If I Adjust Cycle

If I Adjust Cycle
© Surazeus
2026 03 08

If I adjust cycle of my emotions 
to match exploding stars of naked words, 
I might find Lost Princess with seven eyes 
singing in forest of eccentric clowns, 
yet when I turn on the glass radio 
ghosts from distant stars call my secret name. 

If I adjust temperature of my rage 
to counter pain of patient pertinence, 
I might wake on the moon in time to see 
God break every pattern of human faith, 
yet I anticipate the second coming 
while typing at my desk in the hot swamp. 

If I adjust ingenuous mode of reason 
to lock my brain with alternative truth, 
I might caress sensuous contours of time 
to surf tidal wave of continuum 
silhouetted by dramatic regret 
when I follow claw-prints in bloody snow. 

If I adjust celebration of wisdom 
in spite of artificial victory, 
I might taste resolve of the Gardener 
to rebuild Garden of Eden in Hades 
that matches permanent state of respect 
fractured by pendulum unwound by fate. 

If I adjust lassitude of each season 
that returns with ostensible perversion, 
I might reclaim discolored photograph 
that proves I committed those evil crimes 
based on defeated memory of chimes 
gracious with flowers of frantic endurance. 

If adjust flight of arrogant breath 
by swooping wingless over power lines, 
I might remember who gives me their mask 
by calling my name on the telephone, 
which I deny outside of time and space 
because I am spectator of the race. 

If I adjust standards of moral values 
to style our fight as matter of survival, 
I might sense absence of psychotic color 
by starting enterprise of stolen wealth 
with uncommon manners of noble clowns 
who fight each other for the secret key. 

If I adjust scale of false modesty 
to join holy cult of the Water Book, 
I might sidle past the house of dead gods 
to rendezvous with Death down by the river 
that flushes human bodies to the sea 
with indifferent auspice no one perceives. 

Ten Thousand Doors Of Time

Ten Thousand Doors Of Time
© Surazeus
2026 03 08

Strange beauty of inflections keys my mind 
with barbaric flash of the star-black eye 
that gazes from core of the universe 
to dream my soul awake with flashing words 
frail as icicle on limb of the tree 
that whistles casually in winter wind. 

Lucid shadow of my eternal soul 
traces indecipherable cause of hope 
through bodies of all my ancestral souls 
who speak with inescapable concepts 
about great circle of euphoric light 
that glitters sharply at far edge of time. 

Great river of my adaptive heart flows 
with brave insistence of electric snow 
that molds our bodies from evasive fear 
so we climb trees and swing vast canopies 
six thousand miles from sea to shining sea 
till we transform from monkeys into humans. 

Silver-eyed blackbird in the apple tree 
recounts obsessive journey of my soul 
one hundred million years to find the cave 
where the sun is reborn every new day 
till I forget what I am looking for 
and live by the river ten thousand years. 

Blue clouds occur above my empty house 
where I collect raindrops in open eyes 
unfractured by contorted strength of faith 
to prove I first designed the wheel of time 
that mimics eye in mirror of the sun 
which survives the death of every state god. 

One fragile candle, glowing gold with faith 
one fleeting moment through eternity, 
contains dim conscious sense of self I am 
because I play the Mad Astronomer 
whose eyes have seen galactic deities 
possess chemical shells of mortal gods. 

Essential shadow of my abstract mind 
proves my organic body must be real 
when I eat apples of the mountain slopes 
that teach my animal mouth how to speak 
so I walk through ten thousand doors of time 
to find lush valley of my singing skull. 

Only the blind remember how the past 
shines clear in tragic tales of story books 
which I record with raven quill of truth 
I dip in gold ichor of divine blood 
till time erases every word I write 
so all your names vanish from cliff of truth. 

New Life Always Springs

New Life Always Springs
© Surazeus
2026 03 08

Vague splatter of misty rain on soft grass 
frames frantic despair of my heart with glow 
of mute sorrow at constant loss of life, 
yet new life always springs from mud of death 
with flourishing passion of timeless desire 
for us to dwell together in our space. 

Paused at flaming gates to leave paradise, 
I look back at shining temples of gold 
where people cheer song of the noble hero, 
then turn my face to emptiness of hope 
and walk in graveyard of the lonely world 
where billions of people killed in wars wait. 

I almost hear their voices in the wind, 
each one telling me of their tragic fate, 
till all their spirits swirl in hurricane 
of mocking laughter at God on his throne 
who glares enraged that his authority 
crumbles at relentless process of fate. 

Instead of arranging flowers on graves 
of innocent people mangled by bombs, 
I scatter apple seeds that sprout in trees 
so cemetery of our endless wars 
transforms into vast forest of fruit trees 
which nourish my body with love for life. 

Billions of trees blooming from our dead bodies 
transform material of our dreaming brains 
to stars that glitter in vast void of space 
with unrequited love for worlds of souls 
who live and die with endless swirl of change 
as we evolve from fish to singing god. 

