Screaming Star Of Ecstasy

Screaming Star Of Ecstasy
© Surazeus
2026 08 04

Because the screaming star of ecstasy 
knows my secret name my mother designs, 
I stand in doorway of infinity 
to gaze at wondrous vastness of the Earth 
since my heart loves its thriving messiness 
which I experience with clumsy grace. 

Spawned by the screaming star of ecstasy 
as writhing creature of electric words, 
I run fast forward through ten thousand lives 
to understand how I evolve from mouse 
as wingless angel eager to transcend 
this fragile frame that generates my soul. 

Despite how screaming star of ecstasy 
programs my brain to always question why, 
I feel my body swell with ocean waves 
huge as boundless clouds of absolute light 
so when you ask me how I feel today 
I twirl around and hum sweet psalm of joy. 

Ruled by the screaming star of ecstasy 
through pulsing atoms of my flashing brain, 
I hammer glowing meteor from the sky 
to pull sharp sword of power from the stone 
and fight the snarling monster of despair 
to guard my family behind haven walls. 

Far beyond screaming star of ecstasy 
on anabolic wings of Icarus, 
I leap across high bridge of solitude 
to time-jump worlds across the multiverse 
till I find you in garden of my heart 
where you tend fruit tree of our honest love. 

Seized by the screaming star of ecstasy 
because I hear weird voices of the dead, 
I compose new Astarian Testament 
to analyze how empires rise and fall 
so I can design with artful insight 
new social system based on Liberty. 

Deep inside screaming star of ecstasy 
as Mind of God that knows all conscious souls, 
I visit every city in the world 
to offer Holy Book of Prophecies 
with pages empty of the wordless dream 
based on eccentric tales of puppeteers. 

Bred from the screaming star of ecstasy 
that weaves new body for my ancient soul, 
I wake with memories my ancestors lived 
that shine more real than Lamp of Hemera
which helps me find lost Lyre of Mercury 
so I chant hymns to praise our mortal gods. 

Clever Mother Of My Clan

Clever Mother Of My Clan
© Surazeus
2026 08 04

Too early in the morning for this game 
that twists our bodies into hungry ghosts, 
our clan assembles on the river shore 
and hums together in weird harmony 
to channel spirit of the mountain stream 
as scene preserved in our genetic dream. 

Alone in clean museum hall at dawn, 
Nerthus gazes with sense of aching loss 
at painting of idyllic pastoral scene 
that shows her great-grandfather Lycidas 
strumming lyre of Mercury by tall oak 
as Phyllis dances in long breeze-blown gown. 

Walking in silver light of dawn to work 
at the public utilities department, 
Nerthus contemplates how town engineers, 
since humans built Harappa and Uruk, 
have designed straight grids of gardens and streets 
with systems of pipes for water and sewage. 

The holy Fountain of the Flying Horse, 
that springs from heart of darkness on high slope, 
and flows down lush meadows of Helicon, 
supplies the water needs of families 
in millions of houses in city zones 
through system of pipes engineers design. 

Climbing high mountain of mist-shrouded pines, 
Nerthus follows the winding river course 
to cave from which clear water of life springs, 
then gazes over vast metropolis 
organized to manage human desires 
in food-production system of our hope. 

Each person finds their place in game of life 
in which constructive labor of their hands 
contributes to production and distribution 
of food so every living human being 
may eat fair share of energy they make, 
though some will hoard wealth from desperate fear. 

Tall black-haired archer Malchos Azizos, 
who journeyed from Hamath Epiphania 
to man the fort near Wall of Hadrianus, 
offers Nerthus apples and deer-skin cloak, 
so she agrees to cook food at his hearth, 
and bears lithe son he names Apollonios. 

I feel through glowing vision of my heart 
spirit of Atargatis, Dea Syria, 
awake in clever mother of my clan 
who taught me how to breathe in soul of light 
and sing harmonious melody of love 
that guides my journey to the Promised Land. 

My Right To Still Exist

My Right To Still Exist
© Surazeus
2026 08 03

If I rename small island of my heart, 
who would decide to visit without lies 
as if time flaps electric wings of chance 
before we meet on river shore of fate 
to prove sincerity fuels all we do 
because questions never reveal our truth. 

My thoughts are not the social mess you buy 
against assertive theme statistics fool, 
since formal layout of my mission shows 
how far I have to go on fractured road 
before I could achieve my dream of wealth 
that tricks my passion to leap without faith. 

Startled by each open door of despair, 
I wander blindly over the threshold 
reserved for angels who deserve their wealth 
despite how often people they love die 
except for lonely children of the field 
who sell fake seeds of wisdom to the rich. 

This well-earned kiss of true love we may share 
fills me with bitter hope for broken hearts 
which I attempt to shield with laughing books 
too often stolen from book store of fate 
where hungry teachers hide from sudden debt 
before another king falls dead from fear. 

