Blind Eyes Of God © Surazeus 2024 11 20 When forest of my sorrow overwhelms street of public responsibility with cries of wild creatures searching for love, I will go when the green traffic light gleams stranger than eye of the dragon that sings beneath dark ocean waves of memories. I cannot find wet street of my first vision, yet street lamps lead me to abandoned church where I catch raindrops from blind eyes of God that ring with sound of silence in the gloom till I convert saddest tune of my heart to solemn hymn I sing before I die. Though I traversed the waste land long ago to map the signless roads of everywhere that lead to castle on Cliffs of Despair, I carry sand of ghost-contriving words which once formed skull and lyre of Orpheus in leather bag with Ring of the Star Eye. When I left my home and my family I journeyed east to flee the Promised Land where my ancestors came in wagon trains to find the secret of the Holy Grail which shines in hands of the woman I love so we raise children in safe zone of our home. This story seems to be about my trip through the endless maze of America built on the ruins of Britain and Rome, but I see history of humanity swirl in tides of ambition and despair as empires rise and fall in waves of change. Since I am now too far from Helicon, and Parnassus is way beyond my reach, I climb Takoma, Mountain of my Muse, to see how far from sea to shining sea Empire of Anglonesia in my heart crowns northern hemisphere of spinning Earth. When rogue gangsters in heart of darkness build private armies of warriors from lost tribes, kings who rule systems of state violence send assassins to slay the tyrant bull in religious ritual of sacrifice that props power through apocalypse now. At darkest hour the Hidden Dragon stirs beneath dark ocean waves of memories, and, when he grasps fruit of the Golden Bough, will slay the antichrist to cleanse our hearts to dwell in United Nations of Earth with Justice and Liberty for all.
Wednesday, November 20, 2024
Blind Eyes Of God
Tuesday, November 19, 2024
His Skull Still Sings
His Skull Still Sings © Surazeus 2024 11 19 When children dancing in the field of skulls finish cutting grand poems of ancient bards into puzzling fragments of lost world views, they go back to where Orpheus began singing fairy tales about honest men who die to protect their families from harm. After huge rose window of shining glass, that once depicted life of our World Savior, is shattered by whistling bombs of world war, children picking fragments of lost world view assemble new puzzle of global myth where Superman guards Earth from aliens. Entangled plots of faceless characters, who wander signless roads of nevermore in and out of houses in maze of streets, confuse young children with false intellect, so they play workers of factories and farms who fight hungry zombies of laziness. Sad antihero of the modern tale, investigating crimes of gangster kings, seeks not endless fame Achilles desired, but works to measure with physical laws evidence that exposes the plain truth, ensuring justice serves the innocent. Higher levels of abstract consciousness produce analysis of hidden souls, encoded well in metaphors of love, to weave weird meaning in tissue of signs revealed by contextual frame of desire that transforms language into acts of art. Where I stand in the middle of nowhere, on planet Earth that spins in starless void, becomes still center of my universe for all its countless galaxies of worlds since I wear mask of the Many-Faced God to be every person who ever lives. Each conscious being who walks the spinning Earth tells story of their quest to find the truth in voice that joins all others in world choir which merges all their special characters in global soul they worship as new God whose tale contains all their experiences. Trapped in context collapse of our world myth, we sell books of our tales in market stalls about loss of social totality to break idols of all great characters so we can build one idol for all gods which we eat as cookies each holiday. When I look up at the moon as I sing I see reflection of my mortal face as mirror of gigantic shadow soul that helps me see truth of the present age because light of the future shining clear reveals true nature of the human mind. Failing to retrieve his true love from death, Orpheus sings his heart-breaking grief, but, angry at truth that death is the end, his audience tears him into countless bards who sing in every city round the Earth for his skull still sings in Temple of Truth.
