Ecstatic Beauty Of Fame © Surazeus 2024 12 11 Fame seems to be the random accident of bright attention focused on some soul who unwittingly accesses weird key which unlocks sympathy of careful hope in jaded hearts of millions who observe reflection of their feelings in brave action. Yet center of our flowing stream of thought collapses and reforms expansive faith from general self-esteem when opposites connect in puzzle of bored merriment random concepts that compose the whole scene based on intuition we share with fate. I am the reason trees try to explain existence without meaning in new shape contrived by ocean waves that swirl in minds of children eager to paint on blank sky portrait of god which imitates the man who smiles when teaching them how to survive. This prayer I offer to indifferent seas frames humble subject of the nameless man who gathers oysters from shallow mudflats to cook sweet stew for lost war refugees who haunt untold stories of novelists exploring pain in words to earn world fame. These ruined buildings of our past we score with bloodless numbers streaked across our face usurp our reason to have faith in man who spends all day painting angel of death with amorphous shadow of arrogance too simple for lost souls to understand. Our glorious centuries collapse in jokes solemn priests recite at our funerals beside buildings that still burn with state greed archived in caves of rancid circumstance till history surprises us with strange fate incumbent on the hero getting born. True color of melancholy highlights ecstatic beauty of fame who decides with vampire-earnest lust who benefits from wealth of psychic energy transposed from hearts of worshippers to mortal gods who forget how to play the part they earned. Apple trees blossom in void of my heart when I join you on the swing in the park with vague amazement of unspoken prayer to relate tragic tale of my downfall from famous vampire to forgotten god as marble statue buried in fake dreams.
Wednesday, December 11, 2024
Ecstatic Beauty Of Fame
Steorberht The Astronaut
Steorberht The Astronaut © Surazeus 2024 12 11 No reason for dollars to fall with snow and shroud city streets in quiet despair yet the girl in the red dress walks alone, holding the balloon with soul of the wolf, and the old mad prophet jumps off the bridge, thinking he can fly high on angel wings. Each dollar bill that flutters to the street imagines itself the last butterfly, yet the woman who floats down from the sky under umbrella of social reform calls out to the girl who hides her wild wolf when the mad prophet sinks into the sea. The butterfly that lands on the car roof thinks everything yellow must be the sun, yet the girl with the camera in her purse hurries past the mad prophet with pearl eyes who asks if she wants to buy angel wings, so she hides in the novel on the bench. The mad prophet with stolen angel wings asks the woman with the gun in her mouth if she would like to dance on bridge of hope, yet the girl who transforms into the wolf explains to the policeman with six arms she found the camera in the burning church. Dollar bills delicate as flakes of ash swirl upward from the writhing flames of fire burning in Notre Dame cathedral spire, yet mad prophet climbs flying buttresses and sits with the gargoyles safe under stars to watch Death searching for the wild wolf girl. Still in love with Steorberht the astronaut, the wolf girl takes pictures of the church fire with the camera she stole from Lucifer, yet the woman who captures nameless ghosts smiles as she tends the mad prophet with love who shows her jewels he found in the sea. Enchanted by glow of her moon-black eyes, Steorberht kisses the wolf girl with sweet love, so she takes him in restored Notre Dame with pillars and walls gleaming white as milk, then sings heart-breaking hymn of honest fear when he places crown of hope on her head. Annoyed Steorberht has stolen the spotlight, mad prophet gives him arcane book of spells, yet the shy astronaut fails to go mad, instead he crowns wolf girl queen of the damned who sing hymns of despair in angel choir when falling dollar bills turn into snow.