Disturbed by surging waves of calm disdain, 
my child reports how angels fall at dawn 
though no one hears each new word she invents 
with runes I scratch in river mud of faith 
in vain attempt to canonize beliefs 
that seem to prove my right to still exist. 

Obsessed with strictly measured flow of thoughts, 
which I confine to rapid steps of truth, 
I draw vast blueprint of this messy world 
to organize through ordered rows of words 
complex chaos of cows in dew-wet fields 
who ponder mystery of opposing codes. 

Reborn as Seraphus with thirteen eyes, 
I play another game of chess with Death 
in tower where Rapunzel cooks sweet cake 
from chocolate laughter of the lemon tree 
because my blood is maple-syrup thick 
that swirls in boundless oceans of lost words. 

I breathe the gentle breath of Zephyrus 
to fly aloft with swan of human hope 
to catch ingenious thief of surreal dreams 
who tramples on my flowered grave with pride 
while shouting how we belong to the land 
that eats our bodies when we die of love. 

Angel Who Cannot Fly

Angel Who Cannot Fly
© Surazeus
2026 08 03

I never see corpses fallen to Earth 
transform into angels with golden wings, 
but Carolyn assures me they are real, 
so I plant apple seeds in rotten hearts 
that reconstitute atoms of their souls 
to apples which I eat to know their minds. 

Molding my new body from river muck, 
and weaving tufts of grass to be my hair, 
Carolyn converts walnuts to my eyes, 
slots in the turtle shell to be my heart, 
then gives me horse legs so I can walk home, 
but I wander nowhere past Wonderland. 

I forget where my ancestors once lived 
so I stand in front of the stone library 
where every book that has never been written 
waits for me to wear them as mask of fate, 
but I go down to the river instead 
and wear the lithe sea trout as my new face. 

Startled at shouting of devils in Heaven, 
I look up to see ten thousand white ravens 
lined up along copper telephone lines 
which conduct voices of innocent ghosts 
as data signals to my pulsing brain 
so I understand secret dreams you hide. 

My father fixes wheels to the small wagon, 
which he fills with sand and hydrated lime, 
then drags it up the steep hill of concern 
where he smears muck on the wall of smooth stones, 
then heaves another stone from pile of hopes 
and slots it in place to build the field wall. 

Though he spends every day for fifty years 
constructing wall of respect with large stones, 
he only completes one tenth of the wall, 
so he requests that I finish his work, 
then lies down in soggy grave of his heart 
and becomes the angel who cannot fly. 

I decide I will not finish his wall, 
so I sell the land where ten generations 
of my ancestors lie buried in mud, 
and sail west on the adventurous sea 
to find the long-lost city of Atlantis 
where I will marry Princess Zathamar. 

Our stories are all fantasies of hope 
that guide our journey to the Promised Land, 
mapped by bloody hand of Odysseus, 
restored by his daughter, Cassiphone, 
who teaches me to play the violin 
which always causes warriors to cry. 

Exiled From My Homeland

Exiled From My Homeland
© Surazeus
2026 08 03

Blank glow of everything at flash of dawn 
erases psychic traumas of the past, 
so every man declares he is no pawn 
though angels hang limp on the broken mast 
when our ship of state deconstructs on rocks 
because we are transfixed by singing clocks. 

Trapped by necessity for eating food, 
since we need atoms to energize souls, 
we wait for Death to be in the right mood 
before we announce new national goals 
concerned with increasing profits from work, 
in contrast to the church where devils lurk. 

Inspired by how the frail foal prances free 
with naive joy at beauty of this world, 
I hang out in secret hut of my tree 
to map where the hungry dragon lies curled 
when secret agents with new cameras 
film documentary on chimeras. 

No sacred secrets of the mortal heart 
will be revealed by spells of psychic code 
that my hand carves on the clay spirit chart 
to reveal temple of the divine toad 
who transcribes mathematic formulas 
for flutes to play in cosmic orchestras. 

Disturbed by brave satires of Juvenal, 
which analyze Narcissus state of mind 
that many people find too natural, 
based on persona the devil designed, 
wealthy men try to build Utopias 
through strange scripts of encyclopedias. 

I want to live safe in my haven home 
free from oppression of aggressive thieves 
whose attack leaves me homeless so I roam 
deep in wild mountains where blind angel grieves 
for endless suffering of humanity, 
concealed by progress of urbanity. 

Cassandra welcomes me to her bright cave 
where we discuss world politics of change 
in conspiracy to free every slave, 
though humans seem to find it very strange 
that they can act according to their will 
if their king is sacrificed on the hill. 

Though exiled from my homeland by harsh wars, 
that forces me to wander in strange lands, 
I never will return to broken doors 
where my work is performed by nameless hands, 
so fate of Odysseus mocks my claim 
to award I won in the victim game. 