Beauty Tames My Heart
Beauty Tames My Heart © Surazeus 2024 11 19 Like when naked wild-haired Odysseus first sees eerie beauty of Nausicaa, or when savage Enkidu in dark woods meets graceful Shamhat in red priestess gown, I gaze entranced by power of your soul when you welcome me to your island home. Like Anticlea, granddaughter of Hermes, formed Odysseus from spirit of the wolf, and Aruru, who tends garden of herbs, molded Enkidu from thick river mud, my mother assembled puzzle of souls from farmers, shipwrights, and kings to make me. Like unruly Neptunus thrashing waves as I race galloping fury of my horse I battle Cetus and Leviathan to protect my sweet bride Salacia who guards fresh-water springs of mountain vales for humans to drink as they tend fruit trees. Like ferocious Cronus with sharp spear overthrows his father to rule the world, I rise from Tartarian caves of insight to battle tyrants now oppressing Earth and free good people with democracy so they will not overthrow me in turn. Like barbarian Odin with horn of joy storms Gates of Heaven with hordes of free men, I oppose new oligarchy of wealth enslaving millions in factories of hope, till sons of Jesus preaching humble faith exploit their fear with the afterlife lie. Like unlettered Lucifer harrows Hell and builds United Nations with our hearts, I help Justice give equal rights to all, and aid Liberty to free minds from fear, so Ishtar binds all religions in one, reigning in our hearts wherever we live. Like selfless Jesus offers sacrifice of all he loves to help men mend their ways so we create and not destroy the world, I honor Mermaid Mary Magdalene as Hero trained by Hera to guard bride of my hearth so she lives safe in my heart. Like every untamed man in history, born from aggressive passion to survive indifferent nature I mistake as gods hostile to peaceful progress of my life, I roar with truth against forces of fate till Beauty tames my heart with gentle kiss.
Democracy Dreaming
Democracy Dreaming © Surazeus 2024 11 19 All the truth is gone and freedom is crushed. I fight for justice though our rights are trashed. I will always vote to save Liberty. Democracy dreaming on such a fascist day. I stop into a court to hear the case. I look up our rights in the Book of Laws. I argue for rights of equality. Democracy dreaming on such a fascist day. All our facts are twisted into cruel lies. I oppose the tyrant and his fierce spies. We are imprisoned by bold tyranny. Democracy dreaming on such a fascist day. I raise Flag of Freedom to lead the way. Her bright Torch of Truth signals our new day. We will always fight for Democracy. Democracy dreaming on such a fascist day.
Puzzle Of Chemical Pain
Puzzle Of Chemical Pain © Surazeus 2024 11 19 It is most unnecessary for you to know all the suffering I must endure each day I wake from restless dreams of hope and perform rituals that keep me alive another dozen years or so till I crumble into the nothingness of time. I will never tell you the pain I feel buzzing through fragile shell of my faint soul in jittery jangles of nauseous disgust, unexplainable throbbings of despair that dispel grand visions of helpful play in favor of surviving day by day. This torso of Apollo, lithe with grace, I once inhabited in fertile youth, deteriorates through excess of lusty angst to fractured puzzle of chemical pain since I lost my Ozymandian head somewhere in futile battle against death. Yet wrenching storm of anguish that bombards fragile ecosystem of flashing nerves in hostile blitz of dizzy-dazzling pain, subsides from wild tsunami surge of tides to calm glow of imperceptible ache that leaves me floating with strain of relief. I cannot let you see my suffering that twists my care-free passion into fear, so I base frail chaotic tremble firm with stiff exertion of tense self-control to maintain balance on tightrope of grace bound whole with civil respect for strong faith. While trembling on tightrope of earnest faith high over abyss of eternity, Zarathustra declares he has achieved strength of the Superman who overcomes weakness of fear in suffering he endures, for what kills me not makes me strong as God. After crossing Bridge of Forgetfulness, I leave bleak wasteland of blind faith in God to search the Promised Land of free-grown fruit for Holy Grail which generates new life, so I teach my son how to serve the People instead of exploiting them for his gain. Since I have resurrected in this life, ascending pyramid of social power to rule the People with merciful love, I guard my wife whose heart regenerates new body for immortal soul of genes in child who incarnates me as I die.