Home Of My Ancestors
Home Of My Ancestors © Surazeus 2024 12 11 I see the world the same as no one else so I will scatter words upon the ground and tend them with the tears of lonely souls so they will blossom into trees of fruit that feed our spirits with ethereal dreams till bomb blasts wake us and we stumble lost. Just because my grandfather built this house, and several generations of our clan have lived here one hundred and twenty years, does not mean we should leave our hearts attached to rooms haunted by our sweet memories for our photos have fallen off the walls. Though we have never traveled far from home more than fifty miles any way at least, we can take this opportunity now to see the world beyond bounds of our hopes, exploring lands where no one welcomes us so we keep moving down the signless road. The treasures of our family memories, toys we played with when were little kids, books we read by the fire on winter nights, photos of our together happy times, presents we gave each other out of love, these priceless things mean nothing to us now. The world I see with eyes of bitter tears is different than the pretty world you see, so though we seem to exist on one plane we dwell far away on parallel worlds, divided by our faith in honest men who drive us away and steal all we made. Though people tell me some lost prophet said arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice, and this inspires my heart with hope that I can reacquire home of my ancestors stolen from us, yet I think this arc bends not fast enough. If no judge in any state court of law will rule deed of my home returned to me and thieves imprisoned for their heinous crime, then I will gather army of the lost to fight the tyrant on false judgment throne in revolution to right every wrong. When on the field of battle we charge forth and I am shot by bullet of despair, bury me by that house long burned to ash so I can claim that I have returned home, then eat apples that ripen from this tree which grows now from the sorrow of my heart.
Tuesday, December 10, 2024
Accidents Of Natural Change
Accidents Of Natural Change © Surazeus 2024 12 10 With the walking cane made of dragon bone I will traverse the mountain of the world to stand beside the ancient twisted tree and feel wild clouds burning sorrow from me, but back home by the hearth the cat lies curled as I explore dark lands of dreams alone. When I am on the signless road of hope somewhere far beyond the last city zone I will gaze into the bright pool at me feet and ask ghost of my father why cold sleet stings my heart with knowledge of the star stone that leads me ever higher up the slope. While we are accidents of natural change, evolving by chance from sparkles of light that float with careless passion in the sea, I push against the wind of what is free to test bound limitations of the right that leaves me laughing on the Texas range. Though darkness hovers over me with wings reflecting all that happens on the Earth, I choose to not participate in games men fight for power of celestial names, imagined puzzle of the fractured worth richer than wisdom of lost magic rings. Desire for pleasure hidden in wet soil still motivates my tending fields of flowers, concealing silent rage in songs of birds who steal fruit seeds arranged as haughty words so I decide to build ten thousand towers which imitate code from genetic coil. Time would leave me stranded on the peak of every mountain I have dared to climb since heart-broken witch on the radio waits for me on her palace patio, so I emerge from her pool with sweet lime that proves I am the one she wants to seek. The wood stork at the Homosassa Springs asks me if I remember scriptural truth regarding laws for how the king behaves, so I tour nightclubs in huge ocean caves, performing shows as sly messiah sleuth guarded by the concept of angel wings. Living in forest of ten thousand trees, I find the special mask of fate you wore beneath the giant fractured skull of god, which explains why I joined the justice squad, but now I work at the small-town book store recording wrong lyrics for rhapsodies.
Born For The Spotlight
Born For The Spotlight © Surazeus 2024 12 10 She keeps abandoning herself to sorrow to dance with joyful passion in the rain as she sings, "I was born for the spotlight," then curls into soft terror of tomorrow, swallows random pills to mitigate pain, and floats alone in namelessness of night. She applies pink lipstick to hide her misery, then bursts into the room with skillful rage of confidence in gray suit and red scarf to berate the harried staff for mistakes that could cost the company monthly profits, then struts off when the director shouts, "Cut!" She hides her star-bright eyes behind sunglasses while lurking in the crowded shopping mall, but someone recognizes her star aura, and soon excited fans corner the actress like pack of wild dogs the elegant vixen, so she panics and flees in thin high heels. She peers squinting in glare of the spotlight that shields her fragile soul from adoration, then steps forward with invisible crown and asseverates, "Yet do I fear your nature, much too full of the milk of human kindness," then steps back and tries to make herself air. She glares at his back when he turns away, and gasps with despair, "So you run again, escaping, as you sneer, the harridan, for I always seem to change with each day, another stranger wearing my old face," then turns, knowing he will not come embrace her. She cradles the little girl in her arms, staring shocked at her sweet innocent face smudged with ash and gashed by bomb-blasted brick, then sobs with despair as light of her soul dissipates into haze of helpless love, and keeps weeping after the scene is done. She reads lines of poetry from the book "Deathless Mother" that swirl in harmony with ocean waves curling around her feet, then grins wryly, "It appears I will never find the real me behind the masks I wear, for I have become every role I played." She keeps finding herself in dreams of horror, running through the maze of theater halls, as she sings, "I was born for the spotlight," then stares at her real unself in the mirror, framed posters of her movies on stained walls, and floats with us in namelessness of light.
