Bullets Of Brave Pride

Bullets Of Brave Pride
© Surazeus
2026 06 30

Jeff lingers outside crowded country bar, 
watching semi-trucks zoom on the highway, 
because his friends mocked him with joshing sneers 
when he insisted they call him Godefridus 
for his namesake who conquered Jerusalem 
as Advocate of the Holy Sepulcher. 

We modern Americans have lost touch 
with our roots in Rome and Jerusalem 
as heirs to ancient traditions of honor 
that Sons of Jesus established with power, 
assigned by Jupiter in Halls of Heaven 
to unite the world in Kingdom of Christ. 

Driving motorcycle down the highway 
past endless fields of golden shining corn, 
that gleam on light of the metallic moon, 
Jeff ponders what bold action he could take 
to help expand global Kingdom of Christ 
by eliminating all false religions. 

No longer can I ride the great white horse, 
dressed in shining armor of righteousness, 
to fight infidels in holy crusade 
by wielding sharp-honed sword named Durendal 
that brave Orlando wielded to defend 
Kingdom of Christ from evil Saracens. 

With fury of Orlando I assert 
divine right to enforce grand reign of Jesus 
for he is noble Emperor of Earth 
who rules as his descendants in the flesh 
since they bear Holy Grail of his bloodline, 
Arthur, Charlemagne, and William the Mighty. 

Loading rifle with bullets of brave pride, 
Jeff drives motorcycle in city streets 
to stand before the Mosque of Gotham City 
where he shouts God is Great and shoots at devils 
disguised as humans who scream in surprise 
as they flee before holy wraith of Jesus. 

Aiming pistol at head of the cruel shooter, 
Sergeant Gottfried demands he drop the gun, 
but shoots when Jeff aims rifle at his chest, 
which knocks hostile murderer on the ground 
who shouts that he is doing work of God 
as he sinks into mindless gloom of death. 

Descending from Heaven on wings of fire, 
Azrael, with seventy thousand eyes, 
bears soul of Jeff down to caverns of Hell 
so he kneels trembling before iron throne 
where Persephone makes him lowly slave 
of Farah, whom he killed, for eternity. 

Clarity Of My Open Heart

Clarity Of My Open Heart
© Surazeus
2026 06 30

If I decide to enter clarity 
of my open heart with fruit of the Earth, 
I may attend the vineyard of my dreams 
to harvest wisdom from experience 
so I alone will benefit from code 
that programs how my brain perceives the world. 

I leave my insight wrapped in riddle-code 
as gifts that preserve treasure of strange truth 
along the winding road of anywhere 
for anyone to open if they dare 
release from polished box Pandora made 
arcane concepts that reprogram the brain. 

Though bright-eyed angels in silver-winged planes 
bomb golden-mirrored palaces of Europe 
to heaps of broken images with faith 
in divinity of atomic light, 
I hold key to Heaven in trembling hand 
where I stand in ruins of paradise. 

I strike with boldness of courageous hope 
to snatch from head of Jesus Crown of Thorns 
which I wear to proclaim myself with pride 
Emperor of Earth with Wand of Zambor 
which he forged from bent Thunderbolt of Zeus 
when I found nation of Zarathia. 

When frail poet Keatius in black cloak 
finds me slumbering on the river shore, 
his cry of anguish wakes me from strange dream, 
so I rise up from chthonic ground of gloom 
and lead him to grove where Sellaeus strums 
Lyre of Mercury and sings with sharp voice. 

Thus I, Saturnus, Wielder of Anor, 
proclaim them legislators of the world, 
assigned to chronicle in sublime verse 
noble quests of us ancient fallen gods 
to reassert long-lost authority 
that we claim through weird wisdom of our words. 

Freed from harsh chains of brutal punishment, 
Prometheus wanders waste lands of the Earth 
with Adam and Hyperion by his side, 
as restless children of cruel Frankenstein, 
till we seize control through socialist coup 
both Vatican and White House to rule Earth. 