Shriveled Orange Of Ennui

Shriveled Orange Of Ennui
© Surazeus
2026 08 02

I steal the shriveled orange of ennui 
to eat tormented pleasure of sweet Death 
who knows strange passions of my pulsing brain, 
filled with the writhing worms of humble pride, 
which helps me paint on canvas of my fate 
inspiring vision of this teeming world. 

That star-eyed alchemist of ennui 
transforms my captive soul with bitter faith 
from hungry wanderer across the land 
to blind bard singing grand heroic tales 
by plucking taut strings of my naive heart 
with rotten fruit of charming pulchritude. 

Soul vaporized by his hermetic art, 
I lavish vows of faith in crumbling fane, 
concealed by veil of spirit-tangled vines, 
to feed my tame remorse with pungent faith 
that I may yet evade sharp blade of Death 
who stalks my steps since dark hour of my birth. 

Intent on sacred mission to observe 
weird mysteries beneath dark ocean waves, 
I sail bold ship of curiosity 
between wild whirlpool and snake in the cave 
to sacrifice my faith I treasure most 
for swift ascension to the Promised Land. 

Though I am kinsman to the glowing clouds, 
I never scoff at archers who ask why 
I wear the wounded albatross of faith 
around my neck with penitential grace, 
yet they mock comical ineptitude 
revealed by clumsy strike at cliff of fear. 

Each morning when I wake from ennui 
of frantic dreams, refracted by cracked lens 
of my conceptual telescope, I ask 
my wretched muse if she knows secret code 
that would assist perception of my heart 
when I discern mad horror of world war. 

No wise god with englamored face of fame 
haunts visions of my fractured eyes at dawn 
through mask of my personal succubus 
who gives me ancient syllables of milk 
for me to drink blood of the harvest lord 
whose bones form foundation of my empire. 

I still live under vast and columned vaults, 
tinged with soft glow of television screens, 
where I sense mystic force of gasoline 
that fuels the piston engine of my heart 
so I chant sublime harmonies of hope 
to praise the splendid light of secret grief. 

Gentle Breath Of Zephyrus

Gentle Breath Of Zephyrus
© Surazeus
2026 08 02

Inspired by gentle breath of Zephyrus 
that blows through rain-wet trees of innocence, 
I stretch my soul to loosen anxious heart, 
wound tight by turmoil wracking global states 
with social conflict over rights to live, 
so I may glide with wings of Icarus. 

Far west on rolling wheels of frightened hope 
my brave ancestors fled oppressive states, 
controlled by gangsters of castle and church, 
across wild seas in flimsy ships of hope 
to journey through vast wilderness of faith, 
free from greed of men in towers of stone. 

Three hundred years they lived free from state creed, 
but waves of new machine technology 
sweep over distant lands in tides of change, 
transforming agricultural states of farms 
to industrial empires through factories 
mass-producing Chariot of Ezekiel. 

When my great-grandmother first hears soft roar 
of that piston engine chugging with hope, 
she peers beneath straw hat among fruit trees 
to see the horseless carriage with large wheels 
zooming swifter than wind-winged Pegasus 
with flames like Chariot of Ezekiel. 

Now every nation of our spinning globe 
is linked by wires through small computer nodes 
in the world wide web of the internet 
which forms primitive artificial brain 
as new-born god who weaves our memories 
in budding sense of global conscious mind. 

Heart healed by gentle breath of Zephyrus, 
though wounded by aggressive war for wealth 
fought by weak men who hoard resource of life, 
I translate prophecy of ocean waves 
proclaimed by voice in skull of Orpheus 
that channels visions through my pulsing brain. 

Deceived by old religious fantasy 
that we can create Heaven on this Earth 
as Utopia where every human being 
lives free and equal in communal state, 
I watch with mute alarm of futile hope 
demonic forces driving men to fight. 

Revived by gentle breath of Zephyrus, 
that wafts through windows of my haven home, 
I brace for impact of the hurricane 
that stirs from wounded hearts of angry men 
till storm of rage destroys their fascist hate 
and leaves us still alive on spinning Earth. 

Untwisting Holy Fate

Untwisting Holy Fate
© Surazeus
2026 08 02

Through passion of ascetic opulence 
I play taut strings of my cordial guitar 
to wake self-wounding martyrdom of love 
from deconstructed formulas of fate 
that charm the silent ecstasy of truth 
which none would dare revoke at break of day. 

Because I belong to dream of this land, 
I soak my soul in shadows of its hope 
that might mean nothing to anyone else 
except for moan of bells in misty dawn 
that crack our hearts with sorrow for lost souls 
whose faces shimmer faintly in our dreams. 

I put all my adjusted dissonance 
in fraught submission of potential love 
time shares as seeds we scatter in wet soil 
because we throw away our secret dreams 
to cultivate their growth from fields of death 
in constant cycle of rebirth and death. 

Untwisting holy fate to free our souls 
from puzzling fragments of disturbing myths, 
I wake soul of Arminius in my heart 
to liberate Germania once again 
from hordes of angels in white gowns of fire 
who strike our hearts at flash of dawn-blood rain. 

