Wander With Clumsy Grace © Surazeus 2026 10 09 Old woman who lives on the moor alone beams her strange face into the mirror mask, then turns to look at me with star-black eyes so I remember when my soul is born from ocean waves at dawn of my Gene Dream four hundred million years ago this hour. Paralyzed with laughter of crackling ice, my bruised heart limps across the frozen field, so I become the woman in the house watching herself wander with clumsy grace beyond fuzzy scope of adoring eyes to place wood plate of apples on the stone. My heart is not white as the unlit sky because the rain-smooth stones refuse to buzz when airplanes float above the mindless clouds which traps me in cold atmosphere of glass till I stand up another thousand times and walk through the door of infinite hope. Leaves swirl around my feet with playful joy so I press my hand on the frozen dirt to wonder if the Earth feels my soul warmth and wants to speak of ancient moonless truth till I become one wheel of the apple cart that searches for the words negating grief. When she asks me if winter has arrived, we wander leafless woods of sleepy faith in robes of tender green that keep our minds enclosed in social structure of our names, since garlands we had woven back in May now wither with transparency of hope. Our eyes become entangled in desire as flashing magnets of conceptual love when we embrace with passionate despair to generate new life before we die or savor pleasure of this transient life because our bodies glow with divine light. Discarding fractured puzzles of the past, framed by romantic gestures of respect, we search for what world view of holy love could replace deconstructed fantasies which once sustained our nation through world wars because we built empire on privilege. If we escape dim shadows of our fear to give our bodies with calm selfless love, we might rise up reborn from graves of books to see strange beauty in this broken world where wounded hearts beam light of fierce desire to taste electric wisdom of the rain.
Friday, October 9, 2026
Wander With Clumsy Grace
Unclock Of Atomic Fate
Unclock Of Atomic Fate © Surazeus 2026 10 09 While Rapunzel in glass tower of mirrors calls to the angel falling from the sky, Gawain leaps on meaningless legs of love to catch the neutered wolf of Arkansas because this life is still unbearable for children on the Dnipro River shore. Still clutching unclock of atomic fate, Rapunzel evades Death for many years while dancing awkward ballet gracefully in supple swirls of humble hurricane which hopes to tend flowers of holy faith that bloom from corpses of forgotten gods. Alert to strict analysis of waves, Rapunzel wonders why oceans of faith leave her soul stranded in the greenless room with phone of supernatural intelligence while she waits for messiah of world peace who never returns from the lonely moon. Whenever Rapunzel tells her nine sons to scorn the casual randomness of death, they play game of baseball with the Muses in the long-neglected graveyard of kings who rise as zombies on election night since Lucifer campaigns for President. When Apollo, eating burgers and fries at the Gearshift Grille on Route Sixty-Six, calls Rapunzel with the news that she won the Nobody Prize of World Literature, she tells him she is singing with the wind while wandering hills of Iceland before dawn. Clutching marble face of Endymion, Rapunzel kisses him with ardent lust, and whispers she will steal him from that witch, Selene, runway model at the Louvre, then removes glass mask of her personhood so tender shoots sprout with greenness of love. While we are young and brimming with desire, we make love with the stranger in the woods and generate wild children of the heath who build great empires with machines of grief, but, Rapunzel grins at Endymion, we still die and dissolve to swirls of dust. As the world law-enforcement officer, Rapunzel prosecutes in Justice Court brute thief who dismantles democracy when he demands the Laurels of World Peace, arrested by Gawain on Christmas Eve, then she lies down by the ocean to die.