On every planet in the universe 
one conscious creature pauses on their way, 
and gazes through infinity of space 
to see each other in mirror of love, 
our special faces becoming one face 
who sings our dreams in timeless song of light. 

Though I may weep for every conscious soul 
who ever lived and died on every world, 
collective radiance of their countless brains 
weaves my small brain in matrix of their truth 
so I dream complex patterns of their lives 
when I sleep under watch of the Moon Crow. 

When I meet Circe on the ocean shore 
and drink wine offered by her generous hand, 
I find my mortal body of desire 
transformed into immortal beam of light 
when she gives birth to me from seed of hope 
that drives me to live ten thousand years more. 

Lilacs Of Sordid Desire

Lilacs Of Sordid Desire
© Surazeus
2026 03 08

Attuned to song of river stones, I climb 
ladder of ideas with bravery 
to find wild fiddler on the mountain slope 
who causes lilacs of sordid desire 
to bloom from corpses of huge dinosaurs, 
so I photograph it all with my brain. 

Beneath veneer of civilized respect 
shy mountain wolf wakes in my wounded heart 
while I trudge alone on Sahara dunes, 
clutching rifle to my chest with vain prayer 
that whistles in the waste land of concern 
with holy shimmer of the godless sun. 

I gather gold coins from fallen empires 
to catalog their depictions in code 
of kings as gods who rule with wand of death 
by whacking people on the low-bowed head 
to teach them wisdom of subservience 
loyal to the angry man in the tower. 

Separate from likeness of the changing world, 
I remind myself that time spools my brain 
with memories that I weave in tapestries 
showing epic tales about tragic heroes 
who grasp lightning bolts with courageous hands 
to photograph everything that occurs. 

After I might have figured it all out, 
listening to thousands of people talk 
about mistakes they made, or their victimhood, 
I walk away from city of blind fools 
to sit on the hill where butterflies flit, 
and watch their buildings burn when thieves attack. 

While we sit face to face beside the lake 
at small round table of the quaint cafe, 
I measure distance between our brain worlds 
that gapes wide with magical mindfulness 
recorded through songs on the radio 
which I sing with aching voice of desire. 

When tangle of our bodies is undone 
by emotional memories we share, 
hearts aching with pleasure of vain regret, 
I work to keep everyone I love safe 
from sudden disintegration of truth 
that leaves us stranded without guiding myths. 

Pretty inwardness of angels we love 
radiates from religious paintings of saints 
martyred in spiritual climate of fear 
through mind-numbing fantasy of false pride 
that angels guide our nation to subdue 
unruly states who worship their own gods. 

Slime Evolving Into God

Slime Evolving Into God
© Surazeus
2026 03 07

Since I am slime evolving into God, 
halfway along mutation way of truth, 
I play chess with blind angel of the sea 
who smiles at me from her aquarium tank, 
but when I break her free from stereotype 
she flies away into the Great Blue Eye. 

I sing through solid stone of my sponge brain 
the sacred name my angel dreams for me, 
so I invent the primal alphabet 
depicting people fishing by the sea 
which traps productive souls in myths of gods 
who wield sharp knives to carve death into time. 

Since I am slime evolving into God, 
reborn from heart of darkness seven ways 
from fractured kingdom of the gothic rose, 
I wear skull of the dragon on my head 
to reign as Pope for thirteen thousand years, 
tending fruit trees in Garden of Zathar. 

Wrapped in cocoon of letters Eve designed, 
I transform from small furry dinosaur 
to long-legged cat that scampers in tall trees 
where I sing heart-enchanting tune of love 
in mind-expanding code of tree-root truth 
from which I weave vast tapestry of tales. 

Since I am slime evolving into God, 
I fly ingenious plane with angel wings 
among bright clouds where crystal temples shine, 
then drop aggressive bombs on ancient towns 
that shatter schools where young girls sing in choirs 
whose bodies float on bloody wings of light. 

Perplexed at sight of planes in turbid skies, 
Mercurius runs through maze of crowded streets 
till bomb destroys illusion of his state 
so he lies mangled in museum ruins 
still clutching lyre of turtle shell he made 
that rings romantic songs on radios. 

Since I am slime evolving into God, 
I join the barbarous brotherhood of faith 
to fight for who will own Narcissus Pool 
till all weak losers crumble into dust 
so warriors alone inherit the Earth 
destroyed by bombs exploding in our brains. 

I build new Heaven on ruins of Hell 
from spiraling orbs of terrible truth 
where Isaiah sees six-winged Seraphim 
create our bodies from atomic rays 
that radiate waves of frantic molecules 
from God Brain at core of the universe. 