Monday, November 18, 2024
Ocean Heart Of The Earth
Ocean Heart Of The Earth © Surazeus 2024 11 18 The sly boy with wings no one can see taps the egg-shaped stone on the desert dune till it cracks open with flash of blue light to reveal the ocean heart of the Earth, so he bears it carefully in both hands to find his snake-eyed mother in the tree. Slithering in branches of the long-dead tree, Melusine gazes at heart of the Earth that shimmers dark blue in hands of her son who asks her how its light creates our soul, so she throws his geode in the waste land where jagged jewels burst in gushing streams. Dancing in desert waste land of despair, Poseidon chants primeval water spell so waves of water gushing from geode swirl ever-expanding cycles of waves that surge in moon-ruled tides of opulence to fill vast desert canyons with deep seas. Floating high on enormous ocean swells, that bellow loud with deep thunderous roar as clanging bells of waves at granite cliffs, Neptunus leaps on rainbow-dragon wings and dives down in deep abyss of desire to swirl around tall hydrothermal vents. Weaving carbon rings into coils of genes, Tethys composes protein chromosomes to replicate their patterns in bound cells which multiply into organic beings who evolve through four hundred million years fish to lizard to mouse to cat to ape. Oceanos walks submerged in ocean wave, buoyed upright by deep breath in his lungs, then emerges from surging tide of change to stride upright, well-balanced on two legs, clutching fish he caught with clamp of his thumb, and lays his offering on small ziggurat. Roasting fish over flames on altar stone, Dagon offers strip of delicious steak to each person who kneels in humble prayer, while Ishtar plays lyre and sings hymn of life describing how wise Uranus and Gaia created our world from ocean of light. The sly boy with wings no one can see runs with horses along the ocean shore with joyful passion of his beating heart, then kneels and draws images in the sand showing Alpheus chasing Arethusa who bears Artemis with heart of the Earth.
Wearing Eyes Of God
Wearing Eyes Of God © Surazeus 2024 11 18 Somewhere in the curious world of our hearts young girl who lives in garden of peach trees picks up bright stars that glimmer in the sand and holds them high above her fragile head so they create the darkness with their beams which she weaves into the sweet song she sings. Strolling past the small bakery on her street, she sees Allah with long beard and star eyes baking bread for people on Earth to eat, so when he looks thirsty in desert heat she brings him wood cup of peach juice to drink, then he transforms her to a cat with wings. Flying from enormous cavern of his heart, she glides above the maze of city streets to find statue of the most lonely man that looks like her father wearing hemp pants who builds one-horse wagon with four large wheels while children dance around him chanting spells. Finding the oldest woman in the world weaving baskets from bones of long-dead gods, she asks if she has a spare pair of eyes, so the old woman floats on river waves, guiding her to first island in the lake where the Tree of Knowledge grows from her heart. The oldest woman in the world retrieves the pair of eyes she hung on Tree of Faith and gives them to her with two jingling bells, explaining how these eyes God forged from light have seen whole evolution of the world, so with them you will see beauty of love. Wearing Eyes of God within her own eyes, the girl dreams history of the universe since the first flash flares forth from the big bang to form this planet which creates our souls from seeds that sprout light beams and rain drops and grow into wingless angels who sing. Finding young blind boy in the mountain woods, Amirah gives him Eyes of God she found so he sees the beautiful world she loves while they stroll together on city streets eating bread Allah bakes from dreams of ghosts and drinking cow milk from heart of Hathor. When over horizon of the dark world the morning sun casts curious rays of truth, Amirah stands on pyramid of eyes and sings creation of the universe in songs that flow from fountain of her heart so people of the Earth drink her sweet words.
Sunday, November 17, 2024
World Socialist Utopia
World Socialist Utopia © Surazeus 2024 11 17 After I crawl out of the rabbit hole from searching for the graves of long-dead gods I walk in blue dusk to the grocery store where evening shoppers, hoping to buy faith, are careful not to share their eyes with owls to read secret messages on glass doors. Pausing in back aisle under the fake clock, I stare at large can of potato soup and wonder what would happen if a bomb were to blow holes in television screens, but then I smile with assurance of faith that I have hid my dreams in unread books. Hired by the government to play the role of Lucifer exposing greedy frauds, I hide every book of forgotten lore that dares to reveal name of the Star Wraith till I join the internet ghost who howls with hungry despair on the money moors. I return every year to Plymouth Rock where I arrived with freedom-fighting group commissioned to build alabaster tomb for Jesus who loves to build time machines powered by spirit essence of the wraith reborn in artsy minds of castle cooks. I try to understand this modern age where lonely rebels, clutching plastic guns, pretend to fight against the government while getting their farmer subsidy checks to grow wheat on the prairies far from towns, while I write fantasy novels in verse. For the next revolution to begin the people living in home of the brave must elect cruel dictator of blind greed as their messiah of the nuclear cloud who will destroy their rich land of the free so we can build new paradise for all. When jester of the king prances on stage to mock the way their fake messiah runs the people stuck in loops of argument wear assault-rifle crosses on their necks to cheer Headless Horseman at Churchill Downs who fails to escape the Trojan-Horse curse. Yet the cosmic herald will always win right to translate code from the ocean wave so everyone works to get what they need in world socialist utopia of the proud since Odin bears the social justice key he stole from Lucifer before the Fall.