Thursday, October 8, 2026
Godness Of The Empty Space
Godness Of The Empty Space © Surazeus 2026 10 08 My heart is withness of the empty space that binds our distances in spiral thought based on miniscule ecstasy of love flashing inside our closed eyes with strange luck at randomness of fame that curses fools who chase elusive butterfly of faith. Transformed by notness of the empty space expanding endless books of fairy tales, redesigned as sacred stories of faith that guide how we adjust our focused fear contrary to completeness of dire need, I hear Death object to thrust of desire. My brain is forthness of the empty space, woven by assertive fractions of light that pulse with psychic energy of waves which toss my fragile body on the beach so I attempt to stand straight at the sky of dizzy upside backward till I laugh. Through intense thingness of the empty space I try to explain twisted differences between bittersweet moments of regret for choosing where to go at flash of dawn that leaves me stranded in the somewhere else if time tricks me to tell you how I feel. Remembered dreamness of the empty space renders my face invisible to Death who wanders everywhere in swirls of snow to edge of eternity where ghosts build house of memories that steals my true name because I believe in the endless rain. Cherished by startness of the empty space for vast imperfectness of ardent play, I wear faces sharp as knives children sell for boxes of fractured gods who require pain of sorrowful truth to resurrect fictional characters from holy books. Entrapped by calmness of the empty space, I stumble perilously happy through Hell to follow laughing horse with clockwork eyes who gives me crystal orange of irony so I may understand how she loves me more as we grow old by the willow tree. Pregnant with Godness of the empty space, I hang nine days and nights from the phone pole because my brain is linked by psychic wires to weird internet of the world wide web so I channel prophecies of Star Wraith which disassembles puzzle of the brain.
Formulas Of Wrong Think
Formulas Of Wrong Think © Surazeus 2026 10 08 Obsessed with trite formulas of Wrong Think, I uncreate myself with every song I shout into the void of everywhere, when I dismantle and interrogate illusions of myself as normal being I forge as shield against absurdity. Helenus tells every person he meets along the winding road of anywhere that he was born in grand towers of Troy before they fell from market games of greed, but he was born in some small lonely town in mercurial backwoods of Oregon. Learning to play guitar when he is twelve, Helenus busks in the Pretty How Town where up so floating bells corrupt the clown who writes in anguish of electric wires, composing hymns sung by cathedral choirs when his body twirls up to the glass moon. Shocked by disturbance in the psychic force, as if millions of voices cried at once than huffed into silence of the Soul Source that blows soft as the wind in willow leaves where the first mother of mankind still grieves, Helenus plays chess with Death on the beach. Concerned about formulas of Wrong Think that angels use to calculate our fate, I recreate my body from weird genes entangled by ancestral memories that program how my brain perceives the world and tricks me into playing the cosmic herald. Helenus keeps his fraught relationship with his mother secret from the tabloids who invent new strange American myths based on the fabulous life of the fool who proclaims himself Emperor of Earth, not knowing he is our psychotic tool. Accepting award for weird spells of faith he conjures from grave of the holy seer, Helenus reigns as wise Asterion in Anglonesium, New Parthenon as capitol for Empire of Anglonesia composed of Zarathia, Gothinia, and Russia. Inspired by weird formulas of Wrong Think, I sing with secret voice of everyone to play eccentric role of Lucifer by bearing sacred Lamp of Liberty while writing name of every human soul in epic poem as Tellurian Testament.
Human Face Of Geryon
Human Face Of Geryon © Surazeus 2026 10 08 We cannot fear ambition of the heart to transcend sorrow of soul-twisting pain till we design new myth-contriving chart that guides our leap through time portal of rain, so we walk fields of lush Elysium with noble vision of delirium. Though not as brave is honest Heracles, new-born as his contemporary clone, I face the screaming ghost with psychic keys who wears the human face of Geryon because I want to know the arcane truth that motivates reign of messiah sleuth. I climb three steps to Heaven before dawn to measure our indifferent universe where I meet Pegasus on White House lawn eating apples from Medusa the Nurse who asks me if I know the Golden Way that binds our lonely hearts in fertile play. While crossing bleak waste land of Libya, I throw sharp raven quill at Helios who gives me Holy Grail of Sylvia, then asks me of I know Prometheus, but I just want to find the Promised Land where Fortune doles fate with her Red Right Hand. When Norax, son of Hermes, calls my name with lunar melody through secret code, I climb Parnassus to hex curse of fame, but find Lyre of Hermes on signless road, so I sing romantic tunes of blind faith to woo humble daughter of the Star Wraith. After I kill cruel giant Geryon in battle against tyranny of greed, I build with laughter of Hyperion light house tower on cracked skull of his need from which I rule world empire of free will named Anglonesia for the Wisdom Hill. While sailing down the River Phlegethon to find apple garden in Tartarus, I find shy Erytheia on the phone arguing with the architect Sisyphus about reconstructing the Parthenon where I will rule Earth as Asterion. When I wake at dawn from weird fantasy that I wear human face of Geryon with solemn quest to map the galaxy, I play my role based on criterion that I am temporary soul of light conscious of its God Self in cosmic night.