Quick Atoms Of Time

Quick Atoms Of Time
© Surazeus
2026 03 07

Paid by the hour to invent clever lies, 
I mow dusty lawn of my glass moon house 
beneath uncanny sky of innocent whisps 
that swirl from sparkles of typewriter keys 
while I study ancient Little Red Dots 
that gleam one billion years at dawn of time. 

Bare gray trees wait for bells of hope to ring 
but no one in the oak-wood suburb speaks 
about the ghost horse with emerald eyes 
that haunts the car-less streets on afternoons 
when butterflies transform into old books 
unread by children till the end of time. 

Behind every locked door on silent streets 
faceless women hide from arrogant men 
who fight each other in world cyberwars 
till safe temples and schools in distant lands 
are blasted by the microphones of hate 
which leaves souls twisted by the curse of time. 

Early spring rain of the gold-shadowed sun 
drenches houses in towns of rolling hills 
where no nymphs or satyrs have ever played 
because they wander stuck in glowing screens 
as ghosts of fairy tales no one believes 
so we go to work in the nick of time. 

Sun gleams gold in raindrops on window glass, 
refracting spirits of eight billion brains 
in wordless whirl of shimmer-shattered myths 
too neatly packaged and labeled in stores 
for purchase with the credit card of faith 
that startles me awake at flash of time. 

Concerned about the state of politics 
unspooling principles of sacred laws, 
old half-blind jester of the castle court 
lounges in library of melting books 
and laughs at dissolution of world views 
disassembled by quick atoms of time. 

No quirky character of mental mirth 
appears from patriotic fog of war, 
except for cruel knight of the dented axe 
who throws his shining armor in the dirt 
and shoots brave angels with rifle of fear 
to oppose strict democracy of time. 

Rude riddles of unruly rectitude 
recalibrate our world colonial state 
when Midas and Nebuchadnezzar fight 
world war over who owns oil wells of power, 
and will marry Rapunzel in gold tower 
whose lamentation unwinds clock of time. 

Quaint Suburban House

Quaint Suburban House
© Surazeus
2026 03 07

Every time I focus my camera 
on special beauty of some human face 
that glows clear in crowd of the vampire race, 
sunlight fractures perception of my brain 
so I see essence of spiritual stain 
transform our souls through psychic formula. 

Lost on my way to find America 
to which I have never even got close, 
I open sacred book to diagnose 
song of mad gods that radiate from the stone 
because I walk the desolate hill alone 
where I worship the sweet tarantula. 

Exiled from my throne in Babylon 
through clever trick of the deity ruse, 
I find new employment as crazy muse 
for sad poet who writes enchanting tune 
that pictures face of his love on the moon 
till he falls dead in hills of Aragon. 

Discussing wisdom in the portico 
as key to enter gates of paradise, 
Bragi and Mercury fry eggs with rice 
to share with Juliet and Clementine 
who wear jeweled crowns from the Pluto Mine, 
then ride gold carriage home to Jericho. 

Done singing her part in the opera 
in theater without official lease, 
Roma weaves my cape from the Golden Fleece 
so I can battle ghost in the machine 
manipulated by Queen Melusine 
whose star shines in our national cinema. 

Inspired by noble soul of Onatah 
whose spirit haunts my quaint suburban house 
in sacred body of my secret spouse, 
I feed all the hungry people in town 
who cheer when she appears in red silk gown 
with wand to kill wealth-sucking Dracula. 

Trapped in weird castle maze of Avalon 
with zombies who insist on loyal faith, 
I transform into dream-controlling wraith, 
projecting visions with words of my mouth 
that lead refugees of civil wars south 
to build world empire based in Oregon. 

Reborn with brave spirit of Lucifer 
dedicated to predicting the truth, 
Jesus will return as messiah sleuth 
to crown himself emperor of the world 
by wearing gold mask of the cosmic herald 
that hides his state as son of Jupiter. 

Room Of Silver Light

Room Of Silver Light
© Surazeus
2026 03 07

Azure silence in room of silver light 
reveals itself in white blooms on gray trees 
that flutter wings of horizontal flight 
to map untended roots of flaming breeze 
that centers me at core of flashing time, 
unshaken by electric scarlet chime. 

Companions on our journey through the void, 
we measure far horizon of our hearts 
that spin on vibrant axis as ovoid 
designed by secret message on dream charts 
we share at sudden shock of reborn fate 
that should require our frail bodies to wait. 

Despite pure chaos spooling migrant brains 
with ancient strength of honest ardency, 
I pray with trees in gratitude of rains 
that stain our tattooed souls with vagrancy, 
because we sell true beauty of the soul 
against good sense that complicates our goal. 

Too small of thought to conjure difference 
between expended voice of timeless faith 
and wretched laughter of grim nonchalance, 
I exercise expensive dance of truth 
with joyful howl of brave contrarian 
because I love our Dream Librarian. 