Face Of My Tribal Soul
Face Of My Tribal Soul © Surazeus 2024 11 17 I wear ancient face of my tribal soul designed by each ancestor who survived hungry monsters haunting indifferent world on difficult quest in landscape of fear to find the secret of eternal life in eyes of my soulmate who understands. Holding hands with innocent trust of love, we stroll winding road of companionship to share tales of our lives before we met as we plan where we would like to go next to fulfill our desires living in peace and raising children we create with love. When gang of men surrounds us with wood wands I crouch in martial stance of fortitude then fight thieves with my brass diamond-tipped wand that splinters their arrogance with calm grace so they flee in panic in shadowed woods, leaving us to continue on our way. Discussing tricks for brewing honey wine, we stop by temple of the weeping god when gang of men return with their old king who commands I give him bride of my heart so he can breed strong children from her womb, and he will let me slave if I submit. When I defy old tyrant to his face, requesting he let people live in peace, he orders archers to shoot, so I twirl wand of wisdom that deflects every arrow, then I break wheels of his grand chariot, causing him to fall face down in the dirt. After I kill his soldiers who attack, I help old trembling king stand on his feet, then ask him why he kidnaps free-born girls, but he invites me to pyramid hall where he gives me crown to rule in his place, so my bride places jeweled ring on my head. Priests rush and try to chain my arms and legs to throne of judgment, but I leap away and strike their heads with magic wand of truth, then trembling king explains how they forced him to issue decrees that increase their wealth, so I kill them, and give him back his crown. Holding hands with trusting bride of my heart, I leave pyramid of power behind so he can continue to rule the world while we raise wise children at our country farm, feasting and dancing each safe evening night while sons of the dead king fight for his crown.
If Our Empire Falls
If Our Empire Falls © Surazeus 2024 11 17 I am not concerned if our empire falls because some people think their race and class is clever enough to control the rest thought no one reads the writing on the walls that claims the fight over wealth is too crass since the winner must always be the best. Each time I walk into the crowded room with voice of the people I speak in code the owl outside the window proves its point that humans are prone to expect grand doom since our ancestors always took the road less traveled by to temple of the saint. If nature, not art, can usurp the prayer each artist portrays on canvas of time, ruined buildings of her body contain expression of the portrait far less fair than secret that our brains evolve from slime, so we walk together in silent rain. I understand what the trees try to tell before they throw smog at resilient flowers in chorus of laments on road of skulls awake in puzzling light of the rune well that feeds three blind brides in absolute towers who teach their kind husbands not to be tools. Whatever name you think to call me now I will accept it based on ancient stars to clean secret smudge off back of my soul when we assemble to worship the cow which travels in circles with silver cars because surviving the end is our goal. Each segment in strange story of my life swings open with arrogance of the orange devised by the fallen angel to heal broken hearts of lovers confused by strife of singing girls to be crowned in Stonehenge as Fairy Queen who controls the state wheel. This world where we are born from ache of love is dream of this world that spins among stars in oval cycle around the sun god who invites us to grand feast in the cove through trap to assassinate son of Mars who is on track to lead the Justice Squad. The lake of pain where humans bathe at dawn reveals cold absence of our mortal state we use to share our monstrous tenderness as background players who would crown the pawn as hidden emperor who rewrites fate if we decide to sell our happiness.