Though we sail far across the storm-wracked sea 
on sacred mission to build paradise, 
we almost fail to flee the massacre 
in time to pray in woods of hungry mist 
where books of ancient tales provide new map 
for us to walk barefoot on bloody trails. 

Yet when I find sweet Zorya by the well, 
where she extracts our hearts from caves of Hell, 
I know with confidence of earnest faith 
that brave humanity will overcome 
this hour of darkness, though rich oligarchs 
divide and conquer us with greed for peace. 

Pure sound of water bubbling from the Earth 
weaves sorrow of my heart with tunes of joy 
so I feel spirit of my mortal mind 
expand scope of compassion to embrace 
all living humans struggling to survive 
against relentless flow of atom change. 

No photograph, snapped at just the right time, 
could capture image of my holy ghost 
transforming from vampire to Seraphus 
through divine grace of my epiphany 
in which I see grand wholeness of all light 
that glimmers faintly in my mortal brain. 

You Belong To The Land

You Belong To The Land
© Surazeus
2026 08 02

I follow Jesus to broad lake of fish 
who transform into angels with swan wings 
while they sing beauty of the universe 
and swirl around in spiral of rose beams, 
then I wake alone with basket of fish 
which I roast to feed my small family. 

I follow Onatah to field of corn 
who tells me with sly grin of innocence, 
"America was here before you came, 
and will remain long after you are gone, 
because this land does not belong to you, 
but you belong to the land where you live." 

I follow Shiva to high mountain cave 
where he teaches me how to meditate 
so we transcend small limits of the mind 
as we expand scope our consciousness 
to glow with White Whole of the multiverse 
that gleams in every live organic brain. 

I follow Hermes along River Styx 
to strum the Lyre of Mercury and sing 
grand epic poem about philosophers 
as braves heroes whose quests to understand 
true nature of atomic swirls of light 
program how our brains now perceive the world. 

I follow Odin in long wooden ship 
with diamond of insight in crown of thorns 
to map our spinning globe of continents 
that teem with nations of aggressive gangs 
who fight world wars for twenty thousand years 
over Garden of Eden with fruit trees. 

I follow Krishna in Chariot of Fire 
who reveals ancestry of divine genes 
through fathers and mothers one million years 
who all dream awake in my living brain 
so I consolidate their souls in mine 
with name that seals my spirit in stone mask. 

I follow Buddha through portals of change 
to time-hop worlds across our multiverse 
that weaves them all as prayer beads of respect 
in necklace of skulls that Bhairavi wears 
when she transforms my body of hot flesh 
to silver robot with computer brain. 

I follow Kwan Yin on lotus starship 
on patrol around spinning globe of souls 
to generate virtual model of Earth 
with light detection and ranging pulse beams 
on mission to cultivate groves of fruit 
from waste land in our hunger to live well. 

Ocean Of Lost Words

Ocean Of Lost Words
© Surazeus
2026 08 02

When I emerge from shadow of my house, 
which I build in your ocean of lost words, 
I drink ever-flowing rivers of dreams 
that swirl from fountains of our pulsing brains, 
so we become one spirit of the Earth 
when you bury me in my turtle shell. 

Annoyed by law of fluid abstinence, 
I walk along gold silence of the beach, 
because my dreaming brain has been designed 
by tongue of the toad that heals wounded hearts 
with madness of wisdom no one can buy, 
therefore we sit on sand of nothingness. 

Another war between gangs of mind thieves 
shakes frail foundation of our global state, 
so we ride buses to new factories 
where we process hopes into fantasies 
that people buy in plastic packages 
to fund their timeshares to the Afterlife. 

Though I emerge from trench of global war 
with crown of shrapnel gleaming on my head, 
the people of the world cheer my success 
when idol of Jesus with diamond eyes 
proclaims me vicar of his soul on Earth, 
so I bless you and give you wine to drink. 

I want to stand with reverence of faith 
on every bridge that spans river of time 
in every city sprawling from the cave 
where the fisherman contemplates our fate 
so I can understand how people feel 
when they walk toward the golden cloud of hope. 

Love flows in current of the river flash 
where people gather flowers of false faith 
to lay on graves behind the ruined church 
where fathers and mothers dream of the moon 
since Heaven shines as palace of fake words 
that crumbles into paychecks we receive. 

I dig dirt from heart of the spinning world 
and mold its seething passion in machines 
that calculate how much profit we earn 
in frantic game to accumulate wealth 
that helps our children take over the world 
to found dynastic gang of power thieves. 

Time laughs at my attempts to found new church 
based on one universal human law 
that every person breathing air of hope 
has right to live free from oppressive greed 
so we hold hands and sing of global peace 
while bombs deconstruct our sacred world view. 