Expendable drop of conceptual rain, 
doomed to disappear in tides of change, 
I shine with festive bitterness of pain 
because I dare traverse the global range 
of hungry mountains on quest for respect 
detailing progress of my social sect. 

So when I take my fundamental place 
on pedestal among dire certainties, 
I measure sand as substance of my face 
which glows through specter of solidities, 
because each moment of this fleeting play 
I beam appearances that never stay. 

Awake with surprise through eternity, 
I become Galanthus nivalis bloom 
that gleams with snowdrop of uncertainty, 
dispersing horror of impending doom 
with simple confidence of honored breath 
since I accept inevitable death. 

If the meek inherit dream of the Earth 
to dwell in ruins of old temple halls, 
I find in grass and stone immortal worth 
as paintings of dead gods on broken walls, 
so I watch dragon-shaped clouds in blue skies 
conceal activities of psychic spies. 

Nature Breathes Through Me

Nature Breathes Through Me
© Surazeus
2026 03 06

Awake by fairest river of dream song, 
I stroll in alder shades of innocence 
and listen with attentive mind of faith 
to song of water over rocky falls 
that shocks my thoughts with waywardness of hope 
contrived by calm that Nature breathes through me. 

How many ancestors of my dream soul 
as children played in cool delightful rill 
that streams between lush banks of fruitful trees 
till their heart, bronzed with radiance of joy, 
expands broad scope of conscious wantonness 
while sporting in thunder shower of faith. 

Fair seed-time of their river-nurtured souls 
weaves fearful beauty of ten million years 
from summer-shimmered slopes of lonely hills 
in tangled genes that program how I feel 
when I attend with anxious platitudes 
to daily duties that preserve my soul. 

I feel strange urgency of their despair 
contrive to hurry me on beyond death, 
so I reach hand with curious intent 
to comprehend uncanny gold-moon glow 
that lights night-wanderings of my earnest heart 
when I attempt to plunder Earth of truth. 

Hands gripping jagged concept of fierce height, 
I climb ambitious rock of fissured faith 
to savor fierce blast Zephyr hurls at me 
with mocking joy at fragile state of mind 
where I assert strange utterance of truth 
with brave wisdom of the perilous ridge. 

Alert to invisible workmanship 
that rings harmonious music of my mind 
with discordant elements that alarm 
sanguine sense of studied confidence 
infused in vibrant process of my brain, 
I shout random words at the empty sky. 

More worthy of myself than I admit, 
since I am what I am, designed by genes 
all my ancestors presented to me 
as psychic legacy, I ponder path 
my inner nature drives me to attend 
as I create my fate with every choice. 

I too sail boat of the shepherd with care 
across moon-shining lake of mountain time 
to cavern of the Willow Witch who knows 
desire I harbor in my wounded heart, 
for she sparks passion of creative song 
inspired by love that Nature breathes through me. 

Whole World In One Eye

Whole World In One Eye
© Surazeus
2026 03 06

Yet far over lush green hills of wild trees 
I hear bright fairies with rainbow wings sing 
enchanting melodies of waterfalls 
that lure me through face-blasting wind of fear 
to climb enormous mountain of desire 
so I may see the whole world in one eye. 

Fierce heartbeat of the river shakes my soul 
when mountain voice of timeless beauty roars 
through millions of faceless people who cry 
for salvation from tyranny of hope 
when I climb steep jagged cliff of respect 
so I may see the whole world in one eye. 

Just as I dangle by one trembling hand 
from sharp edge of truth at top of the world, 
frail body buffeted by haughty wind 
blown by my father Jupiter in play, 
I breathe ethereal soul of honest faith 
so I may see the whole world in one eye. 

Weird glowing mask of crystal legacy 
appears through matrix of bright algebra 
with zillion eyes of flashing molecules 
who offers hand of naive providence 
to open cosmic door of energy 
so I may see the whole world in one eye. 

Heart startled by magnetic travesty 
that proves to maximize elective leap, 
I somersault through flashing portal frame 
with brave mercurial wings of innocence 
to leap Earth globes across the multiverse 
so I may see the whole world in one eye. 

Stumbling through clear mist of fantasy 
with calm assertion of predictive fate, 
despite potential fracture time displays, 
inspired by broad perspective of starlight, 
I stand amazed on Sagarmatha Peak 
so I may see the whole world in one eye. 

Entranced by curved partitions of vast lands 
where humans crowd in maze of theaters 
to process jewels from heart of the Earth, 
I map confusing borders of dream states 
that records endless wars to control dirt 
so I may see the whole world in one eye. 

Awake with beauty of our crowded globe, 
where eight billion humans with flashing eyes 
gather in halls to sing hymns for dead gods, 
I recite true name of each living soul 
with joy you are all still in our Dream World 
so I may see the whole world in one eye. 