Nomad Of Signless Roads
Nomad Of Signless Roads © Surazeus 2024 11 17 Though I am the nomad of signless roads I want to draw the border of my truth around my sorrow on the map of hope to make my soul the country of my heart where you can dwell safe in walls of my love no matter how far we wander from home. Though I travel alone to love and faith, enduring struggles against obstacles indifferent nature casts on road of hope, my journey to find home our love creates is shared by every person in the world, for in the end we all will meet in death. Though I had hoped we would all meet in death I find myself alone on road of fate, my private paradise where I now dwell designed by every little choice I make as I expand its borders to include every nameless soul lost on every road. Though we meet now and then on road of life we find ourselves alone with faceless death so we give Death the faces of our friends so we can share sweet comfort of despair while savoring beauty of forever now till eternity erases everything. Though bombs destroy the homes our fathers built we build new homes with shrapnel of their hate so bombs cannot destroy homes made of bombs till we decide with one expressive word to blast illusions of our hopes to dreams so we can build homes from elusive faith. Though borders drawn by men with guns of greed mark where their gangs of killers ceased combat I walk through fences and past gates of fear to bind all countries of the world in one, connected by our shared experience of losing the homes we built with our hearts. Though I hide in the shadow of my home, hoping border of our fear keeps us safe, I feel aggression of invading thieves who seek to drive me from my paradise so they can build their home of star-blind faith on ruins of my home with blood and bones. Though I am the nomad of signless roads I want to erase all borders of fear to free our spirits from the Promised Land that imprisons our hopes in blinding faith, for heavy hearts sprout wings of honesty to fly above vast maze of bombed-out homes.
Saturday, November 16, 2024
Horse With No Name
Horse With No Name © Surazeus 2024 11 16 The green sign above the highway of hope tells me that Heaven is one thousand miles if I keep going straight across the desert, so I tap the steering wheel with my hands as I race along across waste land of desire while I sing about the horse with no name. Each rock song blaring on the radio depicting life in California hills encourages me with mad hope of the fool that I made the right choice for mental health to escape thief-haunted Manhattan maze and search for true peace in the Promised Land. Arriving in time for summer of love, I drive the rolling hills of San Francisco where hippies from small towns of New England dance in the streets with flowers in their hair while bards that look like Jesus with god eyes play guitar and sing about peace on Earth. Aging bank clerk in my rumpled gray suit, divorced from daughter of the factory owner, with three children attending private schools, I walk among the hippies with long hair to feel the groovy thing now going on, and wander all night on the beach till dawn. Exchanging uptight corporate uniform for blue jeans and rainbow tie-died tee-shirt, I join kids sitting in circles on grass who smoke weed while hip Jesus plays guitar, and listen to them talk about world peace by stopping the cruel war in Vietnam. Young girl with eyes blue as the morning sea places small tab with a skull on my tongue so I sway with the music till I feel ocean tides surging in crystalline words through fractal atoms in sponge of my brain as I become owl on my childhood farm. I make small puppet of my body dance till he cuts my strings and his nose grows long when he becomes viking wolf with sharp axe who hacks down forests to build steel-glass towers though I am turtle crawling among flowers on sacred quest to find the Holy Grail. I tell everyone the Earth is my brain so the young woman with ten thousand eyes gives me glass of orange juice from dragon blood which I drink as my soul beams from the stars and I swirl down inside my fragile body, then eat omelettes at the Pork Store Cafe.
Godin Reborn In My Body
Godin Reborn In My Body © Surazeus 2024 11 16 I see ancient truth of my tribal face gaze at me from fractured mirror of time as each ancestor walks the road of hope eight thousand miles east Egypt to Guilin and nine thousand miles west Guilin to Scotland, eighty thousand years transforming to Godin. With thunderous excess of ecstatic hope I stagger through sweet anguish of each day in gold hills of the California coast that shimmer under periwinkle skies far from the land that shaped dreams of my soul as I keep looking for my perfect mate. I dive into deep pool behind the church where skeletons of angels swim and play with laughter captured on the silver screen that flickers bright against dark evening sky where people feasting at tables of food pray to the many-faced god in the clouds. Assembled in neat park among tall trees, under purple evening Oregon skies, nice people in suits and dresses hold hands and sing with heavenly voices of angels, "Shall we gather with the saints at the river that flows by the throne of our father God." Running along shore of the sparkling river where bright angel feet have trod among flowers, children dance around the bard with long hair, looking like portrait of Jesus in churches, who strums guitar and sings, "We are the children of Earth for we are woven from starlight." The girl with long blond hair and sea-blue eyes, and wearing long yellow dress with red flowers, dances barefoot under the apple tree, slowly swaying with gently trippy grace to imitate true spirit of the Earth that molds our bodies with hands of the sun. The bard in long white gown who looks like Christ chants, We are children of our Mother Earth who forms our bodies from mud of the sea, and lights our minds with atoms of the sun, so we embody deathless soul of light as we dwell free in hills of California." Awake as Godin reborn in my body, I walk the golden hills of California with ghosts of my ancestors in my heart to sing salvation of generous love as people reject worldly possessions and dwell in commune where I reign as king.
