Wednesday, November 6, 2024

King Over The Waste Land

King Over The Waste Land
© Surazeus
2024 11 06

Fractured mirror of my childhood world view, 
encased in ancient television tube, 
reflects shocked fragments of celestial shards 
that fall from crystal palace in the sky 
as angry snowflakes when liberty falls 
so tyranny builds empire from our bones. 

Though I knew Jehovah would seize control 
and crown himself king over the waste land, 
I chose to hope Minerva would prevail 
in knocking cruel tyrant off throne of power 
to ensure justice and freedom for all, 
but hate-driven rage is hard to defeat. 

Though Orpheus returns from caves of Hell, 
guiding Liberty from prison of hate 
with heart-enchanting melodies of love, 
Death mocks his vain hope by keeping her trapped 
to serve his weakness of corrosive fear, 
clinging to mirage of perpetual power. 

Slouched by dead oak near the foul River Styx, 
Orpheus aches from horror of despair 
that our fertile paradise of Elysium 
was invaded and conquered by Jehovah 
who smirks and steals fruit from the Tree of Life, 
then chops it down with ax of heartless greed. 

Trudging in gloomy forest of blind ghosts, 
Orpheus finds Minerva, Queen of Freedom, 
lying wounded from arrows of contempt, 
who whispers hoarsely, as she gasps for breath, 
that army of Jehovah has destroyed 
sacred Temple of Truth with lust and greed. 

Searching bomb-blasted city of dead gods, 
Orpheus bears Minerva in his arms, 
Goddess of Liberty wounded by greed, 
to Lake of Healing in Elysium 
where he tends her damaged spirit with care 
so she can heal, then defeat tyranny. 

Wandering signless roads sea to shining sea, 
Orpheus preaches to the curious crowds 
that Jehovah, that evil antichrist Beast, 
will walk on the Earth and deceive the nations 
with the glamorous lie that he will save them, 
and build grand paradise for them alone. 

Homeless in cities of America, 
Orpheus plays the lyre of Mercury 
while Cassandra sings prophecy of doom 
to warn them how the antichrist will come, 
but they laugh and drive them from paradise 
as Jehovah on gold throne enslaves us all. 


Tuesday, November 5, 2024

Captain Of The Boat

Captain Of The Boat
© Surazeus
2024 11 05

While I wander in grand museum halls 
I see my face in paintings on glass walls, 
noble kings on horses with bloody swords, 
ladies in lace gowns beside solemn lords, 
and river nymphs in shadows of fruit trees 
who gather jars of honey from sad bees. 

While I drive my swift convertible car 
on mountain highway to the shining star 
I reach my hand up high to touch the moon 
who meets me in secret wave-washed lagoon 
where statue of Apollo on the rock 
holds gold lyre that serves as perch for the hawk. 

While I lounge on white sand of lonely faith 
I translate ancient riddle of the wraith 
to clever story no one understands 
about the girl with eyes in both her hands 
who looks for wisdom in dank cave of Hell 
which she paints by city fountain to sell. 

While I consider why the sky is blue 
as psychic mirror that reflects my soul 
my lover reads my secret book of poems 
about mermaids mesmerized by hair combs, 
then gazes at me by fire-crackling hearth 
to watch my brain project the virtual Earth. 

While I calculate my new state of mind 
I solve puzzle of truth my heart designed 
which helps me navigate world maze of myths 
with conceptual tropes designed by dreamsmiths 
so I can find strange garden of the fool 
who will invent the first carpenter tool. 

While I construct our new world view from facts 
which provide context for official acts 
I place Parnassus Mountain at the core, 
how angels evolve from the dinosaur, 
so we can live together in world peace 
voting for king who guards the Golden Fleece. 

While I construe special meaning of life 
from how we overcome spiritual strife 
I compose scriptures from puzzles of truth 
based on character of messiah sleuth 
whose coming is foretold by cosmic herald 
whom we elect to recreate the world. 

While I wait in line at the church to vote 
for who will reign as captain of the boat 
I strum the lyre of Mercury and sing 
about protective cover of the wing 
our national Seraph extends to guard 
steady progress of our social vanguard. 


Hopeful Spirit Grieves

Hopeful Spirit Grieves
© Surazeus
2024 11 05

With contemplative strolls on dismal days 
among tall oak trees dropping withered leaves 
my heart expands on wings of ardent ways 
when I hear how the hopeful spirit grieves 
for ways of living lost to passing years, 
yet enchanting songs are watered by tears. 

Just as I reach the door that feels my pain, 
carved with runes of spells secret witches cast, 
I pause in sudden misting of moon rain 
to search for some strange treasure of the past, 
though lights of houses glow in evening gloom 
with frantic silence of impending doom. 

Awake in bright-lit horror of time bliss, 
my lithe heart leaping as the curious hawk, 
I recall all the people I still miss 
though masks of their faces under the rock 
rise slowly high on gauze-shadowy wings, 
conjured by soft whisper of magic rings. 