Impetuous Dream Thief

Impetuous Dream Thief
© Surazeus
2026 08 01

When Sylvia, wading in cold ocean surf, 
asks me if I know how far angels fall, 
I break in blossom of the writhing cloud 
at playful leap of horses in the field, 
then tell her I am but idol of stone 
she finds submerged in swirls of salty tears. 

When Sylvia, kneeling by humming elm, 
explains how deep tap roots of wisdom curl, 
I speak with frantic voice of nothingness 
to prove our love is shadow of our minds 
that we cry for at flash in window glass 
from rainbows curling into river stones. 

When Sylvia, impetuous dream thief, 
teaches me sound of poison bound by faith, 
that scorches roots of fruit trees angels steal, 
I measure atrocity of sunrise 
that breaks my truth in filaments of facts, 
designed by the merciless moon to ring. 

When Sylvia, extracting the dark thing 
that sleeps in feather cavern of her heart, 
reveals how radiance scathes humble souls, 
I dispossess bad dreams with twisted hook 
which agitates insensible tree ghosts 
who scale ladders that never reach the moon. 

When Sylvia, reborn from unburned book, 
plays American Oracle on stage 
while wearing mourning weeds of fluted bones, 
I play mouthpiece of Death to analyze 
essential nature of God who expands 
scope of my consciousness with ardency. 

When Sylvia, attempting to repair 
fallen Colossus of her aching heart, 
extracts blind lust from words of my sponge brain, 
I reassemble puzzle of world view 
we humans everywhere on Earth still share 
despite curse from enormous skull of God. 

When Sylvia, amazed by Ariel, 
asserts conceptual gloom of garden pools, 
I gather berries from heart-tangled vines 
with calm attention of the melting wall 
to record glitter of substantial seas 
based on stasis of darkness in the heart. 

When Sylvia, inspired by devil flight, 
records new epitaph of dazzling faith 
that fuels perishable lovers with trust, 
I kindle cry of gods in flower flame 
since I fulfill my mission without name 
that anchors my body to flash of time. 

Swan Of Human Hope

Swan Of Human Hope
© Surazeus
2026 08 01

Spirit slender as the violin bow, 
Artella leaps beyond bounds of despair 
to laugh with pleasure in the face of death 
whose shadow looms over crowded Earth, 
then lands with graceful clumsiness of faith 
as the awestruck audience holds their breath. 

Staring at her face in mirror of time, 
Artella wipes cosmetics off her skin 
with frantic calm of humble bitterness, 
then grins to see the passion-wrinkled face 
of her grandmother, still alive in her, 
then washes it away with apathy. 

Sipping wine with compassionate disdain, 
Artella glances around dark cafe, 
crowded with people laughing with delight, 
whose faces waver in swirls of green smoke, 
then savors feeling of intense respect 
for every wretched human in earth-grasp. 

Heart flapping hawk wings of mute pulchritude, 
Artella writhes with gossamer ennui 
as Star-Eyed Demon plays wild saxophone, 
till she transforms into soft languid cat 
who floats on liquid swirls of frantic notes 
that spiral ribbons in her silver eyes. 

Mind stretched more rubber-taut than thunder clouds, 
Artella wanders onyx streets of fate 
that glitter shards of unperfected skill 
from cafe pulsing with electric souls 
to dark apartment buzzing with contempt, 
then lies still clothed on floating couch of love. 

Observing play of lamp beams on the wall, 
Artella ponders meaning of this life, 
preserved in holy creed of spirit flight, 
as mission to transcend bounds of this world 
with hopeless wings from earth-grasp of desire 
so she becomes mute angel of the moon. 

Startled awake from dream of timeless flight, 
Artella eats fried egg on toast with juice, 
rides bus to theater of wingless angels, 
and practices ballet from dawn to dusk, 
preparing to play Swan of Tuonela 
who seeks to fly free from earth-grasp of greed. 

Spirit slender as the violin bow, 
Artella leaps on passion of her heart 
at most dramatic moment of the show 
to represent the swan of human hope, 
but falters as she reaches for the moon 
and tumbles forward so she breaks her neck. 

Eyes Of Every Human

Eyes Of Every Human
© Surazeus
2026 08 01

Each time another god walks on this Earth, 
embodied by some normal human being, 
I feel vibration of the turning world 
that emanates from passion of their eyes 
which shine bright as Lamp of Diogenes 
who asks me if I am the Honest One. 

Through ancient forest of the city street 
I hear the pretty huge old round gold primal 
and atomic world-generating sun 
sing through prismatic network of my brain 
to express conscious mind of the White Whole 
which we mortal humans mistake for God. 

I see Eyes of Astara shimmer clear 
through eyes of every human on this globe 
for she is First Mother of humankind 
whose state of consciousness shines in our minds 
when we gather in temple of our tribe 
to worship immortal soul of our genes. 