Vastness Of All-Time
Vastness Of All-Time © Surazeus 2024 11 16 Mysterious spirit of the butterfly that descends from glow of the wordless sun fills me with visions of ten billion Earths teeming with countless variations of me, each one thinking about the rest of us, our brains connected in vast web of light. We give each other names of loneliness that sound like water rippling over stones to conjure spirits of immortal genes who wake as characters in unread books, each me-clone talking to its mirror self, our hearts beating with song of ocean waves. Exquisite wokeness beaming from my eyes illuminates each object my mind names with pure compassion for all living beings who wonder who they are as they gaze up at face of World Mother on the bright moon, eyes shining with story we hope to live. We call each other in the swirling fog while lost in nightmare of what we fear most till, trapped in teardrop of the hungry god, we float through sleepness of eternity, each conscious being across the universe alone on worlds in vastness of all-time. I float in surging ocean waves of bliss, aware of aching hope inside my heart that urges me to rise with gasping breath to stand on two legs in soft gust of wind, then I cry out with anguish of desire to face of light that shimmers in the sky. Alone on Earth in vastness of all-time, I study endless beach of silver sand, then climb tree roots up high steep cliff to stand on upper world of apple trees where serpents hiss when I reach out my hand and snatch sweet fruit to eat soul of the sky. Since I climbed from womb of the mother sea one million years ago before today I have walked ten times around spinning Earth through fifty thousand lives of mortal bodies, each child reincarnation of my god-soul till I remember every life today. The mask of each ancestor in my genes reveals contours of their experiences in my own special face I wear today, amazed I am but one brief flash of life awake with conscious glow of the sun-soul in my small brain that soon will flicker out.
In The Face Of Defeat
In The Face Of Defeat © Surazeus 2024 11 16 Sitting on curb outside the grocery store, he plays guitar and sings heart-broken blues. "If everything in my life falls apart I just leave it all behind in the town and walk on down the road to someplace new where I can build a better way to live." Mothers with children and old bearded men drop dollars in his hat as they walk by. "Whenever I want to make a new start I hide my true face with mask of the clown then, searching in the shadows for some clue, I find treasures of truth that I can give." Several people form circle round his spot, tapping their feet in rhythm with his beat. "I want to fly like Icarus in the sky, but wings of ambition I made from hope melt in glaring sun of reality and this is where I landed on the Earth." One eager boy flaps his arms like bird wings and runs in circles round the friendly tree. "I pause on signless road to wonder why I have to learn each new day how to cope with bitter sorrow of my family who care not where I wander on the Earth." Policemen arrive with guns on their hips and demand to see his busking permit. "We must unite to fight cruel tyranny when the traitor and conman steals the crown for men will feel free to commit more crimes and steal from people who work hard all day." He loudly shouts he has the right to sing voice of the people suppressed by their fear. "We must fight for our world democracy to save our country from the greedy clown but none dares rock the boat in scary times, afraid of the gangster who demands pay." Struggling against arrest of the police, he kicks and screams about his civil rights. "I worked hard all my life and followed rules but men in power rigged the social game so they will always win and I will lose though I am honest as they lie and cheat." Clutching crushed guitar as he backs away, he gasps in surprise as they shoot him dead. "We little people are no more than tools the rich abuse to gain adoring fame but in the end all we can do is choose how to live well in the face of defeat."