Wednesday, October 7, 2026
New Truth In Byzantium
New Truth In Byzantium © Surazeus 2026 10 07 Since I find new truth in Byzantium in scrappy gardens of the laughing skull, I flirt with Death who smiles at me with eyes that mirror galaxies of flashing stars to cherish virtue of pretentious faith that helps me translate water song of love. If I should recognize my holy ghost who drifts among old apple trees of fate, I may learn secret of Byzantium concealed in cedar box with golden lock that gleams ephemeral as fragrant joy my love exudes while lounging by the pool. To measure gravity of drifting clouds that veil swift airplane with projective voice, I stand on glistening bridge of evermore that spans abyss of swirling arrogance as proof I must purchase right to exist from every stranger I may never meet. Thus I cast victimhood into the trash because I want to eat the shepherd pie while showing constellations to the child who wonders at the story of the snake who transforms into queen of bubbling wells because I sing on moonless summer nights. Entranced by how cicadas sing of light beneath the sprawling stars of honesty, I read strange omen in the eagle flight about the guardian of the apple tree who builds another bank beside the lake and offers loans to farmers in the dell. Though I have traveled far around the world with wings of angels tucked into my pack, I purchase jar of honey, and blue cheese, at small family store by the river bridge, then give my voice to stranger at the door who gives me book of grief to keep the score. Reprising sacred role of global seer, which I perform on stage of tragedy, I type strange story of the hungry girl who walks across the field of screaming trees so I can understand her bitter words when she gives me egg of the serpent god. Carving spell of wisdom with demon bone in runes on Emerald Tablet of Untime, I channel energy of my brain soul to wake Star Ghost of Lake Ontario who asks me with flirtatious grin of hope about truth I found in Byzantium.
Church Of Bitter Prayer
Church Of Bitter Prayer © Surazeus 2026 10 07 Trapped by sharp lethargy of innocence, we drift the midnight sidewalk of desire to find the purple haze of shocking truth that veils our long-healed hearts with nonchalance through incoherent laughter of sad faith that we lose our souls in the photo booth. Strange flower on the roadless mountain slope gleams in electric smile of bitter ghosts whose voices taste like silver light of dawn despite confusing absence of jasmine crushed by careless joy of city car tires that glisten in the rain of reptile faith. No one will ever see ghost of my being sitting on roof of the haunted hotel, because I twang decisive nerves of steel when death employs belligerent respect while driving old truck on the dusty road far past the last gas station of fooled hearts. Too lonesome for the chance to cry for real in performative display of victimhood, I sing with angels on the radio about the true love I left back in town who may wonder if I am still alive somewhere outside the church of bitter prayer. I refuse to pay the cost of wild joy while driving nowhere on the lost highway, since time cannot undo my noble deeds protecting women from aggressive men who leave me bruised and beaten on the ground long enough for her to fly up to Heaven. Though I love the land where I was born, and grew up running in lush river vales, I journey to escape liars and thieves who figured out how to steal all my land, and build another home far from my home that shelters children I tend with calm care. I hold this world together with strange words though the mountains of my youth call my name, because I scatter prayers on rancid soil that redesign wild spirit of my flesh so I become another human being by wearing mask of a long-forgotten god. Because I catch flame in the ether zone while soaring on fear-fueled Icarian wings, my words become the hex of secret truth that breaks hard walls in church of bitter prayer so we treasure our darling thoughts of hope and frame them with theology of growth.