Each crooked house along the avenue, 
half-hidden among fluttering leaves of elms, 
glows with ghostly candles of unknown Who, 
whose tremulous voice sings enchanting psalms 
that float with casual sorrow of mute snows 
in misty meadows of indifferent crows. 

When I open pageless book of dream codes 
to analyze my ever-changing map 
of truths about who names connective roads, 
I realize religious faith is the trap 
that keeps me wandering in the maze of myths 
enclosing Hell with god-charged monoliths. 

Elected by people clinging to fear, 
I promise them that I will legislate 
social programs which enlist the sincere 
in line with criterion of global fate, 
till angry thieves shoot bullets at my head 
because I give everyone milk and bread. 

So when cathedral bells of sorrow chime 
we gather by old river of the dead 
and write their names on water of lost time 
which traps their spirits in our dreaming head 
to nourish hope for the future we share 
as one world family dwelling everywhere. 

With hymn books open on the misty shore 
we sing contentiously in global choir, 
then I wander across the ghostly moor 
lonely as the cloud of divine desire, 
writing songs of my heart on leaves of faith 
that swirl away in breath of the star-wraith. 


Our Vibrant Democracy

Our Vibrant Democracy
© Surazeus
2024 11 05

The red-shouldered hawk on the white fence post 
searches thick hedges for lizards and rats 
to purge the Garden of Eden of vermin 
that chew roots of the Tree of Life with greed, 
while farmers till soil in fields by the river 
and women bake bread and stir stews in cauldrons. 

Children wearing masks of demons and ghouls 
race through the village in games of chase, 
then dance around the tall tower of stone 
that gleams on moonlight on the flowered hill 
till the old bearded wizard with oak wand 
emerges to give them sweet honey cakes. 

Two sons of the old dying castle king 
face each other with gangs of loyalists 
and fight over who will now rule the land, 
while farmers, craftsmen, and shepherds escape 
to hide in the valley of floating mist 
where the fairy queen gives them food to eat. 

The teacher describing history of mankind 
explains how our ancestors sailed wood ships 
to escape the cruel tyranny of kings 
by founding our vibrant democracy 
where everyone is equal in the law 
to live free as they will, if they harm none. 

When one man rules the nation far too long 
the people demanding progressive change 
rise in revolution against the tyrant, 
so we control that energy of change 
by holding elections every four years 
where we vote for the program of our choice. 

Our choice every election seems to be 
between white nationalist theocracy 
where rich elite control the working poor, 
and multiracial globalist democracy 
where every group shares the wealth equally, 
so we vote to choose which new world we want. 

Humans arrange themselves in hierarchies 
to operate the food-production machine 
with capitalist investment to fund farms 
and socialist programs to distribute 
food and goods to every state citizen 
who gather at grand festivals to sing. 

When spirit of the devil incarnates 
in the man who tries to crown himself king, 
we follow our Goddess of Liberty 
with the Book of Law and the Torch of Freedom 
to vote for our right to control our bodies 
which sustains our vibrant democracy. 


Monday, November 4, 2024

Landscape Of Our Dream

Landscape Of Our Dream
© Surazeus
2024 11 04

Through infinite fracture of our time tongue 
resolve suggests profile of the god mind 
out of proportion to the human brain 
based on bold gesture of togetherness 
which snugly composes the whole of thought 
in eyes that search the landscape of our dream. 

Repurpose picture processing our hopes 
defines new mission impossible to parse 
with sketch of shadows twisted by blind trees 
to outline this body we think we are 
contrived by whispered secret of the star 
that bleeds spirits on landscape of our dream. 

Confused by nothing Nobody declares, 
she tries to sell laughter outside the church 
but no one understands the words she says 
so she wears face of the mysterious fox 
who appears in mist of romantic hope 
as fleeting flash from landscape of our dream. 

Pillar of light that wears fake face of God 
appears in hall of mirrors without doors 
where children teach their parents how to pray 
by hiding sorrows in the water box 
when abused women escape prison homes 
to scatter tears on landscape of our dream. 

Sublime acceptance of fortunate death 
suffuses atmosphere of swirling air 
when we share secrets in the Pantheon 
to catch the demon of crippling despair 
that seeks soldiers stuck in the bullet haze 
which splatters blood on landscape of our dream. 

Sad smiling clock bolted in the oak trunk 
tries to explain key to eternal life 
by showing me the tragic comedies 
my father wrote with blood on plates of gold 
for me to recite in the crowded church 
after I map the landscape of our dream. 

Self-awareness of the critical stance 
makes the bored bard reluctant to accept 
yet another prize from the world elite 
who read his riddles with attentive care 
to show they understand his secret code 
on signs across the landscape of our dream. 

Perched on stone lion head outside the hall 
where fairies and goblins create new books, 
bespectacled owl of philosophy 
ignores eccentric formulas that state 
conceptual function of time is the wave 
that flows across the landscape of our dream. 