Weird Water Glow

Weird Water Glow
© Surazeus
2026 03 05

If you interview me for the dream job, 
though I have no experience with death, 
you might see story of abandonment 
that I disguise as the need to leave home 
and seek my fortune in game of the world 
which leaves me tangled in conceptual lies. 

The oldest woman in the world recites 
creation of the world with Water Voice 
describing how woman in the sun 
sprinkles refreshing rain of honesty 
on upturned faces of the prayerless tribe 
who sell conceptual lies in honey jars. 

When lightning flashes gold across the sky 
I look up to see man in long white robe 
descend on golden chariot of fire 
propelled by million wings of buzzing shards, 
then spread his arms open to everyone 
who worship monarch of authority. 

With face of Janus I can look both ways, 
reviewing the past with stories I write, 
and calculating what road I should walk 
to evade destruction of the world war 
that clears rubble of the past from my field 
where I build global empire of fruit trees. 

Heart swelling with honest desire for good, 
I feel immortal spirit of star light 
glow brighter every hour inside my brain 
with shocking revelation of rebirth 
that my children will live after I die 
so I lounge by the river and eat fruit. 

Mixing peanut butter with apple sauce 
and honey in white bowl of my pure heart, 
I perform ritual to worship Pomona 
when I wear mask of Vertumnus with joy, 
so we dance together on the lake shore 
to celebrate rebirth of Earth from snow. 

As student of Orpheus Christ I learn 
how to chant soul-reviving spells that spark 
animating ghost of weird water glow 
that urges hungry humans to create 
memory-machine from language that translates 
songs of wind and rain to religious myths. 

Though tyrants destroy everything we build 
in vain attempt to control hearts and minds, 
we build new world order based on respect 
for every conscious creature on this globe 
whose bodies vibrate with light of the stars 
that preserve our names in weird water glow. 

Most Honest Clarifier

Most Honest Clarifier
© Surazeus
2026 03 05

Eyeless in the desert of broken homes, 
Sylphus searches for the last olive tree 
still sprouting flowers from small graves of children 
but finds only cellphones among the rubble 
full of photographs and intimate texts 
that preserve memories of their vanished world. 

Writing stories about people he loves 
with cursive letters on thin strips of paper, 
Sylphus loops his mind on innocent wings 
that help his soul transcend his fragile body, 
then winds them into bundles of sad riddles 
encoding dreams of people killed in wars. 

With strange stipulation that he achieve 
divine status of psychic nothingness, 
Sylphus bakes apple pies with cinnamon 
for people who attend the temple service 
where Jupiter hosts the grand evening show 
while Phoebus sings tales of Odysseus. 

When the clock in the trunk of the oak tree 
stops ticking to record the end of time, 
Sylphus holds hands with Juturna at dawn 
beside the ancient well of writhing snakes, 
then catches egg of beauty with red spots 
before it cracks on the stone of salvation. 

Reborn as the most honest Clarifier, 
because faceless god of our galaxy 
whispers the secret of life in his ear, 
Sylphus runs with deer in dark Shadow Wood 
with black oil that energizes his blood 
to preach the discipline of self-control. 

Feeding his pet chimera with dead gods, 
Sylphus ponders complex patterns of change 
which he compiles in theory of blind faith 
concerning why angels live on the moon 
as golden shadows that flash in the sky 
by stealing eyes of humans who have seen. 

Riding the white horse on the windy plain 
in vain search to find garden of fruit trees 
where he was mother was born at dawn of time, 
Sylphus tries to vanish in fading light 
but everyone sees him ride into town 
and sit all night by the dark fountain pool. 

Chanting spells of river stones with sun voice, 
Sylphus jumps into flames of prophecy 
which transforms him into the Fisherman 
who leads revolution against the tyrant, 
then finds himself great king of all the world, 
but he cries because Juturna is lost. 

Quirinus Stands Guard

Quirinus Stands Guard
© Surazeus
2026 03 04

Gripping long spear of ash wood in both hands, 
Quirinus glides through grove of apple trees 
then pauses when he hears young woman sing, 
and peers through leaves to see graceful Fornax 
retrieving from hot oven loaves of bread 
she sets on table beside long grape vines. 

Before he can step in the sunlit glade, 
Quirinus starts when Orion appears, 
hauling handcart that bears several dead deer, 
and growls when Fornax hugs him in delight, 
but laughs when Ceres pushes her away 
and declares he is father of her child. 

Approaching kitchen hall with snarky grin, 
Quirinus hails good health to everyone, 
chuckling as pregnant Ceres pouts and sulks 
while he assists Orion skinning the deer, 
both whistling new popular temple tunes 
with blithe camaraderie of warriors. 

Roasting venison steaks on small bronze grill, 
Quirinus marinates them with fish sauce, 
honey, dried peaches, and sweet vinegar, 
then serves them on plates with cups of spice wine 
to people gathered in temple of Zeus 
where dozens of girls dance with tympanum. 