Live Equally With Faith
Live Equally With Faith © Surazeus 2026 10 07 Sunk in dire gloom of her brave misery, Blathnaid lifts heavy sorrow of her head to stare bleak-eyed at meadow of bright flowers where bodies of young men clutching cracked spears still groan in agony of painful death till eerie silence shudders in soft breeze. When she finds the lyre that Achilles stole from Eetion, father of Andromache, Blathnaid nestles small curved-wood instrument on her lap, like mothers cradles newborns to suckle them with milk, and strums taut strings that vibrate with elegy of despair. Failing to find words that clearly express anguish of her heart at death of young men who could have lived unremarkable lives with loving wives while raising happy children, Blathnaid shrieks at corrupt justice of Heaven till her body shakes uncontrollably. Why would you die for some young mortal man, Blathnaid howls at corpses with trembling voice, to crown him leader of our hill-wild tribes because his grandfather once wore gold crown while claiming authority from High Heaven, instead of dwelling in your own safe homes? Though your cowardly king has quickly fled over the sea to Skye in boat of fear, Blathnaid caresses blank face as she sobs, I have remained with fate-abandoned corpses to lament bitter loss of your brave souls that could have brightened our land with joy. Why have the tribes of men throughout all time, in every land around our roomy world, Blathnaid sighs as she buries more dead soldiers, always chosen to crown the strongest man as leader who enforces tribal laws and orchestrates their wars to conquer land? Why can men not live equally with faith as colleagues sharing rich communal space, Blathnaid glares at the fallen crown of gems, instead of building hierarchical states that allow managers to exploit workers then living on wealth they extract from slaves? Heart purged of anguish at loss of brave men from hot tears that cleanse their faces of blood, Blathnaid strums long-lost lyre of Mercury as she journeys in the Scottish highlands, and sings of boys who fought with bravery in every feasting hall where people weep.
Tuesday, October 6, 2026
Mute Book Of Lies
Mute Book Of Lies © Surazeus 2026 10 06 If my soul gets trapped by mute book of lies, because my heart is lured by promises of awards and acclaim for dreams I weave from tangled memories of nameless souls, I shall untwist false concept of dream time to map my progress through the Otherworld. Each angel who escapes mute book of lies transforms into some normal human being who goes about the routine of their life, performing rote roles expected of them by social rules that obligate success, though most of us manage with hidden flaws. Gods of myths labeled in mute book of lies are based on mortal humans who once lived long ago in swirling mists of untime whose valorous deeds glamorize their souls so they become concepts of noble deeds that provide templates for how we behave. Writhing with passion from mute book of lies, Helios races the chariot of fire across the crystal highway of the sky to conquer the world with glorious deeds, defeating tyrants so people live free to build new world empire of equal rights. Stumbling through doors to leave mute book of lies, I stand on the road of Forever Now and ask myself where I should go from here to maintain balance of my eager heart so we can stay together till we die because we are flowers in field of fate. Sailing on the flood from mute book of lies in fragile boat of my body-bound soul, I feel my brain pulse with aggressive lust, programmed by millions of ancestral lives regenerating souls life after life, so I sway entranced in the midnight mist. Falling forever in mute book of lies that gives me angel wings like Icarus, I ride the bus each dawn to work all day assembling radios in the factory, while I dream of being a famous singer, then ride home to eat pizza at midnight. Reborn as Star God from mute book of lies, I type magic spells on computer screen so they flutter fragile butterfly wings and fly to flower-hearts of random strangers to sprinkle fairy dust into their eyes so they wander with me in Wonderland.
Mindless Mirror Of Infinity
Mindless Mirror Of Infinity © Surazeus 2026 10 06 My heart becomes raven of light each time Orpheus takes me to the Otherworld because snowflakes are laughter of the sun that photograph my soul with fractured eyes, time unaware of astronauts in boats which sail across the mirror of my mind. Quick butterflies of memories seem to flock around bookshelves of stories never read by children who panic at falling planes, despite how soon the monster of the moon sells our strange secrets to the holy fool because the Self is illusion of words. Though clocks in trunks of oaks beside the lake remember why my Dream Body was born at this complex age, on this crowded globe of all the planets in the universe, I choose to redesign my character based on flight of the raven in my heart. Surprised by sense of wonder in my heart that wakes me from strange dream of broken trees, I gather photos scattered on the grass and arrange them in frames on temple walls to prove my right to breathe air of the sky with humble glamor of the nameless ghost. Though most believe the universe is made by conscious force of psychic energy that conjures life on planets of bright suns, others believe through formulas of faith that we project our sense of consciousness at mindless mirror of infinity. Preserved by silence of the singing lake, who seems to know how I should never feel, I focus sharp attention of my mind on how soft undulating curves of time reveal essential nature of the heart so I can prove my brave sincerity. Though words I speak become white butterflies that flutter far into fate-mirrored sky, I hold the stone that streaked in blaze of light from mindless mirror of infinity to show the secret face behind my face which I wear to mask passionate respect. Lost in Somewhere City of the Weird Earth, alone in endless maze of numbered homes, I ponder strictness of the asphalt road that frames writhing lawns of yellow grass because I am the raven who eats words each time I return from the Otherworld.