Function Of My Brain
Function Of My Brain © Surazeus 2024 12 10 Geared contraption of flexible syntax traps fluid concepts in receptive words I advance to express amorphous flash of feelings based on sharp analysis my brain contrives by puzzling random facts in cosmic theory I assign to life. My genes gather atomic energy of flashing atoms to weave neural net of memory nodes in galactic-shaped brain which conjures virtual world of conscious mind aware of itself as immortal god contained in temporary mortal man. This conscious mind unique to my one brain is function fueled by flashing molecules which generates vision in whole world view organizing objects in framed landscape so I am subject that perceives my world of changing bodies within changeless scope. As long as chemicals of flowing change fuel conscious mind with sense of unique self, my body glows with animating soul, asserting right to live with clever strength, but when body functions deteriorate my consciousness to nothing dissipates. My conscious mind-soul vanishes at death because it is no more than glowing field which emanates from function of my brain, and, though I wish my soul could incarnate in other bodies to continue life, I must accept that I will disappear. When people perform memorable deeds in tune with intense flow of energy which cause effects of social solvency, their face implants its features in our minds to stamp its vibrant personality on mindless idol conjured by our brains. Some people create divine characters through consequential actions of desire, so, though their body dies and soul dissolves in that permanent vanishment of death, ghost of their being remains clear in our minds and gains immortal state in tales we share. When our body dies, our conscious mind dies, and our animating soul dissipates, but memory of our being set by our life remains as trope signified by our name, yet when the sun expands to swallow Earth all our myths of gods vanish into dust.
Singing On The Porch
Singing On The Porch © Surazeus 2024 12 10 Only the sun comes to listen at dawn, gleaming at me on porch of the old house, where I like to stand in cool drifting mist and sing about the beauty of this world written in the faces of people I know who never hear me sing about their light. People like to comfort their broken hearts by quoting that light gets in through the cracks, and so divine beauty fills up our world, yet I want to quibble with this nonsense, for all I hear when rain patters the roof is tears of souls who cannot mend themselves. Young woman who is mother to the lost bakes apple pies for wanderers passing by, who sit a while on porch of our old house and listen to me sing about the light, then wave their hands as they walk down the road to become ghosts who haunt long afternoons. Love is no abstraction of the wild bird that flutters wings with arrogant disdain at any who attempts to cage their flight, so I explore the world beneath the grass to hear the song of water in the soil which I sing again alone on the porch. The porch of this old house is my world stage for though I travel all around the world, singing on thousands of stages at night to ghostly faces half lit by brave stars, I remain alone on porch of my house with only birds and turtles hearing me. My mother tells me with bright cheerful voice light of the universe shines through my heart when I sing brightly to the lightless world, but I feel empty as the hungry sea so I eat apple pie on empty porch while birds sing to me about secret love. Wild boy who hides inside the willow tree runs away when I call his secret name, and though I walk all over our small town I never see him anywhere again, so I map the world where he might now be, my honey bee too shy to marry me. Returning to the porch of my old house, after four decades traveling the world, I stand alone in late afternoon light and sing till the young boy appears again, but he grows old when I reach out my hand to hold his cute doll in my trembling heart.
Monday, December 9, 2024
Anthem Of Patriotic Faith
Anthem Of Patriotic Faith © Surazeus 2024 12 09 The patriot and the nationalist both love land where they live with opposite intent of conceptual approach, one to respect social system designed to provide power for every person to fulfill their dreams, the other to exploit the poor for wealth. I want to love the people of my land who share ancestors of my tangled genes as common explorers from distant lands searching for new paradise free from greed of men who exploited our hope for wealth, but they want to drive newcomers away. Because we stole this new fertile land first and built empire to protect paradise, we band together with weapons of faith, but invaders drove us across the sea where we have lived free several centuries till our own leaders exploit us for wealth. I want to sing with heart-swelling respect admiring anthem of patriotic faith as we assert our right to dwell in peace, but fervor to conquer neighboring lands and assimilate their wealth in our game disregards sovereignty of our self-rule. We escaped oppression of monarchy, and have lived with justice and liberty as colleagues in our strong democracy, but rich men contrive to bend federal laws that favor their control of our weak lives with their corrupt oligarchy of greed. As patriot loyal with honest heart to democracy, based on liberty and equal justice for each citizen, I will fight to preserve our way of life against the tyrant and his gang of thieves who mutiny to steal our Ship of State. Old system of oppression wrecks itself on jagged sin of racist arrogance that cracks privilege of the wealthy elite to free marginalized communities with noble mission to construct with faith new system where all are equal in law. With heart inspired by principle of freedom, I perform role of the honest patriot instead of the deceptive nationalist as we unite against dictatorship, pledging allegiance to the flag, not man, when we rebuild our free democracy.