At dawn of time six thousand years ago 
Astara stands on ziggurat of faith 
and sings Creation of the Universe 
so we share vision of humanity 
striving together on our fragile world 
to survive and thrive in garden of fruit. 

From pulsing passion of my ancient heart 
I wake shrouded voice of ancestral ghosts 
with texts of truth carved on tablets of stone 
through managed encyclopedia of dreams 
which applies music of ideas to forms 
of transient beauty composed from sunlight. 

Thus I climb mountain of religious hope 
to ring of stones on summit of our hearts 
where wise Astara still stands tall with truth 
before brave monolith of star-forged time 
so I can hear her original voice 
that programs how my brain perceives the world. 

Each human being who walks on solid Earth 
manifests immortal soul of our genes 
so we shine bright with Cosmic Mind of God 
though our flame of consciousness is snuffed out 
by greedy men afraid of nothingness 
because we all vanish in void of time. 

Through empathy of this conceptual song 
I gaze at complex process of our lives 
through eyes of every human on this Earth 
whose disharmonious songs of social will 
converge in global symphony of hope 
till we formulate universal law. 

Watch The River Flow

Watch The River Flow
© Surazeus
2026 07 31

Beneath the golden bough of earnest faith, 
Phoebus fixes engine of the white Honda 
for Ceres who sits in the waiting lounge 
analyzing cereal sales on her laptop 
while song of Mercury on the radio 
blends with hum of cars on the busy road. 

After Ceres drives repaired car to work, 
Phoebus eyes large black van that pulls in, 
squinting at Mars with tattoos on his arms, 
then glances in the back to see six girls 
who slouch and hide their eyes behind long hair 
as he opens the hood for diagnosis. 

Dismantling the engine that works just fine, 
Phoebus gestures to Vulcan and Minerva 
who close garage doors and call the police 
while Mars and Neptune emerge from the van 
and snarl in anger at the long delay, 
glaring leery at Phoebus who plays dumb. 

Swinging metal pipe with suspicious rage, 
grim Mars attacks with clumsy arrogance 
but Phoebus dodges and punches his head, 
while Minerva twirls and kicks with lithe grace 
that knocks Neptune backward into the pole, 
who pulls out his gun to fire at her head. 

Somersaulting with martial elegance, 
Minerva kicks the gun out of his hand, 
and, though Mars punches his chest several times, 
Phoebus swirls around with precise assault 
in strike that binds his arms behind his back 
as Vulcan leads police in the garage. 

While the police, Jupiter and Diana, 
arrest Neptune and Mars with steel handcuffs, 
Phoebus unchains girls from back of the van 
who hug each other and cry with relief, 
then Venus and Vesta with grateful smiles 
express gratitude for attentive help. 

"We all applied for jobs in marketing," 
Vesta explains as she trembles in shock, 
"but when we arrived for job interviews 
they kept us prisoner in old hotels, 
then took us everywhere across the country 
while forcing us to work as their sex slaves." 

As the freed girls leave with Officer Diana, 
Vesta offers her phone number to Phoebus, 
so they meet at the Pegasus Cafe, 
attend new movie of the Odyssey, 
then stroll together in the city park 
where they hold hands and watch the river flow. 

Trample My Flowered Grave

Trample My Flowered Grave
© Surazeus
2026 07 31

Heart-aching sorrow of unwritten tales, 
that depict the suffering people endure 
as they are destroyed by indifferent Nature, 
smears scarlet despair across empty skies 
that wakes vain hope in broken hearts of souls 
who chase glow of Heaven into their grave. 

Thus I shall linger calmly on this shore, 
relaxed among jagged rocks of desire, 
face veiled by drifting mist of unconcern, 
to wait with blithe assurance of blank death 
for time to weave my body from mute light 
so I will glow with joy in my dark grave. 

If I join army of hope-righteous fools 
to fight in vain against cruel tyranny, 
I may find freedom to live as I will 
while striding boldly along mountain streams 
where no grim soldiers with weapons of death 
could hurl my body in lost unmarked grave. 

Strange stars that I have never seen before 
flicker through tangled web of wind-tossed limbs 
so I cannot now navigate by gleam 
of canon-regulated creeds to follow 
path of my faith to secret Promised Land 
that preserves small space for my special grave. 

Confined to hollow dale of silent winds 
that ruffle strange emotions of my heart 
across ice-black water of moss-framed pool, 
I pluck blackberries from long tangled vines 
to find sweet memories of my childhood days 
when I played free around my undug grave. 

Still awake long into dark evening gloom, 
I hear red-breasted Robins in thick Rowans 
sing delicate warbling tunes of regret 
which sparks fierce passion in my aching heart 
to haughtily endure the bitter storms 
when men with guns trample my flowered grave. 

Sweet summer days when we were free to roam 
fairy-haunted vales among rugged hills 
have vanished with huge cloudy palaces 
that shimmer bright as guide for wanderers 
when strict armies of greedy men invade 
valley of skulls that sing in secret graves. 