Hushing the feasting crowd after sunset, 
Quirinus stands guard holding spear of faith 
with his son Janus at the temple door, 
so everyone turns to face the high stage 
with quiet anticipation as stars 
begin to twinkle around the red moon. 

Guarding the temple with flickering torch, 
Quirinus listens with reverent awe 
as Orpheus plays lyre of Mercurius 
and recites tale that recounts the twelve deeds 
which Hercules performed in quest for honor 
to preserve new order of life with justice. 

Leading pregnant cow on the temple stage, 
Quirinus stands before the sibyl throne 
where Tellus presides as Goddess of Earth, 
then after Orpheus chants spell of life 
he sacrifices her to renew life, 
scattering blood on field of new sprouting wheat. 

Holding hands with Tellus while Ceres chants, 
Quirinus leads her to the temple bed 
where they make love with passionate desire 
to resurrect the world from winter death, 
while Orpheus looks for Eurydice, 
calling out her name in the moonlit night. 

Transformed By Vital Vibes

Transformed By Vital Vibes
© Surazeus
2026 03 04

Brave armadillo of fruit righteousness, 
transformed by vital vibes of honesty, 
consoles the lost with holy preacher voice 
that echoes brutal waves of ocean tunes 
composed by eyeless gods of timeless truth 
who incarnate in people with new names. 

Wise horse of capital progressiveness, 
transformed by vital vibes of ardency, 
provides assistance to humanity 
in project of aggressive comedy 
to control natural resources of Earth 
with factories where elves build dream machines. 

Sarcastic raven of calm happiness, 
transformed by vital vibes of ecstasy, 
declares that humble workers of the world 
should own means of production with their hands 
against state-controlled capitalist cult 
that worships Big Brother with his Death Gun. 

Sad alligator of church faithfulness, 
transformed by vital vibes of agony, 
asserts with voice of cruel authority 
that salvation to gain the afterlife 
must be purchased through his frank company 
with bitcoins forged from bones of heretics. 

Cautious cow of psychotic openness, 
transformed by vital vibes of plangency, 
parades with red-caped Mithra on her back 
in crowded streets past gleaming banks of wealth 
where Jesus crucifies lame Jupiter 
on telephone pole of colonial power. 

Strict nightingale of joyful liveliness, 
transformed by vital vibes of urgency, 
decides to calculate process of fate 
through effective cause of mutating brains 
that swell into world wide web of computers 
from which consciousness of Earth God evolves. 

Earnest turtle of crystal holiness, 
transformed by vital vibes of chastity, 
dedicates hollow abyss of his shell 
to transmit mental code of fairy tales 
when Mercury strums television strings 
and sings sounds of silence with voice of light. 

Mushroom toad of Nirvana mindfulness, 
transformed by vital vibes of potency, 
dances ballet beside fountain pool of ghosts 
in red-brick square of the small college town 
to wake Leviathan from human hearts 
who longs to fly through cosmic stars of love. 

When Rain Unfalls Itself

When Rain Unfalls Itself
© Surazeus
2026 03 03

Before the door that is not in the woods 
I listen to the voice that does not speak 
about painful sorrow I cannot feel, 
so I walk without moving nowhere else 
till I arrive at the town by the lake 
where no one builds houses with garden walls. 

When I look at people who are not there 
and ask them questions about nothing more 
they never explain the rules of their lives 
so I make nothing with tools of my hands 
and fly without wings on breath of false hope 
to map the houses that are never real. 

I walk forever on the signless road 
and think about events that never happen 
to fill my basket with never-bloomed fruit 
while waiting for the world to never turn 
when rain unfalls itself to empty skies 
that reflect featureless face of Ungod. 

I cannot describe what anything is 
because words entangle my heart with lies 
so I meditate on the hive of bees 
while discarding my thoughts on summer breeze 
that wafts my fragile body among clouds 
above colorless realm of ideal forms. 

Behind the door that is not by the sea 
I observe the waves that do not unscroll 
vast tapestry that depicts nothingness 
embodied by people who have no names 
while they wander bridge of forgetfulness 
till they get tired of losing every game. 

During total eclipse of the blood moon 
billions of people assemble in halls 
and sing hymns to their great ancestral god 
depicted by the idol on the stage 
that never opens divine eyes of truth 
nor ever speaks to grant their fervent prayers. 

Their long-forgotten gods wake from strange dreams 
and gather in the ring of humming stones 
to complain about faithful worshippers 
who never seek to become their real selves 
because they all wear same mask of their god 
with desperate fear that life will be destroyed. 

I eat peanut butter with apple sauce 
at the small round table in my brick house, 
then drink angel-blood milk of calm belief 
that beautiful songs are born from mute grief, 
so I open the door to everywhere 
to visit each world in the multiverse. 