Cherubic Wings Of Innocence
Cherubic Wings Of Innocence © Surazeus 2026 10 06 Untwisting feelings of romantic hope to disengage my body from desire, I spread cherubic wings of innocence to float as light above chaotic seas, then sing celestial thoughts of broken stones from which spring children of the hungry stars. Shy Carla strolls the hard sidewalk at dawn past willow threes that paint the lonely sky with all the rainbow colors of the wind, then opens her small gift shop by the park and smiles at ding of the bell on the door, then turns on computers, and pets the cat. Time-weaving clocks with face of the Green Man watch us from trunks of oaks in shadowed woods where angels wrestle devils for our hearts, but dissipate in mist from silver ponds because illusions vanish in sunlight which conjures virtual model of the Earth. Yet Carla stocking cards in metal shelves considers problem of evil that forms foundation for international law by which leaders of nations in gray suits play chess games to control our mortal souls with systemic framework of social power. Old bearded man, who stares at birthday card that shows young lovers swinging by a pond, weeps with quiet anguish, then buys the card, explaining that he leaves one by her grave though rain always dissolves it into grass because her ghost follows him everywhere. If we could dismantle male privilege where men are never punished for vile crimes in vain attempts to control minds of women, Carla ponders while ringing up new sale for Beatrice purchasing pen with pink ink, we could make life safer for young girls. Cars, forged from steel of fallen meteors, which Arthur used to pull sword from the stone, float past her gift shop on angelic wings of gleaming sunlight that sparks in her heart compassion for all the people of Earth who suffer and die in stark misery. Locking her shop after sunset flames fade to darkness tainted orange by mute streetlamps, Carla stops by pond in the city park and stares at face of Artemis she wears, that floats into the sky on red swan wings to sleep in her house on the crystal moon.
Monday, October 5, 2026
Woods Of My Aching Heart
Woods Of My Aching Heart © Surazeus 2026 10 05 What shining spirit of justice and order may power my subjection of despair, Shamash defeating Humbaba with light, Apollo vanquishing Python with wisdom, Jesus overcoming Satan with love, or Beowulf battling Grendel with honor? What dark obscure woods of my aching heart must I explore with lamp of timeless faith, though sun-gilded tears may stream down my face, strange paradise of uncivilized passion entrapping me in labyrinth of despair, till I face snake-haired monster of blind lust? If monstrous demon of my wounded heart howls at my face with mocking disrespect, then cracks the mountain of the rumbling world by smacking my frail soul against the Earth, will I wake roaring flame of innocence to rise on wings and fight my hungry greed? If primal nature of my monkey soul is severed from angelic glow of faith that beams from spinning iron core of Earth, will I be baptized in pool of desire and cleansed of wolfish rage inside my heart by tender compassion of my sweet bride? Once I rise tall from muck of psychic birth and transcend monstrous passion of my heart to confirm my soul through strict self-control, will I evolve from mad demon of Hell to transform through creative offering to wise angel of Heaven with eight wings? Once Ishtar offers me her fertile heart in marriage that combines body and soul, and asks me with seductive voice of trust to fertilize her with gift of my fruits, as Eve ate Apple to generate life, will I design new world view for mankind? Where will I wander to find nameless ghost who falls in bottomless abyss of death after I slay great bull of the Sun God and feast on steaks I roast on flame of faith, to weep for Lycidas and Adonais while lost in endless labyrinth of Hell? Where will I build the house of seven doors, constructing wall with thirty-three watch towers, and plant Garden of Eden to raise children, when the lightning storm destroys it with flood that demolishes everything I make, so I sing alone on the river shore?