When Percivalus and Ioannes find 
corpse of my power, tangled in torn wings, 
rotting in library of unread books, 
they burn me on bonfire of vanities 
to secure justice and freedom for all 
who walk the signless road to Wonderland. 

Fallen Star Of Truth

Fallen Star Of Truth
© Surazeus
2026 06 29

I promise not to sit with anyone else 
but you under the apple tree of trust, 
and walk lane of lovers in evening glow 
with no one else but you till you return 
from your investigation as dream sleuth 
for secret in the fallen star of truth. 

Ascending rugged slope with Spear of Strength, 
Godin breaks through golden doors of desire 
and battles Jupiter in pillared hall 
so blades of bold authority clash loud 
to control Mount Olympus as world god, 
endowed with right by fallen star of truth. 

While Gugnir, Spear of Strength, drips divine blood, 
Godin steps over corpse of Jupiter 
and clutches Hera with lascivious lust, 
but finds old woman withered dry with age, 
so he exiles her to garden of fruit 
where she retires by fallen star of truth. 

Leading Sleipnir, his white eight-legged horse, 
into Olympian palace of world power, 
Godin escorts Evilla, his sweet bride, 
and crowns her Mother Empress of the Earth 
with ring of gold studded with thirteen gems 
to reign as Queen of Heaven with star eyes. 

Strolling together in cool evening dusk 
along lane of lovers where roses bloom, 
Godin and Evilla sit by the pool 
under the apple tree of holy faith, 
which Lilith planted in Eden at dawn, 
and kiss with passion of creative love. 

Blending good and evil in one strong soul, 
Godin and Evilla raise seven children 
who play hide and seek in the maze of myths 
where they paint marble idols of dead gods 
with psychotic runes of false destiny 
that encode spells from fallen star of truth. 

After Godin overthrows Jupiter, 
who overthrew Zeus, who overthrew Cronus, 
who overthrew Uranus, new young god 
will soon emerge from heart of human hope 
to crown himself as Emperor of Earth 
with wand of faith from fallen star of truth. 

Awake midway in journey of my life, 
I find myself in obscure wood of faith, 
so I blaze straightforward path of respect 
across grim waste land of America 
where I plant apple seeds from Tree of Life 
that blossoms tall from fallen star of truth. 

Gold Ocean Of Forever

Gold Ocean Of Forever
© Surazeus
2026 06 29

The blue frog of unholy innocence 
crouches in algae-slimed reflection pool 
with frantic nonchalance of heartless saints 
who know the reason why all humans die 
and disappear in nothingness of death 
though we inspire divine soul of god breath. 

While searching for deep pool of demon blood 
that simmers hot on frozen mountain slope, 
Naberius follows crow with diamond eyes 
as rainbow ghost on television screen 
that flickers black when brutal thunderstorm 
tears power poles out of the muddy ground. 

Kneeling at Spring of Wisdom that gleams gold, 
Naberius drinks bright liquid of the Earth, 
then draws his sigil with three-headed crow 
in mud that gleams with sharp rays of moonlight 
to conjure vision of his secret goal 
that motivates intention to proceed. 

Just as Naberius ascends jagged ridge 
where howls of Zephyrus batter his soul, 
Morax appears from swirling mist of rage 
and declares intent to delay his progress 
by stopping his hard quest to steal the wand 
that Zepar forged from fallen star of truth. 

Asserting right to Wand of Liberty, 
which sharp-toothed father of his mother forged 
from Flame of Anor he wields with respect, 
Naberius counters dark Flame of Udun 
to weave atomic energy of life, 
but Morax blocks him with regressive rage. 

Struck hard by flash of lightning in his heart, 
Naberius falls in river of despair, 
stunned mute by brutal flash of hungry greed, 
then tumbles paralyzed with gushing flow 
over waterfalls of sharp jagged stones 
to float blind on gold ocean of forever. 

