seek among trees where apples hang,
then, as they gather around sacred tree
of family secrets, I sing ancient tales
with voodoo voice of uncanny expression.
My children become separate from my mind,
and seek their own path through waste land of truth
to create paradise from broken skulls,
so I climb Parnassus to Cave of Shadows
where spirits ask me to sing their lost tales
for immortal fame in Church of Dead Gods.
© Surazeus
2018 12 13
Junk of memory cluttering my hollow head
clatters in dramatic scenes of performance
when stereotypes disguised as holy angels
clown around in sudden flashes of insight
to display folly of human desire
for immortal fame in Church of Dead Gods.
Strange people without names materialize
as glamorous ghosts beaming before my eyes
who say absurd things outside social context
with clear expression of suppressed emotion
that echoes anguish through the silent room
so I snap awake and reply to no one.
That person seems so vivid in my mind,
with special features and peculiar voice,
almost conjured from idol of real soul
somewhere close by whose brain radiates vibes
in psychic signals my brain can translate
to project their image on empty air.
I cannot see them if they are not here,
yet I sense countless souls of aching hope
whose spirit flames flicker in crushing doom
when their brains beam electric signals sharp
as fragments from deconstructed world view
so from sand I forge television tubes.
Our grand narrative of national fate,
where God orders hierarchy of wise men
to organize clear action of society,
cracks apart under intense scrutiny
that reveals structure of authority
favors white men composing song of truth.
Though I am this white man whose face resembles
Cronus, Crow Wizard of the Hidden Land,
I laugh at narrative of national pride
that props artificial dome of America
as land of the free and home of the brave
who must follow manifest destiny.
Since I am Earendil, brightest of angels,
I fly over Middle-Earth, bearing message
of salvation for lost souls of mankind
willing to obey the king without question,
so work to fulfill mission of his heart
and he will reward you a home in Heaven.
Shot down by the swift airplane over France,
Earendil crawls through Underworld of skulls
where he finds dancing skeleton of Icarus
still clinging to the wings his father made,
so he whistles through the Temple of Nature
where ghosts whisper secrets from broken pillars.
When ancient kingdoms are crushed by world wars,
and messiahs are crucified on telephone poles,
escape the false world view where divine God
crafts material things from eternal ideas,
and study atomic structure of nature
that pulses bright with particles of light.
Though I was called to play Prophet of God
I could not find that God who called to me,
so, stripping off broken Icarian wings,
I stand on town streets with guitar to sing
stories about fools lost on quests for truth
that Woman is the sacred Holy Grail.
Sitting on bench by brick library hall,
I gaze at clouds shaped like the human face
and understand how my ancestors saw
immortal God of Light watching from Heaven,
so then I laugh amused when I realize
there are no gods, only us human beings.
While holding hands with precious girl I love,
as we walk among trees late afternoon,
I look to see her skeleton glow gold
from immortal spirit of pulsing atoms
incarnate in flashing soul of her eyes
when my sweet wife looks back at me and smiles.
Searching long for fame in Church of Dead Gods,
I wear face of each legendary god,
and perform their role on the stage of history
so I understand their real motivation
when I am anointed with dragon oil
to reign as Christus Gothus in Elysium.
When you pause at tomb where my skull sings spells
and kneel before marble monolith of truth,
you will read, And in Arcadia I am
Son of Cronus, resurrected by love
of Artemis who took seed of my hope
and made new child for me to live again.
I lounge by Star River in pungent grass
to watch children of my wives splash and play
hide and seek among trees where apples hang,
then, as they gather around sacred tree
of family secrets, I sing ancient tales
with voodoo voice of uncanny expression.
My children become separate from my mind,
and seek their own path through waste land of truth
to create paradise from broken skulls,
so I climb Parnassus to Cave of Shadows
where spirits ask me to sing their lost tales
for immortal fame in Church of Dead Gods.
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