House Woven From Light

House Woven From Light
© Surazeus
2024 11 04

Loneliness of the house woven from light 
spurs young girl to wander the village paths 
while giving eerie shadows of her heart 
to strangers who give her words in return, 
so she reinvents herself as the crow 
that sprinkles evening raindrops on her hair. 

Regret for something that never occurs 
stops her slow journey on the grassy hill 
where bees describe how anguish of love feels 
to be free of names tagged by cruel desire, 
so she reinvents herself as the horse 
that wants to show her where apple trees grow. 

Disgust for dirty water of the pool 
instills in her respect for flashing rain 
that drenches trees with sparkles of sunlight 
who whisper secrets she would like to know, 
so she reinvents herself as the cow 
that ponders mystery of important grass. 

Surprise at how the silver moon explodes 
from wings of crows that whirl across the sky 
startles her awake from soft river song 
each time she closes her eyes in shy fear, 
so she reinvents herself as the tree 
that knows why laughter cures the broken heart. 

Sorrow of sudden negligence refined 
urges the lonely girl to touch the horse 
whose libertarian swiftness of progress 
embodies joyful beauty of the wind, 
so she reinvents herself as the stone 
that knows where the wild river wants to go. 

Hunger for beauty beaming from the face 
of the stranger who gives her cup of juice 
numbs her passion to race time with the horse 
though he waits patiently beside the pool, 
so she reinvents herself as the frog 
that knows how long stars glow before they die. 

Sadness in stone cairn of the nameless ghost 
inspires the girl, who makes herself crow wings, 
to ask the sky why angry people kill 
other people who refuse to obey, 
so she reinvents herself as the owl 
that shows her how to understand herself. 

Awe for weird transformation of her soul 
shocks the young girl with eyes black as the sun 
with knowledge she perceives in spoken words 
about how seeds fertilize eggs with life, 
so she reinvents herself as the sun 
that weaves our world from song of loving light. 


Questions Worth Answering

Questions Worth Answering
© Surazeus
2024 11 04

In the process of becoming Unself 
I hear brand new songs of the unborn stars 
so I sell fruit of laughter on the street 
to strangers who visit city of dust 
where hungry people who are almost gods 
throw their dreams into the mourning sea. 

Life asks me no questions worth answering 
because I twist the grammar of false facts 
with stubborn cleverness of the bored fool 
he thinks he is wiser than the fruit trees 
that give up trying to teach him how to choose 
which pathway to take in garden of lies. 

Hidden inside language of relationships, 
which traps emotions in jokes I should think, 
my faith in goodness of humanity 
cracks fragile egg of conventional rules 
so serpent of my heart rises on wings 
of resurrection purchased by false hope. 

Effect of sentimental silence sparks 
questions about shocking experience 
erosive with contempt of honest fear 
though I glimpse my future on the star map 
that signals new romantic tragedy 
I must endure while sitting by the lake. 

The more I plainly speak about the truth 
the more distortions of variable facts 
dismeasure architecture of despair 
with fluid nonchalance of unread thoughts 
so we misunderstand how we could connect 
our bodies and minds to generate life. 

With grim concern for princess of the lake, 
baptized by the demon in the black suit, 
I vow to protect all women from harm 
by saving myself from obsessive hope 
through artful performance as the white knight 
rusted into robot of factory work. 

Underground language of silence retrieves 
my disoriented Unself from wild dance 
to carry baskets of fruit on the road 
to the market stall where housekeepers browse 
dreams I harvested from tree of life 
to keep our fragile souls from shattering. 

Adjusting order of particulars 
that sprout from sunlight of arrogant pride, 
I dig my fingers in soil of the Earth, 
composed of bones from dinosaurs and gods, 
and families slaughtered in the genocide, 
then step into the booth to vote for truth. 


Sunday, November 3, 2024

Profits From Holiday Sales

Profits From Holiday Sales
© Surazeus
2024 11 03

Softly thumps melody of river stones 
in harmony with sorrows of my heart 
which I deny to anyone who pries 
by imitating bees till clouds explode 
with tears of children maimed by falling bombs 
whose suffering dares not haunt the concert hall. 

Hidden behind the paper mask of pride, 
which the orphaned child paints with their tears, 
pulse aching hopes for shadows of false love 
that float as mist in meadows where sad crows 
analyze profits from holiday sales 
comparing sales of guns to magic wands. 

Wretched beauty purchased with loyalty 
distorts proportions of the traitless face 
pure as moon mirror hanging on the door 
which opens to the world between all worlds 
where nameless gods swim in echoless pools 
while Narcissus serves them cocktails and cheese. 

Laughter trapped in pageless book of dream codes 
radiates atomic vibes of psychic angst 
too honest for heart of the hammer-god 
who builds skyscrapers from rage-melted swords 
where kings disguised as corporate presidents 
conceal feudal slavery with capitalism. 