Godless Void Of Hope
Godless Void Of Hope © Surazeus 2026 10 05 Wise Aten beams my soul with hands of light so I live and die in dream of Earth with laughter of the ancient deathless stars beaming through atoms of my fragile flesh which animate my progress till I die when I stare in the godless void of hope. Clever Tammuz weaves my spirit from wool so I climb broad stairs up high ziggurat to bring gifts of my crafting hands with love to temple where Inanna brews sweet wine which I drink as we kiss in gold moonlight when I laugh in the godless void of hope. Brave Adonis bakes my body from wheat so I bear brass plate with hot loaves of bread for everyone on broad ziggurat steps may eat the sacred body of the Earth while Ishtar sings Creation of the World when I shout in the godless void of hope. Bold Adam breathes life in my apple heart so I tame serpent writhing in the tree then people buy apple pies from my cart while I perform in market maze of want below ziggurat where Asherah sings when I leap in the godless void of hope. Shrewd Jehovah molds my torso from fish so I dive deep in ocean of despair to find the herb of youth Gilgamesh lost then wander beach to hut where Shamhat sings who teaches me to spark life in her heart when I swim in the godless void of hope. Honest Jesus twists my arms into wings so I run swift in forest of swift harts to hunt with Artemis in moonlit groves where we twang strings of bows with dauntless joy to feel our bodies pulsing with desire when I soar in the godless void of hope. Lithe Lucifer forges my brain from gold so I map history of humanity on time-animated globe that depicts evolution of man from Fish to God on endless quest to find the Promised Land when I dance in the godless void of hope. Audacious Odin carves my name in runes that writhe with serpentine intelligence in ghost-engendering well of Melusine who teaches me to compose tales of faith that show how women raise children with love when I sing in the godless void of hope.
Reconnect With Mother Sea
Reconnect With Mother Sea © Surazeus 2026 10 05 Because the music of the sea knows me, I float on celestial breath of the mind to interact with humans in the world who float on their own music of the sea, for we all sing in harmony with hope that leaves us stranded on the sunlit beach. Expanding beyond scale of holy thoughts with every wave that flows onto the beach, my mind considers why we suffer pain that drives us to consume beasts of the sea whose spirits vibrate energy of hope which animates our journey to the light. Since blazing power of relentless light blasts my frail soul with divine energy, I follow flashing river through steep hills, ascending to broad meadow of soft flowers that dance with delicate grace of desire in cool breeze that caresses me with hope. I dwell ten thousand years in field of flowers between the sloshed wave and the jagged peak, safe in fertile haven of Middle-Earth, tending herds of sheep, and fields of gold wheat, through countless generations of my soul reborn as me with each new frame of flesh. Now I work as mechanic every day, fixing engines of cars in large garage along street of businesses and banks where cars and people glide by every hour, yet memory of that meadow by the sea frames how I function in daily routines. Attention focused on tubes, wires, and gears, I maintain process of physical change to manage function of the world machine powered by waves that still wash on the beach where I take my wife and kids on weekends to reconnect our hearts with Mother Sea. We hike in meadow where soft flowers bloom, and listen to birds chirp in florid trees who taught us how to speak words of our thoughts, then fish at lake where our ancestors lived, to eat roast fish and sing old tribal songs around bright campfire under sparkling stars. I hope we can maintain this balanced life of working in the corporate urban zone to maintain world food-production machine while seeking recreation in lush Nature where we can reconnect with Mother Sea whose song rejuvenates our wave-born souls.
Sunday, October 4, 2026
Yet Still I Row My Boat
Yet Still I Row My Boat © Surazeus 2026 10 04 Glass bridge of laughter questions Game of If where nameless people wander distant shores with plans to steal new souls from grocery stores who vanish in strict mirror of the cliff, yet still I row my boat past paradise because important things should have no price. Electric lightbulb of the smiling sun sends garbage trucks to take lost memories discarded by housewives with broken keys who seek salvation of the holy gun, yet still I row my boat past Eden tress where angels give math books to chimpanzees. Life is the angel wearing mirror mask to work for advertising companies with clients selling psychic clarities to robots who refuse to do the task, yet still I row my boat past libraries where demons work for social charities. Brave butterflies of pencils with nine brains flock merrily around sly Mercury who teaches jesters art of jollity who prance at midnight in honey-gold rains, yet still I row my boat past empty church where Cinderella continues vain search. Trapped by strict duties of proud happiness, where horses of the king eat grass of gold, my father shows me how to dream-unfold airplane wings above Sea of Nothingness, yet still I row my boat past apple groves where wives of senators slave at hot stoves. Despite sincerity of obvious love that cripples crow of Heaven with false faith, I formulate how God is stellar wraith that conjures worlds with psychometric shove, yet still I row my boat past matrix schools to learn how primates invent farming tools. Since fatal geographies of state power provide framework for tyrants to play god, brave blacksmiths disarticulate the fraud with guidance from Rapunzel in her tower, yet still I row my boat past bombed-out homes to watch gods wrestle in glass thunder domes. Conceptual language of the creditor reframes the meaning of life we employ to reconstruct the sacred halls of Troy based on project designed by Lucifer, yet still I row my boat past gates of Hell to gather dream runes from the serpent well.