Moral Clock Of Respect
Moral Clock Of Respect © Surazeus 2024 12 09 I keep turning away from Mirror Mind with vain hope this crazy timeline may change if I adjust moral clock of respect to favor reign of Justice wielding truth, but time keeps flipping back off track of fate and leaves us stranded in this horror show. I want to compile in new global book prophecies every poet in black cloak has written with blood on museum walls dating when Minerva leads our crusade to hurl cruel tyrant from the judgment throne, and free women from shackles of male law. Two roads diverging in dark woods of war appear to lead our way to different fates, but I see one result at end of both where vile gangsters imprison Liberty so their false messiah with gun of rage oppresses people of America. From crowded maze of city streets I run to find bright meadow where butterflies dance carefree along shore of the River Styx so I could proclaim with wise confidence new age of fair justice applied to all, but loud clouds of tyranny blank my voice. No matter how I apply calm intent with fragile courage of the hopeful fool to readjust moral clock of respect, so Fortune favors bold sincerity aligning timeline on straight track of truth, hostile men strike to control how we think. Distorting truth of honest sentiment back-twisted by brute repetitive lies, fierce minions of the tyrant falsely frame good intentions of justice warriors to brazenly obstruct programs that aid normal people with support of the law. Though we confirm our souls with self-control, strengthened by liberty within the law, we stumble disconcerted by foul lies hazing objective goal our hearts aspire in plot to misdirect creative force of our attention to build new world view. I keep returning back to Mirror Mind with resilient faith that Justice prevails as we attend to clandestine programs designed to straighten with legal respect correct timeline where Justice reigns with faith to preserve state of our democracy.
Aminah Sings Again
Aminah Sings Again © Surazeus 2024 12 09 When I climb up in the sycamore tree, I wonder as I watch the people cheer if the rebel who overthrew the king will call me to share supper at his house where we will discuss, while eating roast lamb, how to build a social system that is fair. Women freed from prisons by cheering crowds wander lost in strange world of liberty after too many years locked in dark cells, eyes blurred with tears as they gaze at the sky blue with excessive beauty of despair, and breathe deep shocking energy of hope. Frail and hungry from years without good food, Aminah lingers near hard prison wall, afraid to venture from shadow of fear, but stares numb when three vibrant teenage girls embrace her fragile soul with caring arms, and call her mother as they drown in tears. Reaching hand out slowly from sunless cell where her withered heart still trembles in fear, Aminah whispers name of each small child who grew to women since she saw them last, but numb from sorrow in the bitter cage she finds no tears to weep, so she just smiles. Riding with her three daughters in small car, Aminah smiles with strange vision of joy to see sunlight gleam over distant hills, flickering in leaves of wind-happy trees, then flash on Queig River with tears of hope which swells great as thunder inside her heart. Sitting in fruit garden behind their home, dressed in clean thob embroidered with date palms, Aminah drinks water drawn from the well now draped with branches of tall jasmine trees, remembering how she planted their small seeds in soil of her heart when her girls were small. Gasping with delight of forgotten faith, Aminah holds her qanbus with eager hands, tunes and strums each thin string in harmony with ancient passion of her desert heart, then plays sweet heart-enchanting muwashshah while singing lament of her long lost love. When I climb up in the sycamore tree, I rejoice as I watch barn swallows swoop that Aminah sings again with bright joy, then I weep for all the years that she lost while her babies have grown into young women who dance around her now with ecstasy.