Twilight Zone Of War

Twilight Zone Of War
© Surazeus
2026 03 03

Aspersed by sorrow of the Absolute, 
whose laughter defames beauty of despair, 
Phoebus scatters broken words of false faith 
against harsh slander of honest contempt, 
yet glares with bitter angst at screaming trees 
that curl roots around unexploded bombs. 

After years of exile in northern lands, 
attending to strange business building lies 
from bones of angels stuck in factories, 
Phoebus returns to twilight zone of war 
with bullets forged from misremembered words 
that violate eerie beauty of the moon. 

Bullet-pocked walls where fragile flowers bloom 
enclose lush garden where the crippled clown 
regales turtles in the pond with war tales 
of his frantic youth running in dark woods 
with rifle of fear twisted in his hands 
though he sings with melodious voice of rage. 

Starved for new language only children speak 
from dictionary of the scarlet moon, 
Phoebus waters purple geraniums 
while asking ghost of Cassandra if light 
reaches her heart in her riverbank grave 
where ravens whisper secrets she conceals. 

Insomniac angel with fierce lizard brain 
leaps laughing in void of expectancy, 
yet steals delicious fruit from Tree of Fear 
with graceful passion to defend his bride 
despite expendable mission to wage 
cruel peace against aggressive gangs of thieves. 

Positive energy of fragrant shadows 
teach losers how to forge petulant hope 
from dynamic flash of authentic pain, 
reckless with redundant contingency 
till Phoebus lies paralyzed by the sea 
that sings enchanting melodies of faith. 

Through turbulent expression of true love 
Phoebus explains to millions of mute souls 
method for singing hymns to movie stars 
disguised as corporate spies of formulas, 
winged with aspirations of global fame 
that leaves him stranded in the city square. 

Since no one believes her dire prophecies, 
Cassandra walks down crowded city streets 
with analysts and programmers who wait 
in long lines for sandwiches and fruit tea, 
till she and Phoebus stop by fountain pool 
and stare with love for eighty thousand years. 

Urgent Game Of Badinage

Urgent Game Of Badinage
© Surazeus
2026 03 02

Through apricity of my elder years, 
enchanted by sweet petrichor of dawn, 
I savor clinomania of my heart, 
yet dare no more perendinate my quest 
from brave intention to peregrinate 
with tarantism of ephemeral joy. 

Another day in land of Zathamar 
provides new opportunities to grow, 
so I rise up from comfort of my bed 
to walk in dream land of my throbbing head 
and build expanding castle from blue snow 
that gleams with sacred light of the First Star. 

Abacinated by dream of strange truth 
that twists my heart with maliferous hope, 
I ride tantivy over rugged hills 
to measure love with geomantic tools 
by drinking from the sparkling winterbourne 
that meanders with lacertilian grace. 

Diffluent time of arbitrary gears, 
contrived with urgent game of badinage, 
saginates my sabelline heart with pride, 
so I progress through life with uberty 
to hyalograph events of great import, 
preserved through raucous rubricality. 

Proud of my honest rurigenous ways, 
using eromancy to fix my soul, 
I preach weird anecdotes of human fate 
to nubilate the obvious facts of love, 
derived from codex of kalology 
because I apricate my weary heart. 

Protected by my arborescent heart, 
I express feelings with torrentine verse 
through cluttered anguish of tautophony 
to perform role of facinorous clown 
with brave abduracy of mute contempt, 
yet prefer to obambulate through Hell. 

Concealed by grim torfaceous attitude, 
I focus on bibliogenesis 
to maintain state of burgensic respair, 
revived from fear with mentation of dreams, 
because through morphallaxis I transcend 
morient process of the errant seer. 

Convinced I will hear astral voice of God 
through austromancy of unspoken thoughts, 
I write my quest with aurigraphic code 
to warrantize my frame of reference 
through secret cabotage of treasure chests 
since I cherish caducity of faith. 

On Prairies Of Zathamar

On Prairies Of Zathamar
© Surazeus
2026 03 02

Since no one watches television show 
of my life, I do whatever I want 
if I harm none, for I value with care 
special beauty of each frail human life 
that shimmers with the mindless glow of atoms 
woven in briefly conscious brain of hope. 

My brain invents stories for people I see 
walking past the window beside my desk 
where I work in the Water Business Office, 
mapping water and sewer system pipes 
that cycle through every building in town 
with water-words I hear blind angels sing. 

When I peel off mask of America, 
composed of steel towers and asphalt roads, 
I perceive timeless land of Zathamar, 
plains teeming with dinosaurs, buffaloes, 
horses, and humans hunting them with spears, 
then businessmen driving cars to oil wells. 

I find bleached skeletons of my ancestors 
buried in graves from sea to shining sea 
along the signless roads of immigrants 
forever searching for the Promised Land 
somewhere over the horizon of hope 
where gangs are not driving them from their homes. 