Friday, November 15, 2024
My Own Center Still Holds
My Own Center Still Holds © Surazeus 2024 11 15 Though it seems I have wasted my life I will continue to lounge in the hammock that swings nonchalantly in dusky breeze over the abyss between Tree of Life and Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil while horses nibble apples in my hand. So I decide I will not change my life since my aging body of flesh and bone does not resemble torso of Apollo though I do strum the lyre of Mercury and sing ethereal hymns of haunting beauty to highlight the truth of unspoken things. Though things appear to be falling apart as anarchy is about to be loosed upon the world, my own center still holds my heart secure on mountain of my faith that we are temporary beams of light for the Second Coming will never happen. The Spirit of Jesus as selfless king wakes in the hearts of humble honest men who seek conceptual power of the state to support Justice equal for all people who dwell in Liberty of self-control and help each other though everyone dies. Now rising from the waste land of our fear, huge gold statue of Ozymandias emerges from the desolate sands of time to declare himself king over the Earth, but we mock his sneer of bitter command as his greed crushes all we long held dear. In our darkest hour of terrible night Icarus soars from golden tower of hate and guides Sisyphus with signal of fate to loose the rolling stone of global peace to smash his statue with its feet of clay so we can rejoice at fall of the tyrant. Where our tree grows tall to surpass our fate Orpheus sings with voice of ancient hope that rises from harsh silence of our fears to intimate new beginning of world change when we burn down institutions of power and build new temple where all may dwell safe. When I cry out to the Blue Sky for help no angel among the orders of Heaven hears my passionate plea to save our state from terrifying greed of tyranny, so I wake soul of Justice in my heart and join world tribe to fight for Liberty.
Thursday, November 14, 2024
United For The Truth
United For The Truth © Surazeus 2024 11 14 When we walk together blind in the dark we can give each other rocks, and decide to be enthusiastic about death, though someone always talks about the ghost that hides in shadows of our nameless fears, so maybe we should just sit for a while. If we are stranded on deserted isle after escaping from gang of state thieves, we can all agree to cooperate catching fish and cooking them over fires so everyone can eat, till someone shouts that someone else got more than their fair share. No one will ever come looking for us because we told the preacher in the church that he tells lies about the afterlife, because we are better off in the woods eating mushrooms that redesign our minds so we can see spirits in faceless things. The alternate theory I postulate about why people always fight for power considers material nature of life, so I should write my ideas in books and sell them to the banker with the key who runs engine of world economies. When the traitor crowns himself king of Earth he appoints his gang of rapists and thieves to important posts in the government, so we bow our heads and go back to work sweating all day in the vast factory while he plays golf and sails expensive yachts. Leaving behind the crazy game of power that men contest in city of desire, we journey west into the wilderness and build new town on sparkling river shore to live free from cruel greed of tyranny till his thieves find our home in paradise. Yet when I think about the end of time in revelation of apocalypse exposing bitter hatred in our state, I let my pretty puppets fall disgraced because I am exhausted by it all, attempting to preserve democracy. When we walk together blind in the light we can give each other books of ancient tales about how heroes, who for Liberty oppose aggression of greedy monarchs, defeat the tyrant because he is weak, and we are strong united for the truth.
Ghosts Of Artists
Ghosts Of Artists © Surazeus 2024 11 14 Ghosts of artists, forgotten and ignored, linger in drizzle of cold autumn rain till David plucks the Halleluyah chord and wakes them singing with exquisite pain about strange beauty of the universe concealed in psychic code of the book curse. The poet plucking lyre beside castle hearth for king and warriors in the feasting hall, relates deeds of his father, god on Earth, while they lift cups to trophies on the wall, then wanders outside on the garden path, relieved to escape tyrannical wrath. The painter brushing color on church wall for pope and priests in the council room, depicts life of the shepherd, god of all, who they believe will save all men from doom, then gallops horse by the river in mist to meet wife of the king in secret tryst. The dancer leaping twirls on drama stage for banker and clerks in grand theater, spreads invisible wings to escape cage of heavy flesh as Star Idolater, then falls from Heaven back into her head, flushed with ecstasy she is not yet dead. The poet scribbling verse in bookstore cafe for teacher and colleagues in the workshop, smokes dream flower while writing how his eye perceives the universe in one teardrop that splashes in soil by the cabin door to wake his soul with truth of petrichor. The painter smearing goop on studio floor for gallerist and buyers in garage, drinks wine red as blood on the moonlit moor congealed as woman through spirit mirage whose twisted face reimagines the soul humanity sells for wealth as their goal. The dancer writhing wild in playhouse space for journalist and readers in the mall, expresses anguish hidden by glass face when she imitates sad Icarian fall as wingless angel, symbol of mankind trapped in this body blind fate has designed. Ghosts of Artists, unpaid and mad for fame, swirl in divine force of the hurricane as they compete to play the prophet game for who can better symbolize the bane of hope that drives mankind to rule the world with fantasy dreamed by the cosmic herald.