Restore Greatness Of America
Restore Greatness Of America © Surazeus 2026 10 04 If I should paint the wide subversive sky true color of your heart when we first meet, the people of the world might analyze sufficient romance of my sacrifice against synopsis of the seminar to judge my brave sincerity of love. If I should find crippled crow of my heart hopping frantically across the wet lawn, the angels of the mountain might require visual conformation of my despair revealed by neon sign of vacancy that flashes intermittently till dawn. If I should hear the sharp objective cry of morbid nurses in the bitter wind, the devils in cathedrals might expect guards at the gate of Hell to optimize nutritious medicine of martial law that traps us in Nirvana after all. If I should see the glowing Face of God that beams from center of the universe, the grim professors might demand I write my doctoral thesis about poverty that traps the talented in menial jobs while mediocre fools run governments. If I should write the holy manuscript that prophesies new empire of the lost, the tongueless preachers might demand I burn idols of heroes from religious tales to cleanse the sanctuary of the lamb who rules through journalist integrity. If I should map whole history of the Earth that details how great empires rise and fall, the housewives in schools might demand I play games with children of crippled warriors who volunteer to count the treasury when priests sell them shares to the Afterlife. If I should decree new socialist creed to restore greatness of America, the lawyers in banks might demand I steal celestial wings of flight from Icarus so they can storm Heaven in holy coup to crown shy Jesus Emperor of Earth. If I should play role of messiah sleuth through rational performance of my heart, the oligarchs might demand I program new world view that excludes divinities to build from ruins of America new state based on equal rights in one law.
Church Of Broken Clocks
Church Of Broken Clocks © Surazeus 2026 10 04 Because stars shine indifferent to us, not knowing we exist so far away on small fragile globe of shuddering water, I watch my children play in the back yard with joyful laughter of ambitious hope that they will rule their own nations one day. Obsession of the water-shining stone that glistens in the front yard of my home inspires me to admire the humble soul who rises up from crowd of frantic fear to rule the nation accidentally when wild waves of change sweep them into power. Though names and faces of the global dead are forgotten in the spinning of time, we merge them all into mythical gods who simplify their spirits on one trope which preserves their general character while their details dissipate in the wind. Because the eyeless ghost of my sponge brain keeps slipping back and forth in stream of time, soaring on wings I stole from Icarus, the random story of my awkward life becomes the palimpsest of future heroes who follow my map through the labyrinth. Each day that I grow older than the moon I store more information about Earth through grand encyclopedia of the brain in tales about great empires of the land and all the haughty kings who ruled their lives, then faded to paintings in history books. Since sparrows on statues of generals express opinions about their noble deeds, we hairless monkeys hide in libraries to prove we are wingless angels of time blessed to thrive on Earth millions of years more since we crawled dripping from the wordless sea. Searching for the one book that reveals truth in library of human memory, I row my boat on river of world dream to find the secret island of fruit trees where messiah sleuth plots world revolution that will unite all nations in one game. While spiders spin world matrix of our minds we gather in the church of broken clocks to decipher riddles from arcane code that explain the nature of human greed till prophets teach us to embrace nonbeing though we make mindless gods from random stars.
My Feet Write Cuneiforms
My Feet Write Cuneiforms © Surazeus 2026 10 04 Afloat in randomness of whorling thoughts that curl down through genetic memories programmed by dreams all my ancestors share, I drift with gentle tides of social change with stubborn heart that beats time with the stars so my feet write cuneiforms of hope. While my feet write cuneiforms of hope on signless road that takes me everywhere beyond the broken walls of paradise, I map cave passage through maternal hearts down timeless halls of mirrors to perceive face of first mother who watches my life. Face of first mother who watches my life seems to appear on every tree and cloud as if her spirit through lush Nature shines with faint penumbral glow of divine truth so I translate her wordless thoughts of faith to songs I sing while strolling road of fate. Weird songs I sing while strolling road of fate project strange visions of my flashing brain each time I face new obstacle of fear, providing methods of proactive deeds that guide my way on landscape of desire through endless labyrinth of confusing myths. Through endless labyrinth of confusing myths I trace ancestral journey to myself based on the tangled narrative of faith which my ancestors map in fairy tales depicting how people fail or succeed to generate new life before they die. To generate new life before we die we gather food from bounty of the Earth till strangers take it all before we can, so we build forts on hills and fight fierce wars to gather food in bags from hungry woods by building empires on the skulls of gods. While building empires on the skulls of gods we erect idols that depict wise souls of leaders who unite our hearts with goal to dominate the world with clever plans organized by the father of our tribe so we present dead mortal as our god. Though we present dead mortal as our god because he gave us mission to unite all nations of the world in Holy Church, I leave that endless game of thought control and walk to waste land back to Wonderland, afloat in randomness of whorling thoughts.