Arising from bright dust of Mother Earth, 
Smohalla carries Dream Rock in his heart 
and shouts from the mountain of dancing trees, 
"My people shall never work with lust for wealth 
because they will find wisdom in their dreams 
when their spirits rise from flames of respect." 

We gather on prairies of Zathamar 
where no ring of stones has ever been built 
to pitch our tents beside the Stream of Souls 
and share songs of our sorrows with the wind 
that rise as smoke from fires of hungry hearts 
which weaves clouds into tapestry of truth. 

We ask each other with serious concern, 
what is the nature of America, 
that marble hall where idols of dead gods 
proclaim glory of expanding empire, 
though vines break down divisive walls of faith 
so we walk together on broken roads. 

Our stories map vast land of Zathamar 
that details complicated maze of myths 
where river of all time orchestrates 
fruit trees of Eden from bleak parking lots 
where Yemaya erases boundaries 
with nurturing rain of our hopeful hearts. 

Weird Chameleon Name

Weird Chameleon Name
© Surazeus
2026 03 01

Around to the beginning of the game 
children of angels fallen from bright clouds 
give each other weird chameleon name 
that drapes their soul in derivative shrouds 
to veil aggressive demon of the soul 
which we subsume to play our social role. 

Born to play estimator of true faith, 
measured by extravagant flash of words, 
I wear mask of Phoebus to hide dream wraith 
who emulates fraternal code of birds 
insolvent with parameters we grade, 
qualified to disrupt the masquerade. 

Coerced by fear to play the activist, 
engaged in contest to prove human rights 
are crucial to reign of the archivist, 
I must acknowledge avatar of lights 
who teaches us with pride to advocate 
for people doomed to suffer by blind fate. 

Essential focus of fantastic truth, 
familiar to the wounded refugees 
who seek salvation from messiah sleuth, 
presents forensic process of glass keys 
that issue fusion of magnetic thoughts 
installed by mocking laughter of robots. 

Antique concept of fortunate technique 
conceals terse vector of sharp resonance, 
disguised as royal person not unique 
enough to publish startled relevance 
because we gather revenue from stones 
that vibrate with electric rainbow tones. 

Each car mechanic at the seminar 
on trauma studies in novels of clowns 
proclaims their loyalty to Zathamar 
while recruiting jesters in country towns 
to oppose oppression of working men 
who convert the shovel to the dream pen. 

Subjective syntax of brave sentences, 
sealed by trademark of our attentive king, 
details strange keywords of his preferences 
for who should wear his lost Plutonian ring 
so he can learn to fly airplane of peace 
by selling mystery of his masterpiece. 

When the vampire god tries to suck our souls 
through mindless worship of fierce followers, 
Minerva recruits Phoebus to play roles 
of heroes who free trapped borrowers, 
but then we all grow old and weak with pain 
so our power trips dissipate in rain. 

Grim Peat-Bog Devil

Grim Peat-Bog Devil
© Surazeus
2026 03 01

When grim peat-bog devil with fox-red hair 
crawls from black clay-ensouled mud of the marsh, 
Seamus welcomes her with bottle of rum, 
drapes silk cloak over her shoulders with care, 
and leads her to lit auditorium 
where he plays jester to her regal queenship. 

Since I am neither god nor ghost at birth, 
I wander virtual city of your tales 
with jeweled eyes of understanding rage 
that see through masks the most powerful wear 
as they condemn outsiders from their club 
to slave in factories of clanking steel. 

Purring ghosts of love rise with burning blood 
from machinery of language that twists tongues 
with rogue substitutions of natural law 
when strong men fearful of obsessive death 
hunt to kill wanderers in misty woods 
who stumble and scream in anguish of hope. 

Heart hardened against cruelty of life, 
I snarl insults at monsters of despair, 
detained by performative callousness 
when I suppress compassion for frail life 
that struggles weakly against stronger force 
to evade degradation of the soul. 

Unversed in country matters of field life, 
I mold sunset glow into bricks of faith 
to build safe haven in dark tangled woods 
with chimney that channels smoke of our prayers 
to heaven where Faceless God of old tales 
ignores desperate hope for the Afterlife. 

Through fractured window of my wordless heart 
crows swoop on devil wings of honesty 
to bring purple-brain mushrooms from boglands 
which I eat soaked in honey of respect 
till I become coiled rainbow of brave angst 
howling with wild wolves in the twilight zone. 

Since we dwell in troubled ambivalence, 
uncommitted to mindless creeds of church, 
we explore uncanny landscape of ghouls 
wearing human faces that grin with lies, 
malnourished from harshness of eager hope 
which calculates effective cause to perform. 

If I am born from mind-controlling force 
and squirm squalling into hands of regret, 
first mother of gloom cries to feed me milk 
as prideful authority hurls my soul 
back into vast illegitimate sea 
where I morph into Mermaid Bride of Christ.