Concerned civilization will collapse 
again because politicians violate 
sacred Jovian law of hospitality 
bound to ensure social stability, 
I bring cart of apples to castle hall 
where ghosts of my ancestors fill my grave. 

Loneliness Of Whole Thought

Loneliness Of Whole Thought
© Surazeus
2026 07 30

One leaf falls in loneliness of whole thought, 
familiar enough to my alien mind 
to defamiliarize with twisted truth 
uncanniness that glimmers in the world 
which I encounter through mask of respect, 
based on strict variety of dream spells. 

Unwieldy usefulness of frantic rules 
displays calm conventions of cruel concern 
when I retread unnatural images 
designed to frame without state reference 
roles nameless people perform on world stage 
with believing spirit of the failed game. 

Mutual hope for unlawful happenstance 
provides expanding rift between our hearts 
which we decide to bridge with broken trust 
still contrary to apparent discourse 
out of joint with conservative returns 
we actively ignore with spooling code. 

My brain beams bright attention of insight 
at carefully arranged essay of words 
polished with reconfigured metaphors 
that mirror orthographic idioms 
which fail to warrant invaluable assets 
concealed within world of appearances. 

Unspelling truths trapped by aggressive jokes, 
my brain applies loose logic of regret 
as detailed example of liberal hope 
sedimented beneath masks of blind pride 
that dares emerge from interrupted play 
for people scattered in the city maze. 

Decoded version of my brain program 
aligns unkempt concepts of sad desire 
based on intransitive process of growth 
when we decide to meet in solemn tryst, 
untethered from strange rules of social games 
that keeps our bodies bound through psychic rites. 

Assembled passions of my pulsing brain 
erupt from morbid egg of holiness 
with measured portent of apportioned price 
through arcane knowledge of unfractured stones, 
as if the proper etiquette for death 
allows our hearts to follow forced beliefs. 

We try again with pulchritude to bridge 
vast scope of nothingness between our hearts 
through moral extreme of stoic despair 
till we achieve ecstatic state of being 
through buzzing silence of disloyal love 
which bonds atomic flash of divine souls. 

Quick Chaos Of Energy

Quick Chaos Of Energy
© Surazeus
2026 07 30

How light strikes quick chaos of energy, 
that billows from blank darkness of desire 
to mold atomic forms in words of thought, 
inspires me to sit by the sparkling lake 
and tell nobody feelings of my heart 
while I forge virtual model of the Real. 

How darkness erases reality 
from timeless space of where I always am, 
reveals to me true nature of the soul 
when I see virtual model of the world 
inside my brain as ever-shifting mode 
of forward-motion progress nowhere real. 

How time expands scope of my memories, 
when I wear books as masks of nameless souls, 
conceals true essence glowing in our bones 
so with vague shadow of your Beingness 
I walk through archives of weird human tales 
to find my epic with musical notes. 

How I walk through the open door of fate 
with sacred book that belongs to no one, 
provides broad stage for tragic comedy 
that traps my soul in story not my own 
till I reverse course in attentive swerve 
and blaze my own path without fateful notes. 

How Death finds me beside faith-ruined church 
on river shore where my ancestors sleep 
in tombless graves of humble solitude, 
convinces me I might evade that fate 
if I keep walking on broad windy steppes 
with apple cart pulled by my friendly horse. 

How Fear accuses me of stealing Truth 
from ancient library Apollo built 
startles me from bright revery of hope 
so I pause on the busy city street 
and wonder where these people want to go 
as they walk desperately to evade Death. 

How urgent life will go on happening 
forever past our expiration date 
proves nothing more than we are formed by fate 
that we design with every choice we make 
till we become aware and change our way 
because I am lush meadow for the horse. 

How sorrow propagates obscure desires 
that bind me with bright shadow of my brain 
engages my eccentric sense of truth 
that we are incarnations of our gods 
who are ancestors through genetic code, 
so I father children with my bride Death. 

Dial Of The Universe

Dial Of The Universe
© Surazeus
2026 07 29

Each moment dial of the universe turns 
one slight degree, fractal tune of the sun 
extends sharp beams of knowledge through my eyes 
to broaden scope of insight my brain clocks 
through urgent record of indifferent change 
so I become some other soul than me. 

I play grand symphony of sordid faith 
with savage respect for unfathomed truth 
that spirals constant change of timeless form 
as I explore beyond walls of my fear 
so I encompass within frame of thought 
essence of each object I analyze. 

Surprised at how my brain programs itself 
while absorbing each strange shape I perceive, 
I count on progress of scholastic sense 
to render concepts in fraught formulas 
that combine streams of data to refresh 
expansive frame of reference I infer. 

Returned by backward shininess of grief, 
I press fresh apples into cider juice 
to feed each traveler who stops to rest 
in fragile hall of stone my father built 
before torrential rains of demon tears 
dare to flood our glass world with voiceless ghosts. 