Distinctive feature, marking as unique 
darkness visible with arrogant respect, 
remains undetected by clever spies 
who sell classified secrets of star bombs 
to tyrants ruling oligarchic states 
eager to keep people under control. 

No declarations of disputed facts 
could fracture criterion of global fate 
except through our peculiar attributes 
too twisted into logical concepts 
to maintain balance of progressive drive 
which proves justice and liberty for all. 

Cracked foundation of our world nation-state 
exposes critical flaws in design 
approved to ensure equal rights for all, 
regardless of private identity 
which divides us into opposing camps 
till we break down walls to build one whole church. 

Reversed epiphany of awed insight 
inspires my cautious heart with bold purpose 
to legislate as universal law 
right of each person to control their body 
so we live as we will, if we harm none, 
in global party of the faceless god. 


Mask Of God Insanity

Mask Of God Insanity
© Surazeus
2024 11 03

Along sad sidewalk of the afternoon 
I skip with joy to hear the sparrow moon 
sing eerie psalms of transcendental faith 
in cosmic vision of the tree-brained wraith 
who puts words of river stones in my eyes 
so I can live my own life in disguise. 

Clockwise through spiral of infinity, 
while wearing mask of god insanity, 
I swim across vast sea of everywhere 
to visit daughter of the mountain bear 
who gives me apple of knowledge to eat 
because my truth has become obsolete. 

With celestial gears of my secret code 
I translate fragments of the shattered road 
to build trustworthy bridge of honest love 
based on perfect ideals of stars above 
which weave our bodies from atoms of light 
so in dreams I have the power of flight. 

Deep breath of cataclysmic solitude 
expands my mind beyond vain certitude 
when I pilot airplane of divine hope 
to soar with surprise of the telescope 
high above meadows of Elysium 
through holy vision of delirium. 

Advanced design of the swift motorbike 
compels my journey to be more Christlike 
when I arrive in each small country town 
to out-preach salvation of the mad clown 
by singing solemn hymns on the church stage 
based on spells written with blood on the page. 

Climbing the stairway to Heaven with pride, 
I enter Olympus with cocksure stride 
to give Book of Visions to the Star Queen 
who approves my marriage with Melusine 
as reward for concealing prophecies 
that foretell rise of world democracies. 

Yet vision of the world that we all share 
has shattered into scriptural vaporware 
so every person has their own world view 
which differently decides what could be true 
though what is real always stands test of time 
so vulgar lies fade before the sublime. 

Still wearing mask of god insanity, 
as prophet of Astarianity, 
I repaint idols in the maze of myths 
that venerate careers of brave wordsmiths 
so we all bathe in Lake of Memory 
that restores our vital soul energy. 


New Amusement Park

New Amusement Park
© Surazeus
2024 11 03

Atomic clocks in the bottoms of wells 
measure music demonic fiddlers play 
while tree elves compose healing recipes 
on flower-petal pages in glass books 
while I sleep in enchanted fairyland, 
clutching keys to my ruined castle tower. 

Converting butterflies to motor car, 
lit with magic lamp of marvelous charms, 
I drive long highway of stamped postage stamps 
on endless crazy journey through the world 
to map four corners of our pear-shaped globe, 
then sell happiness in the empty church. 

Beneath the rowan tree of lonely faith 
one-eyed Cailleach holds in calf-skin hands 
her heartless body throbbing with rainstorms 
to cast cold winter winds of suffering 
with cackling laughter at frail humankind 
who locks the clanking gates of paradise. 

Ambling through elm trees in city park, 
where tower-dwellers go to find the light 
that shimmers bright at center of the world, 
I drop bread crumbs along the Trail of Tears 
to guide wild gang of refugees from war 
through maze of myths to new amusement park. 

I wander maze of glittery clothing stores 
in continent-sprawling city of ghosts, 
who buy useless gifts for the holiday, 
hoping to map my journey through the world, 
but key to happiness is somewhere else 
so I keep walking Road of Everywhere. 

Silent winter light on floor of gray stone 
reveals secret face of the cosmic herald 
who holds high Lamp of Freedom with one hand 
and points to Land of Sorrow with the other, 
yet no one goes anywhere while he sings 
heart-aching melodies of sacred psalms. 

Demonic fiddler with the broken clock, 
he inserts in trunk of the rowan tree, 
asks Cailleach if she will marry him, 
so she bakes apple pies with cinnamon 
for wild children in the Garden of Eden 
who dance around lost stone of Sisyphus. 

Cracked screen of the television contains 
aggressive heartbeat of courageous fear 
when Cailleach fights the cruel castle king 
and frees the Holy Land from tyranny 
so we gather on the Pyramid of Eyes 
and sing in the rain that cleanses our hearts. 