Wow Factor Of Poetry
Wow Factor Of Poetry © Surazeus 2024 12 09 If I calculate the Wow Factor times Positivity Array through straight light of hungry thoughts, I find this formula equals Negative Capability consistent with expansive state of faith by which I substantiate truth with lies. The Wow Factor is special quality highlighting unique feature that forms state of beauty essential to being of objects, which activates in our perceptive hearts admiration for its inherent charm exciting respect that this thing exists. The Positivity Array is verse presenting concepts in word sentences with data structure that stores ideal forms as collections of mental elements aligned in contiguous memory nodes framed as personality tropes in gods. Therefore Negative Capability is human ability to embrace uncertain mysteries of the universe with joyful acceptance of the Unknown through capacity to pursue ideals of sublime perfection in natural beauty. As human clothed in white rational robe of our grand celestial civilization, I am tempted with tense hope to prefer philosophical certainty of truth over wild fantastic beauty of fear through blaze of fierce creative energy. Attacked by monsters of hungry despair, embodied by carnivorous lawless men, I search for secure haven of calm peace enclosed with firm walls of philosophy, so I organize facts with measured reason to help me predict all future events. Safe in Penetralium of secure faith, I build strong foundation of my world view based on facts I will verify as true, then beyond walls of knowledge venture forth to investigate vast Mysterium with light of doubt guiding my curious search. Based on Negative Capability, I construct Positivity Array composed of sociological tropes to conjure virtual model of the world that shines with beauty of uncertainty sparkling with Wow Factor of Poetry.
Sunday, December 8, 2024
If The Ocean Wants
If The Ocean Wants © Surazeus 2024 12 08 If the ocean wants to swallow my heart I can read the new nature magazine while I wait for it to process my thoughts so I know how to feel about the death innocent people suffer every day, then I can eat ice cream near the town park. The trees that line the mid-town avenue glitter with bright lights for the holiday when people enjoy subdued festive mood in tandem with exploding concept bombs contained by christmas packages entwined with ribbons tied into elaborate quips. No names are written on the present tags so anyone can choose the box they want which will always contain what they need most though the ocean has swallowed all our hearts when whales regurgitate on patios unwanted prophets of the pleistocene. The most important movie in the world is always showing at the theater still owned by the only Armenian who has ever lived in our fishing town, so everyone goes to see it again then walk away with their wings of desire. I keep finding my glasses on the ground so I put them on my face to perceive shadows of existence behind facade of each material object I must name to classify its form on list of ghosts who always hang around the empty church. Dictators who oppress the citizens who demand their right to read fairy tales will always fall when rebels storm the hall where they lived in luxury of despair while the people had to eat old canned fish that only tastes sapid with ketchup sauce. When I get lost among the tourist stalls lining narrow streets from the sandy beach I ask the eurasian golden oriole, who stares at me with kohl-lined eyes of Ptah, for the way to get to Sesame Street, then we skip together on the railroad tracks. Since the ocean wants to swallow my heart I throw everything I own in her waves, including all the family photographs that we kept organized in picture books after four generations of rebirth till I have stripped away all that I am.
Great Speech Of Sophistry
Great Speech Of Sophistry © Surazeus 2024 12 08 The past is the fiction of memory, the future is the fiction of desire, while the present moment of timelessness is the fiction of sensory perception, all of which I package in this neat spell I sing while strumming lyre of Mercury. I wander nowhere by the moaning sea till Fame appears from waves of ecstasy and offers two items, bidding me choose heart-warming Robe of Sorrow in the truth or head-shining Crown of Fame in the world, so I choose the robe, and keep on alone. Discontent with the mystery of existence, I struggle numb against skeptical winds to strain up towering mountain of faith in vain effort of breathless fantasy for unattainable beauty of truth that blinds my eyes with sunlight of true love. While still alive in fragile frame of flesh I rise from mortal hull of this vast world as singing ghost of cosmic unity to praise connected matrix of our minds which manifest divinity of atoms in these organic bodies with weird brains. As four-legged creature walking upright with stiff procedure of quaint discipline, I am but one small fly of buzzing song on maiden face of Earth whose stormy hand brushes entire cities into the sea with casual indifference of respect. Feeling immortally omniscient as God inside the fragile eggshell of my skull, I glow with confidence of conscious joy that I know secrets of divinity since I embody energy of stars in temporary dream-flame of my brain. All day I gaze out at this teeming world less organized or fair than my vast brain big enough to contain brave multitudes of souls who chase elusive butterfly of knowledge that leads us trapped in the maze of national religious ideologies. Stuck at dead-end of patriotic faith, lost in maze of the American Empire, Balder reaches out his hand from the stage to proclaim some great speech of sophistry, but falters from spasmodic ecstasy, and laughs at postmodern absurdity.