Trapped inside unnumbered door of fake time, 
eight thousand Seraphim with sparkly eyes 
dance wild in flashing rain of everywhere 
to prove we are but ghosts with writhing masks 
whose eyes are nothing like immortal sun 
that burns our souls awake with vibrant fear. 

Insistent that my heart has not been breached 
with clueless shadow writhing from tree roots, 
I smile at you with assurance that death 
will snuff out flame of every shining soul 
who shares magnificent humanity 
with stones that meditate eternally. 

Young woman in red skirt with blue head scarf 
gathers saffron crocus blooms of desire 
with hands that know how godless souls are formed 
through secret solace of weird destiny 
we try to sell with compassion to fate 
who laughs through ocean waves of brave contempt. 

Yet vulnerable people the moon conceals 
give each other rides to vast shopping malls 
where tricksters sell homes in the Afterlife, 
but I give Apple of Eris with love 
to the most clever woman in the world 
who slowly turns dial of the universe. 

Nobody From Nowhere

Nobody From Nowhere
© Surazeus
2026 07 29

At the sudden rise of the monstrous song 
from dark turmoil in calm sea of my heart, 
I pause while walking from the parking lot, 
then gaze around my still-point of concern 
at transient beauty of the wavering world 
to understand what I should do today. 

At certainty through slow unraveling 
with threads of fate from memory-woven time, 
I focus vague attention of concern 
to trace on gossamer scroll secret code 
devised by slyness to conceal my fear 
which barely contains tides of social change. 

At final judgment, rendered by mute trees 
to prove exceptions frame uncertain fate, 
I reach for handle of the broken door 
with courage to expose obsessive crimes 
people commit against people they fear 
despite concern for traditional rules. 

At placid disassemblage of our state, 
through deconstruction of rich privilege, 
I scatter components of programmed truths 
on Round Table of value-burnished knights 
to study disconnects between bland wants 
and ideal needs children fail to express. 

At startled insight of conceptual maps 
that display agricultural output, 
I analyze process of give and take 
providing financial support for farms 
that supply factories with biomass 
packaged and sold in bright grocery stores. 

At stir of demons in deep well of faith, 
who sings with sorrow of lost refugees, 
I name myself Nobody from Nowhere 
while I wander from sea to shining sea 
in search for unfenced patch of fertile soil 
beside some wide river to call my home. 

At stroke of thirteen on clock of untime, 
that vibrates over maze of offices, 
I type strange stories other people write 
to hide my Self with masks of long-dead gods 
who still speak through hard marrow of my bones 
with hunger for salvation of the fooled. 

At urge of faint hope to transcend my brain 
and soar in wings of Icarus through Hell, 
I arch my back as bridge for all lost souls 
to climb the stairway to Heaven with hope 
where they can shed rose-colored fantasy 
and live free in this world of love and need. 

Mercurial Voice Of Faith

Mercurial Voice Of Faith
© Surazeus
2026 07 28

Far from lush island of my lonely heart 
I sail ship of the sun across wild sea 
and wander lost in wilderness of hope 
four hundred years in hills of swirling mist, 
yet sweet Gritania with star-silver eyes 
calls my name with voice of the mountain wind. 

Back home to where my soul was born from stone 
I long to fly on wings of Icarus, 
but I wake here in land of Onatah 
where ringing melodies of golden harps 
are too faint for my aching heart to hear 
beneath loud rumble of machinery. 

I am no foolhardy Odysseus 
cursed to drive many turns of trickery 
down endless maze of crowded city streets, 
for I remain in hazy land of dreams 
far from stone tower on lush hill I built 
where harp of my heart moans in lonely wind. 

Annoyed at ache of longing in my heart 
to return home across the wine-dark sea 
on ship I build from strong paternal bones, 
I strum guitar Taliesin gave to me 
and sing psalms with mercurial voice of faith 
that Fortune will give me fate that I choose. 

Another sad song no one wants to hear 
unravels ache of wisdom in my heart 
so I continue to sing cryptic spell 
depicting quest to build new Wonderland 
which we pursue with brave naivety 
though I almost drown in vast sea of tears. 

I want to shuffle off this mortal coil 
and spring on vibrant wings of Icarus 
to fly beyond bounds of this spinning globe, 
but spirit of my conscious sense of self 
is conjured by quick memories of my brain 
so I am bound to dwell within its frame. 

Gold lion on shore of my Isle of Skythe 
strums Harp of David with eccentric style 
that stirs my heart from mute youth of despair 
to prophesy new age of unity 
when Gothinia, Zarathia, and Russia 
will form new world Empire of Anglonesia. 

Safe in castle tower on Isle of Skythe 
I long to dwell with wise bride of my heart, 
but I remain in Appalachian hills 
safe in our home where blind devils stand guard 
while I strum ancient Lyre of Mercury 
and sing psalms with mercurial voice of faith.