Not The Way To Heaven

Not The Way To Heaven
© Surazeus
2024 11 03

While trudging nowhere on the way to Heaven, 
I stop into the old brick downtown church 
where the frail naked man covered with wounds 
asks with gravelly voice for a cigarette, 
so we smoke a while in the silver dawn, 
contemplating mysteries of life and death. 

When I stand and zip up my tattered coat, 
he waves nonchalantly with snarky grin, 
and bids me safe travels on road of life, 
so I salute him with casual diffidence, 
then try to escape adverse circumstance 
that traps me in cycle of poverty. 

Against adversity of ancient rules, 
that force me to stay on strict career paths 
predefined for me by society, 
I trudge with numb indifference of hope, 
inspired by how our world savior survived 
through nonviolent resistance to evil. 

Soft evening breeze of desert ambience 
swirls my hair gently around my blurred eyes 
as I trudge the highway where devils dance 
from El Paso to San Antonio, 
while helicopters chase brave immigrants 
who try to invade the Garden of Eden. 

Leaning against elegant pine of faith 
somewhere on the highway in Arizona 
on the way from Flagstaff to Albuquerque, 
I watch the eagle glide in the blue sky 
and ask her if she knows the way to Heaven, 
but she knows the way to Elysium. 

Regressing backward on the way to Heaven, 
without the wings of Icarus to fly straight, 
I wake by the highway in Oregon 
somewhere between Portland and San Francisco, 
talking to the mountain ghost of lost faith 
who points the way home to the Promised Land. 

Staring at my face in the pool of tears 
near the Sawtooth Mountains in Idaho, 
I ask the angel with ten thousand eyes 
why I remember my ancestral lives 
more than one million years into the future, 
so she gives me glass of cider to drink. 

While we are walking hand in hand at dawn, 
my wife, whose crystal skeleton glows blue 
with sorrow of humanity, explains 
to me, though this is not the way to Heaven, 
this is the way to the Valley of Trees 
where we can build our own new paradise. 


Saturday, November 2, 2024

Forget-Sorrow Flower

Forget-Sorrow Flower
© Surazeus
2024 11 02

The letter of love on delicate paper 
you wrote to me, that I received last night, 
I fold into the Forget-Sorrow Flower, 
shaped like the elegant moon-glowing swan, 
and glide it on the Lake of Memory 
to carry my longing for you away. 

Soft shimmer of moonlight on apple blossoms 
suffuses my heart with passionate hope 
I fold into the Forget-Sorrow Flower, 
but she sadly spreads wings of innocence 
and flies into the cold shadow of death, 
so I light fire to warm my lonely heart. 

Sweet chirp of the goldfinch who knows my name 
leads me through shady grove of apple trees 
to sky-silver pool of indifferent love 
where you kneel in mud to carefully lift 
free the old turtle stuck in tangled roots, 
then we smile as it eats herbs from your hand. 

When you offer me platter of fruit cakes, 
spiced with ginger, nutmeg, and cinnamon, 
that flash my eyes with visions of green leaves 
flickering sunlight and shadow of desire, 
I float in pleasure of your firm embrace 
as soft kiss of our souls connect our hearts. 

Strange portrait you painted, under oak bower 
of grape vines interlaced with eglantine, 
that depicts me in flowing feathered gown 
blown by the lake breeze in bright summer sun, 
flaps in gloom of numbing loneliness 
when I ask the goldfinch where you are now. 

When you ride away on stallion of war, 
sword you forged from meteor stone of the sky 
gleaming silver in your patriotic hand, 
I turn away and pretend not to care 
that arrows or sharp swords of bitter hate 
may strike your heart so you never come home. 

The portrait you painted of me alone 
on florid hill of our togetherness 
I fold into the Forget-Sorrow Flower 
wet with tears of my heartless thunderstorm 
that blots out the moon where I see your face 
watching over me with love-glowing eyes. 

While I wander lost in dreams of cracked skulls 
that call my name, you retrieve your love letter 
I fold into the Forget-Sorrow Flower, 
then kiss me so I wake in your warm arms, 
so I cry with joy you are still alive, 
afraid I am lost in dream I invent. 


Winged Epiphanies Of Joy

Winged Epiphanies Of Joy
© Surazeus
2024 11 02

Words of the wind seem to erase my soul 
while I lie wounded on hard river rocks, 
yet up on angel wings I now will rise 
with breath of clouds inspiring me to laugh, 
for need of comforting repels my heart 
with contradiction carved from arrogance. 

Secretly sick at heart with ignored love, 
I gleefully watch syntax of frail hope 
deride my sense of self with ruthless angst 
so spirit of my mind continues on, 
invested in strange truth bought by applause 
when I become the window I would break. 

Imagined book that disregards my gaze 
wants me to believe in honest contempt 
of audience members for lies I recite, 
averse to cultivating followers 
who endure winged epiphanies of joy 
I present as doctrine of fallen gods. 