Exiled From Their Heavens
Exiled From Their Heavens © Surazeus 2024 12 08 Every day I eat with you I know why those couples on Etruscan tombs still smile even after we translate ancient texts that list the number of cows in their fields and how many trees of apples they own, so I give you honey to show my love. With bootless cries to deaf clouds in the sky, I wander barefoot on the signless road to catch the thieves who hit me on the head and stole my wagon with barrels of fruit, but gate of Heaven remains closed to me, disgraced by Fortune who mocks my weak state. From sullen Earth of sorrow I still rise with flash of dawnless hope in my cold heart to wait all day outside the crowded court where Justice judges cases till sunset, so I decide instead of cruel revenge I will harvest wheat from my broken heart. Lost in dark forest of terrible wealth, I twirl sling of David to hurl the rock of cruel sincerity, which kills the ghoul whose cavern is filled with jewels and bones, so I gather treasures of their lost hopes and sell them to housewives outside the gate. Grasping the serpent just below its jaws with sharp teeth gleaming with poisonous faith, I dance around clay tablet soaked with blood that details deed of family ownership how my grandfather bought land by the lake, now claimed by third son of the minister. In every prosperous age of every empire greedy men exercise official power to steal fertile land from hard-working farmers, or claim orchards of fruit trees as their own, leaving helpless men exiled from their heavens they had created with their honest hands. Though blind-folded to objectively rule in favor of the honest righteous man, Justice just as often fails to correct cases where the wealthy steal from the poor because our social system judges them more worthy to control the fertile land. When social systems function properly men motivated by Justice and right work as police and lawyers to right wrongs, but when the system favors the rich first we rise in revolution against greed and follow Liberty to fight the power.
Restore World Democracy
Restore World Democracy © Surazeus 2024 12 08 First I lay down gold flash of panel light to base foundation supporting each thought, then build progressive principle of flight with structures blossoming from psychic naught to create the White Whole from Zero Eye existing within framework of the Why. Awake before first glimmer of red dawn, aware I still exist in mortal form, I laugh every king began as the pawn who managed to survive fierce social storm through clever calculation of the truth, transforming from fool to messiah sleuth. Not quite important as the Holy Book recording tales of heroes fooling God, my Book of Jesters in love with the Cook detail their journey as the Justice Squad fighting against thief-kings of tyranny to maintain progress of democracy. Though I am Nobody mapping the world with time-animated atlas of faith, I proclaim coming of the cosmic herald who channels wisdom of the global wraith to enlighten humanity with hope that together we help each other cope. The loss of each good person I adore who stumbles and falls from the road of fate tears at my heart that they are here no more, lost before we attain the city gate, so I carve their names on the temple wall in cascade of souls down the waterfall. No charismatic savior of mankind, I record chronicle of world events to analyze religion Death designed converting saints from bitter malcontents who grasp for power with fake hand of gold as crown of wisdom has been bought and sold. Alone in Garden of Gethsemane, among lush apple trees on summer eve, I hear sweet songs of nightingales that key conceptual code of beauty when we grieve unchanging beauty on the Grecian urn while cities bombed in wars collapse and burn. From nothing of despair and honesty I build virtual world that imitates Earth through grandiose epic of philosophy for Academia to gain second birth from bankers who enslave humanity so we can restore world democracy.