Wednesday, November 13, 2024
Mutual Trusting Love
Mutual Trusting Love © Surazeus 2024 11 13 With basket full of acorns on her arm, Damona strolls thin trail in grove of oaks past daffodils that gleam in the pearl moon to oak wood temple by bubbling hot springs where she brews beef and acorn soup with thyme while humming cheerful melody of hope. Twisting knobs to tighten wires on his lyre, Borbanus squints his eyes to hear sharp twang till he is satisfied its tone is right, then childishly grins with hungry delight when Damona sets bowl of soup with bread on round table in garden round the back. Skipping among bushes of pungent herbs, Bormana chases the white butterfly that lands on pink yarrow blooms by the pool, kneels and gazes down at her small round face, then asks her father why her eyes are blue, as spotted fawn nuzzles her rosy cheek. Grinding herbs in stone mortar with slim pestle, Belenus tastes concoction with his finger, then asks Sirona to bring three snake eggs, so she runs down to verdant river shore and gathers small white adder eggs she finds under leaf litter beneath holly shrubs. Following Sirona back from the river, Grannus wraps his arms around her plump waist and whispers words of desire in her ear, but when she struggles to escape his grasp he throws her down among the daffodils and tries to thrust inside between her legs. Running to mother Damona in fright, Bormana whispers that she saw her brother Grannus trying make babies with Sirona, so she commands Borbanus with sharp voice to arrest their son from forcing his way on the girl without her mutual consent. Dragging his son off of the weeping girl, Borbanus beats his legs with the oak wand, then explains to Grannus with stern command that he must always accept expressed choice of any girl after asking consent, respecting her free will to love or not. Gathering everyone at the feasting table, Damona lectures them about free will, reminding them that one confirms their soul through self-control of mutual trusting love, then fills their bowls with honey acorn soup while Borbanus plays lyre as evening falls.
Dream Book Of Prospero
Dream Book Of Prospero © Surazeus 2024 11 13 While searching the world for the secret cell where Prospero is writing Book of Dreams, I encounter on islands in the sea every character from legends and myths hanging out on the beach with fruit and drinks, while humans cry out to their long-dead gods. Apollo and the nine muses relax by the pool behind the Olympian hall where Cetus and Leviathan are kept swimming in circles of social control, and Cthulhu performs dolphinesque tricks while Brennus takes photos with his three kids. Hamlet and his new girlfriend Juliet stroll in the Museum of Surreal Art, chatting about the being and nothingness of existential angst which drives mankind to create meaningful art from despair at the horrible tragedy of life. Dizzy at cosmic knowledge of myself, nauseous that if I think, therefore I am, I wander streets of Seattle at night, brain glistening with purple rain of hope, till I meet Uzume in long black coat sitting on a swing at edge of the woods. We are the darkness glowing in our hearts, she explains while we smoke flower of dreams, which causes me to remember when I evolved from fish to lizard in the lake, rising up to stand while the others crawled, so she laughs and gives me grape juice to drink. On delicate gossamer wings of faith, Ariel emerges from the oak tree and flutters around us with star-gold eyes, so we go home to apartment we share and make love with passionate gentleness till flash of ecstasy expands our minds. Entering Temple of Hera on the hill, we attend with every god humans dreamed grand wedding of Ferdinand and Miranda where Prospero presides as Pope of Earth with Wand of Zambor and the Holy Grail, while Phoebus strums the lyre of Mercury. Gliding with Ariel and Damiel with choir of angels high over Berlin, I sing ethereal hymn of human courage that shatters prison walls of Jericho when Liberty and Justice lead the charge to drive Satan from Hall of Democracy.
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