Betrayal cheap with performative pride 
distracts attention of the cheering crowd 
who will react how I program them to, 
since they are puppets in disdainful hands 
that make them believe in truths I invent 
to keep them from rebelling against me. 

Uncharitable progress of special art 
with blood and mud and oil smeared on white walls 
defines dysfunctional relationship 
that binds my heart to projects I design 
to support social system of contempt 
which I undermine by using words wrong. 

With the right amount of contempt for facts, 
based on conceptual deceit of dream code, 
we fool each other to vote for the clown 
who burns the church with us all locked inside 
till torrents of rain from angry Sky God 
confounds insurgents against jeweled crowns. 

Sign of the times in flashing neon lights 
beams beacon of freedom across the land, 
so people wrapped in coats with dripping hats 
hurry though indifferent rain of respect 
to give books of riddles to half-dead gods 
so they have something to read as they die. 

Arranged in latest fashion of fake thoughts, 
my solemn stories of urbanized scenes 
display power games between wealthy clans, 
so when I investigate their vile crimes 
they hire the Lizard Rake to shoot me dead, 
my face streaked with blood in laughing rain. 


Journey Of My Soul

Journey Of My Soul
© Surazeus
2024 11 02

If I can figure journey of my soul 
through solemn discourse of moonlight on water, 
I may hear voices of the dead explain 
how best to live this brief confusing life 
by flapping both wings I call Chance and Choice 
to lift weight of my mind above the world. 

If I have to play the lunatic knave 
against tyranny of beautiful lies, 
I shall with boisterous courage of the fool 
oppose aggressive tactics of brute thugs 
who attempt to control how people live 
by enforcing laws that benefit them. 

If startled ecstasy of shocked insight 
propels my journey past the Promised Land, 
I am determined to map the waste land 
so those who follow way of psychic growth 
know where to go after escaping Heaven 
to find secret spring of the star-eyed horse. 

If the damned have finished howling their hearts 
with vigorous dance of the fallen-apart, 
I wind my heart in mummy cloth of time 
to ponder natural beauty of the mind 
too marvelous for prison of the clock 
that teaches everyone how to weep once. 

If we could wake from dream of cannon fire 
that now shakes every quarter of the world, 
I will insist I exercise my right 
to vote for how my fate shall write my end, 
yet I hear laughter in the hall of pride 
that cracks mirrors which dare reveal the truth. 

If ghosts on dark eerie night of All Souls 
drink inebriated breath of my heart, 
I will build new Heaven from godless bones 
on ruins of cathedrals and state banks 
to prove our hands can farm food from the Earth 
for wealth we create from shadow of death. 

If I must evade demons of despair 
who slip through crack of light to haunt our lives, 
I dress in costume of the noble king, 
which is the opposite of what I am, 
so they cannot find me on signless road 
where I roam to escape every lost home. 

If I find refugees from civil war 
wandering without end on the trail of tears, 
I build the immense miraculous home 
that can house with its generosity 
every homeless person lost in the world 
who give each other new names of the heart. 


Library Of Loud Lies

Library Of Loud Lies
© Surazeus
2024 11 02

The best way to know if your state of mind 
is real as the fake television show, 
is paint your secret name on the road sign 
so Death will be confused by Water Song 
and pass your lonely house by every year 
till you live more than ninety thousand years. 

We always talk about the reason why 
ghosts of angels sprout from ablative seeds 
to formulate spiritual breath of trees 
who ask us why we cage the singing bird 
with arrogant assumption we are free 
to choose how we are born, and live, and die. 

I find no happy paradise of love 
somewhere over the rainbow of my hope 
teeming with spirits from multiple worlds, 
though I try to conjure them from books 
that I stole from Library of Loud Lies 
constructed from the bones of long-dead gods. 

I want to go back to living in trees 
where I can chat with birds about true love, 
as if my words could conjure from desire 
real situation in the feasting hall 
where vision of the future I reveal 
could motivate people to live through love. 

Sweet laughter of inimitable joy 
confounds my mind with arrogant disdain 
I try to extricate with magic spell 
from wounded apple of my naive heart 
till voices wake me from dark reverie 
and ask me for key to the castle door. 

Humming holy hymns to the lonely god, 
who waits on the swing by the mirror pool, 
I bake apple pies from the wounded hearts 
of maimed orphans who survive holy wars, 
but someone steals the sugar of true faith 
so they wander lost on the signless road. 

Arriving at Library of Loud Lies, 
which Lucifer charged his demons to build 
as core temple of Pandemonium, 
maimed orphans of the latest holy war 
ask Serapis for jobs copying books 
with myths of gods who despise humankind. 

We gather on skull-littered river shore 
to baptize our souls in Alethe River 
that flows by the throne of mad Jupiter 
to gain salvation from empire mind-frame 
so I star in the television show 
where I play Prophet of Zarathia. 