Saturday, December 7, 2024
Tell Them I Met Jesus
Tell Them I Met Jesus © Surazeus 2024 12 07 The white cat darts through shadows of my fears so I follow her leap through open gate draped with eglantine by the country lane where I stop startled at demonic growl which swells louder than a dragon would roar when a horseless carriage zooms past my house. Three horses on the gently sloping hill race with the car along the winding road till that swift time machine puffs into air and vanishes from windless fields of corn, so I ask the raven on the tree stump to explicate that chariot of fire. Leaning against the chestnut tree, I chew on stalk of wheat with curiosity while recalling how that chariot sped faster than the fastest horse I saw run, then I remember in the Holy Book some strange passage my grandfather had read. While robed in black at podium of the truth my grandfather, old revered minister, read passage from book of Ezekiel describing grand Chariot of the Lord with four yellow-jeweled wheels spinning flames around sapphire bowl flashing deity. At clear epiphany that time machine I saw speed faster than the fastest horse is chariot of fire Ezekiel described, I feel electric shock of timeless truth that Jesus God has come to Earth again and drove right past my house in Idaho. When I hear roar from the chariot of fire swell again with sapphire flash of divine truth, I stand in middle of the country road and force Jesus God to stop at my house, then feel my heart pound with reverent awe when a man in a pinstripe suit steps out. Puffing fat cigar as he strides toward me, the man peers at me under black fedora, then presses pistol at my chest and grins, asking me why I obstructed his drive, then his girlfriend in slender yellow dress asks Clyde if I have apples they can eat. After Bonnie and Clyde eat apple pies, and drink hot coffee with sugar and wine, they give me wad of hundred dollar bills then speed away into the golden hills, yet when police ask if I saw the pair I tell them I met Jesus and his Bride.
Lush Hills Of Ireland
Lush Hills Of Ireland © Surazeus 2024 12 07 Lush hills of Ireland shimmer in my dreams though I sailed away three centuries ago to escape the thief on the prancing horse who claimed the land of my fathers as his, and though I live four thousand miles west now I hear them call me to come home again. That misty island in the silver sea where my ancestors lived ten thousand years has never changed with spinning of the Earth though people come and go as swarms of bees so strangers claim lush land that long was mine where soil is made from my ancestral bones. I hear strange music in the silent night, heart-leaping luminance of Uillean pipes, soul-enchanting radiance of Celtic harps, and mind-winding flash of the bright banjo, bound by the bodhran drumming wild sea waves, eerie melodies in my helpless dreams. Wild music of lush flowery fairy glens, which sparkle bright with rainbows after showers, inspires my heart with energy of love to view this world, no matter where I dwell, as radiant paradise where magic sprites inhabit mortal bodies with star souls. Though I left Ireland centuries ago wild spirit of her river-flashing vales has never left the landscape of my heart, so I forever play in fairy land our Emerald Isle has mapped into my soul with wingless gambol in deep sunlit glades. Though I hear Ireland call me to her shores, sad spirit of nostalgia haunting me with visions of carefree joy in flowered glades, I know I cannot ever go backward, for I would wander stuck in Neverland through endless loop of stuttered misery. Instead of backward to that shining isle, sweet paradise of long-lost fantasy, I must move forward on the signless road of rugged fortitude I barely see appear before my feet in mirror mist with each brave step of faith in destiny. Lush hills of Ireland shimmer in my dreams, imbuing land where I live now with glamor of timeless beauty shining from my heart, so this land where I dwell now is my home, land where my children play with carefree hope in fate they map on their own signless road.
White Wolf Clan
White Wolf Clan © Surazeus 2024 12 07 Drinking from punctured bark of Yggdrasil blood of my ancestors in spirit juice, I crawl from bog of dark subconscious hopes to dance with lightning flashing from rain clouds and sing electric beauty of the soul wild with bright inspiration of true love. Dressed in pants and cloak I sewed from wolf fur, with shells and bones from animals I ate, clumps of herbs woven with web of grape vines, and decked with feathers of ravens and swans, I wear wood mask carved to resemble face of my father, the fierce mountain wolf-man. Twirling magic wand of polished oak wood, fixed with sharp diamond gleaming at its tip, I dance wide spirals on high pyramid of stone blocks heaped above the river plain while hundreds of tribes in our White Wolf Clan gather for our midsummer festival. Young shaman warrior racing on the shore shouts challenge to my god authority, so crowd of tribesmen shaking shells of stones part wide path as he leaps up pyramid and swings magic wand hard to crush my skull, but I dodge blow and counter strike his chest. With blows that clang as loud as lightning strikes, in graceful leaps of wolf-aggressive force, which match harsh rumble of the crackling storm fierce as cold wind that whips our long hair wild with thrashing whirl of world-tree Yggdrasil, we battle for who reigns as Odin god. Swift crippling blow that breaks his sturdy leg disqualifies that young eager wolf-boy who writhes in agony as I stand tall, still strong through bold security of wit to reign another cycle as Wolf God, so I howl as the tribe cheers my success. Dawn gleams in eyes of beautiful young maids, decked in white linen gowns and wolf-fur cloaks, and crowned with coronets of flowered vines, as I meet each candidate who desires to reign as wise queen mother of our tribe, willing to bear children of our bound hearts. Entranced with sparkle of wit in clear eyes, I choose tall woman with long flowing hair by reaching out my hand which she accepts, then together we climb hill of the sun to stand beneath sheltering Yggdrasil and host summer feast of our White Wolf Clan.