Saturday, October 3, 2026
Lake Of Dreamless Eyes
Lake Of Dreamless Eyes © Surazeus 2026 10 03 When I find myself at the huge blank wall where shadow of my soul mocks my vain pride, I open window into nothingness and watch one hundred thousand years of wars when angry men transform to humming trees where children of their enemies play games. The house is quiet and the world is calm but I am not the book of ancient gods because nameless ghosts rise from writhing words and dance around me in the summer night so I invent strange truth from what I see and write their stories no one ever reads. How many human faces I have seen on endless journey through vast maze of towns that takes me through the mystery of faith long hidden behind numbered doors of homes where strangers hide their secrets inside books that angels burn before they break the world. My house hangs from the pendulum of doom that shakes with throbbing of remembered rain though I lose treasure of strange memories that lead me to the shadowed woods of time where voices of the people I still love echo too faintly in receding mist. I find their names with letters of bright blood fast fading from old books of glimmering leaves because wild throbbing of my heart inspires fearful rebellion against tyranny so I dance by the lake of metal flame with radiant laughter of deceptive fame. Though I go back and search my tangled dream to find the beacon of our anguished pride lit by aggressive anger of desire, I kneel beside the lake of dreamless eyes which casts mercurial gleam on my glass face so I become the demon I fear most. I hear wild song of ravens after storm who gather on electric wires of thought to translate noise of brains that buzz with rage to solemn hymn uniting wounded hearts in global nation of objective faith that helps us navigate our maze of myths. Awakened by the shouts of jostling flowers that toss my body to the humorous moon, I surf the flashing tides of global change which carry me to land of burning fruit where we hold hands and gaze at timeless stars that spell our fortune we choose to create.
Bard Banner Of Our Muses
Bard Banner Of Our Muses © Surazeus 2026 10 03 While I am wandering in dark tangled woods, alone in changeless glimmer of dead gray, I find the fallen banner of the bard who wrenched it from the western skies with verve to light the beacon of musical truth that shines from Parnassus with holy glow. With trembling hands of my lost legacy, which sparks awake the timeless glow of faith in my young witch-wrought heart, I lift up high that noble banner of our ancient clan, then light again with flame of prophecy that beacon on the bleak Parnassian height. I find the broken lyre of Mercury, that Apollo strummed with passionate heart some thirty centuries of change ago, which passed through skilled hands of many brave singers, Phoebus, Homer, Ovid, Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare, and Milton, to my hand this hour. After tuning strings taut with intense faith, I strum the lyre of Mercury and sing enchanting hex that conjures from mute gloom ghosts of great singers in my bardic clan, Philip, Anne, Oliver, William, James, Sarah, Edwin, and Robert, who flock to my tune. Joining in spontaneous choir of sweet song, they beam mercurial voices of bright truth in threads of eerie melodies that weave grand tapestry of visionary tales which illustrate our transcendental faith in spells blessed by the Muses of our hearts. High on transcendent peak of arcane faith, I sing the ancient tale of human hope while bearing banner of our bardic clan, and tend the sacred flame of divine truth that shines from Parnassus with holy glow to light our world with wisdom of the Muses. Through eerie silence of human despair, from hearts crushed by destructive wars for power, strange songs of disharmonious ardency emerge from hundred million wounded hearts whose spells of hope from isolated rooms swell whole together through aspiring wind. Now that bard banner of our Muses flies aloft in pure wind of ethereal song, brave voices of hundred million Earth bards fuel flame of truth in beacon of our hearts which beams from sacred peak of high Parnassus to light the Way for people of the world.
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