Friday, November 1, 2024

Choice Of Our Free Will

Choice Of Our Free Will
© Surazeus
2024 11 01

As I drive over the long Bridge of Hope 
toward the rising sun of our new world order 
I remember what the cruel tyrant king 
shouted in rage till he fell from the tower 
after we took away his bloody sword 
and left him imprisoned in his despair. 

"In order to function with ordered rites 
mortal humans who struggle against fear 
need the bold dependable lie to live 
as guiding light that gets them through each day, 
for the lie that helps them believe in love 
forms foundation for the stable world order." 

While the morning sun gleams over far hills, 
streaming rays of light through the trees of fruit, 
I laugh at irony of his false truth, 
for now I understand the strong appeal 
belief in the afterlife of the soul 
holds for some people terrified of death. 

When we contemplate the vast span of time 
since the first flash of the big bang flared forth 
into galaxies of stars that nurture worlds, 
we tremble with awe at Eternity, 
and wonder why our bright lives are so brief, 
why we feel immortal as we decay. 

Pythagoras reasoned the conscious soul 
could not have come from nothing of the void, 
therefore our souls must beam down from the stars 
to animate changing bodies of flesh 
with power of immortal energy, 
then beam back up to source stars when we die. 

Yet I know consciousness of self I am 
is generated by my dreaming brain 
as chemical function of its network, 
this vision-making machine of neurons 
that conjures virtual model of the world, 
programmed to mate and make life till we die. 

I refuse to accept in face of death 
this convenient lie of the afterlife, 
though it keeps most people from going mad, 
for I am happy in the simple knowledge 
that this brief flicker of my conscious life 
is all I get to savor truth of love. 

I want to build new more stable world order 
on honest truth that everyone will die 
for any society based on some lie 
will always collapse into tyranny, 
so I preach justice and freedom for all 
to exercise the choice of our free will. 


House Of Everywhere

House Of Everywhere
© Surazeus
2024 11 01

Though I hold the shocking truth in my hands, 
I will take the bus to the shopping mall 
and eat hamburger with fries and root beer, 
then browse the latest music compact discs 
to find the prophet with voice of the people 
who can guide our way in weird maze of myths. 

Around the world I fly on turtle wings 
to find secret valley of paradise 
hidden somewhere in the wild mountain range, 
far from sprawling metropolitan cities 
where bankers rule corporations as kings, 
to find the prophet begging for spare change. 

While strolling down the busy city street 
past shining windows of elegant stores, 
I see ghost of Nostradamus appear 
in nuclear-white flash of the time-jump door 
who grabs my hand and runs into the rain 
to escape horde of assassins with swords. 

Leaping planets across the multiverse, 
we time-slip across hundred thousand worlds 
where every future in parallel states 
shows me starting revolution of truth, 
till I manage to escape every version 
and land in this world where I am Nobody. 

Hanging out at the Pegasus Cafe 
in downtown Athens on Apollo Street, 
I chat with Nostradamus about truth 
while we sip ginger mochas and eat cake, 
then he explains I am safe in this time 
as he smiles and leaps through portal of fate. 

Looking around at the gathering crowd, 
I stand up on stage by portrait of Keats 
and read poems from my new self-published book, 
then bow to the scattered polite applause, 
relieved I am not going to end the world 
by fighting for my right to rule as king. 

Pulling mask of the prophet off my face, 
I walk outside in the late evening sun 
and stroll to the World Library of Souls 
where doors to each parallel universe 
are hidden between the covers of books 
that preserve ghosts of long-forgotten gods. 

Parking my car in the cluttered garage, 
and putting my wings in the cardboard box, 
I walk inside my House of Everywhere 
to gather countless fragments of my soul 
floating in words with glass butterfly wings, 
and weave them into the mask of my face. 


Skipping Rope In Heaven

Skipping Rope In Heaven
© Surazeus
2024 11 01

Without laughter of children in the house 
the television sings old vaudeville tunes, 
and sweet illusions of home magazines 
display unattainable scenes of Heaven, 
so she listens to sad growl of machines 
who argue politics with the white raven. 

While baking cake in the kitchen at noon, 
she looks outside to see her daughter play 
skipping rope while she sings about the moon, 
but, when she calls her to come in and eat, 
only her ghost remains beside the tree, 
only her soft voice whispering in the wind. 

Wearing red fur-lined parka and blue jeans, 
and white sneakers that squeak on rain-wet rocks, 
she hikes the Long Trail among curious trees 
toward the summit of Glastenbury Mountain 
that shimmers half-gold in the misty haze, 
back and forth in bright mirror-flashing daze. 

Ice chunks float in the silver Batten Kill, 
indifferent to songs on the radio 
that echo faintly among lonely elms 
who ask white-breasted nuthatch if she knows 
where the little girl has disappeared to, 
if she remembers the sound of her voice. 

Riding in the car that speeds down the road 
with hypnotic swirl of the time machine, 
she asks the happy demon if he knows 
names of the horses grazing in lush fields, 
if he is the evil black knight who wields 
sword of death on aggressive battlefields. 