Dream Of Our World
Dream Of Our World © Surazeus 2024 12 07 Every morning before the crack of dawn I must rise at the sunless hour of five to shower and prepare my mental mask in order to avoid with agile hope my mind getting stuck in the last dream loop designed by my subconscious state of faith. My mind gets stuck in dream loop of respect where I ascend on wingless breath of hope to enter values in network of roads so I calculate sociological force framed to advance psychological growth based on landscape of conceptual esteem. Each fractal structure which unravels space, outwinding admiration through wide bounds, contains specific features painting clear composite aspect of ancestral worth imbued with atmosphere of psychic glow which formulates how I perceive the world. The rugged mountains my forefathers climb, to explore celestial realm of desire supporting humble church of holy thought, retains unchanging meadow of insight where lessons learned from bright epiphanies program cautious approach I take to life. The neatly organized maze of town roads, cluttered with various buildings of resolve, where my foremothers search with tense respect for safe haven to study human history, extends objective signs of shifting paths for plotting pointless possibilities. Forever searching for the somewhere class, where faceless teachers encode secret tales with cryptic puzzles I still hope to solve, I journey forward on the changing road that loops round reasonable return of fact encased in symbols which negate the lie. Each endless cycle of the whirling clock designs new purpose for the same old quest to battle dragon in Illusion Cave and save humanity from hungry hope, then build paradise inside civil walls till our empire collapses in sad war. Yet when I wake from endless looping dream the real world woven by rays of sunlight remains the same landscape with city maze constraining frantic energy of fear in daily rituals through worshipful work we employ to maintain dream of our world.
Friday, December 6, 2024
Fusion Of God Stars
Fusion Of God Stars © Surazeus 2024 12 06 I feel slow flow of years cold in my veins with mind-expanding pleasure of ice pain complete with ardent sentences in vain that bloom as violets on smudged window panes, which catch words of my breath no one else hears, pristine as raindrops with arresting fears. My mind is jumbled as bleak field of stones contriving spells in runes on my arm bone that proves to thought police I am no clone though I construct temple of crystal cones, measured by eccentric spin of brain gears which operate contraption of social fears. Half-buried under howling desert sands, still clutching flag of my forgotten land, I rise at dawn to consider my brand with logo designed by demonic hands, which signifies quality of my cars powered by mental fusion of god stars. Confused by honest wisdom of mind tricks, employed by jester with the magic stick, I investigate my broad bailiwick to build pyramid from honey-baked bricks, then Ishtar crowns me Emperor of Mars through incarnation of wise avatars. Eager for rebirth from electric clocks, I gestate as dragon soul in glass rock to inventory god-souls kept in stock by workers wandering lost in office blocks, while their mothers linger in open doors for weary travelers on misty moors. Basing our self-worth on comments of friends, we study magazines for the hot trend that predicts how much money we will spend in compensation for small dividends, so I keep joining sweet angelic choirs to sing with robins on telephone wires. Persephone cares for workers in mines by flashing dreams of Heaven in each mind so they drink sweet illusions of the vine, then hides gleam of the sun with bamboo blinds, so we journey north with herd of kind bears who take us safe to forest of ripe pears. Mistranslating old American tunes with vibrant empathy of the sad moon, I join millions of ghosts in dream balloon to build quaint temples in moonlit lagoons, then teach brave humans how to face their fears till mutant fools have become palace seers.
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