Gazing at large painting on marble wall, 
the Battle of Alexander at Issus, 
she asks the happy demon why good men 
must fight to kill cruel tyrants of the world, 
though Darius may have been very nice 
since he held banquets in grand mirrored halls. 

Gunshot that echoes among lonely elms 
startles the white-breasted nuthatch from sleep, 
so she flies along icy Batten Kill 
where Ophelia, wearing tattered dress, 
floats face upward toward the empty sky, 
clutching parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. 

Wiping dust from glass of the picture frame 
that displays last photograph of her daughter 
posing in her blue Cinderella dress 
for Halloween, heart long numb from despair, 
Catherine whispers to her ghost lingering near 
if she is happy skipping rope in Heaven. 


Thursday, October 31, 2024

Rhythm Of Atomic Waves

Rhythm Of Atomic Waves
© Surazeus
2024 10 31

As Eternal Mind of the Cosmic Soul 
enfolds all changes, yet will never change, 
I feel immortal essence of its light 
from flashing atoms power how my brain 
generates divine sense of consciousness 
so I perceive pure unsearchable Being. 

Because time is shadow of my own thought 
I see all that has happened in the past 
and thus see all things that will come to pass 
spiral in swirls from beginning to end 
as sacred narrative of life and death 
when atoms form organic beings who know. 

As wingless angels, evolved from the sea, 
we are brave explorers of the blue sky, 
courageous pioneers of the vast world 
we measure with straight instruments of truth 
to map the curving waves of molecules 
which vibrate nodes in taut matrix of light. 

Through optic tube of the long telescope, 
perched on steel frame in pantheon-shaped dome 
erected tall on high Parnassus peak, 
we gaze at billions of stars in the sky 
whose rays still flicker at our spinning globe 
long after they burned to iron black holes. 

All change is rhythm of atomic waves 
that swirl to compose our organic brains 
as molecules evolve in stewing seas 
through generations of conceptual forms 
that incarnate immortal soul of genes 
so we pass away while our children live. 

This frame of flesh and bone woven with nerves 
is bound with animating spark of love 
fueled by celestial glory of our heart 
that wonders at strange beauty of this world 
as we lift bright torch of truth to observe 
pool and river in meadow of fruit trees. 

Within small ring of luminating words, 
that bounds horizon of knowledge I trust, 
I explore frontier of the wilderness 
beyond enclosing walls of paradise 
my father built to shelter me from harm, 
and write what I see in my Book of Earth. 

The key to understand nature of things, 
which I adjust to solve riddles of life, 
gleams in my heart as flame of timeless truth 
that spirals from first flash of the big bang 
to bloom galactic network of my brain 
so Eternal Mind knows itself through me. 


Chapel Of Saint Lucy

Chapel Of Saint Lucy
© Surazeus
2024 10 31

While strolling in castle garden of herbs 
to gather ingredients for her lunch, 
young Princess Lucienne pauses in the heat, 
but as she sips cool water from the fount 
she hears voice of her father behind bush 
softly command, "Take Lucienne to the lake." 

Watching blue butterfly on the red rose, 
Lucienne gasps with joy, so she listens close. 
"Take Lucienne to the chapel by the lake 
on pretension she shall go there and pray, 
give her this gold silk scarf as gift from me, 
then strangle her till she draws breath no more." 

"Strangle her and bury her in the garden 
with no marker to indicate her grave." 
Shocked with horror at his decree of death, 
Lucienne covers her mouth to mute her scream. 
Voice of her valet Godred answers shocked, 
"King Henric, why should I kill your sweet daughter?" 

Growl of rage from chest of her father stuns 
young princess who trembles in frantic fear. 
"Lucienne is not true daughter of my seed. 
Her mother Ermesinde, that forest witch, 
tricked me with lie that I fathered her child, 
but Lucienne looks like her horseman I killed." 

Dazed with confusion in shock of despair, 
Lucienne stumbles up stairs up to tower room 
where she kneels and gasps in terror, 
but jumps to her feet when Godred appears 
to explain her father the noble king 
wants her to pray at Chapel of Saint Lucy. 

Shaking with terror as he drives the coach, 
Lucienne listens to sparrows sing in trees. 
Standing with Godred by the chapel door, 
she grips his hand and gazes in his eyes. 
"Instead of killing me, take me away 
and let us sail somewhere across the sea." 

Holding hands, Lucienne and Godred run free 
through sun-suffused woods to the sparkling sea 
where they sail fishing boat north from Bretagne, 
faces wet from spray and tears of fierce joy, 
then land on lush shore of Hibernia 
where he builds small cottage in shady grove. 

While strolling in cottage garden of herbs 
to gather ingredients for their lunch, 
Mother Lucienne pauses by shining pool 
to watch Godred teach their three skillful sons 
how to construct the sturdy fishing boat, 
then eat stew on the lawn in sunset glow.