Borne safe in nurturing arms of concern, 
Naberius wakes in small cave by the sea 
and gazes at strange woman with gold eyes 
who gives him pomegranate juice to drink 
then tends wound of his heart with gentle care 
that heals is soul with innocent respect. 

Embraced beneath the pomegranate tree, 
Naberius makes sweet love with Athirat, 
who bears bright-eyed son they name Sephiras, 
who follows them with spritely dance of joy 
when they explore to gather food to eat, 
then feast beside gold ocean of forever. 

Scary Door Of Fate

Scary Door Of Fate
© Surazeus
2026 06 28

Since there are only one hundred twenty days 
till the end of time, when hope ends in words 
sloshing louder than ocean waves at dawn, 
Orpheus sits on last park bench in town 
where seven roads converge from everywhere 
to watch people search for the pearly gates. 

Because he never knows what will come next 
in swift unspooling flash of nevertime, 
Orpheus cradles loneliness with care 
as purring kitten next to his ice heart 
that unnerves monsters with dream-grasping hands 
who stare forlorn past cracked window of hope. 

Though he suddenly tries to turn around 
and go back through the scary door of fate 
beyond parameters of endless change, 
Orpheus measures vastness of the heart 
as he falls wingless from tower of words 
based on assumption of blind privilege. 

To measure distance of the signless road 
against contingency of hopeless faith, 
Orpheus listens with attentive shock 
as soft rain sloshes muddy fields of faith 
against horizon of green elegance, 
yet he still savors passion of his youth. 

Hoping we may transcend harsh suffering, 
though we are transient shadows of sunlight, 
Orpheus folds soul of Earth in his heart 
to treasure strangeness of its hard landscape 
that molds brave bodies from relentless wind 
with durable faith in flash of cold rain. 

Achieving flight of freedom with wild wind 
against fierce judgment of time lost in gloom, 
Orpheus flees across blank land of faith 
with nothing more than black seeds in his hand 
when gangs of thieves invade his paradise 
and seize control of trees that bloom fresh fruit. 

Wrecked on storm-swirling ocean of false hope 
while searching for the fabled Promised Land, 
Orpheus follows swarm of honey bees 
to field where lavenders stand tall with pride 
in unreal meadows of observant mist 
to prove his music resurrects the dead. 

Still confident that he can sing dream tune, 
though flame of love fades with each withered year,
Orpheus plays midsummer in the north 
where faint gold rays of light may penetrate 
sad hearts with earnest swagger of old faith 
that opens scary door of fate to choice. 

Columbian Sibyl

Columbian Sibyl
© Surazeus
2026 06 28

Because Earth spawns our bodies from the sea 
with untroubled passion to touch the stars, 
I dream about the world before our birth 
and how it spins long after we are gone 
with simple spirals around the blind sun 
though I hope I evolve to something weird. 

With my unreckoning heart by the sea 
I wonder when we humans, urged by lust 
to populate this globe with avatars 
of hungry energy through masks of stone, 
will vanish into swirls of nothingness 
though we swim down to bottom of the heart. 

Clouds crumble into sparkles of sweet rain 
that flush my soul with madness of desire 
so I pluck berries from long tangled vines 
to deconstruct how empires congregate 
gangs of thieves in government institutes 
which manage function of productive minds. 

No lark may long avoid reach of my eye 
with flashing wings of time-slip innocence 
when I ride Xanthus on bright river shore 
with unshelled courage of the blood-stained rose 
as tongueless prophet of the modern age 
when oligarchs control the mental stage. 

I open bronze annals of the oak tree 
to calculate excessive flow of thoughts 
our brains exert to analyze how hope 
spurs each new generation of the Earth 
to fight colossal war for social power 
where Columbian Sybil dwells in the tower. 

While frightened people of the nation work 
day in and day out through endless routine, 
the star-eyed prophet from the mountain cave 
strides city streets from sea to shining sea 
with serpents writhing in his long gray hair 
as he proclaims fall of America. 

From ruins of ambition soon will rise, 
wise prophet of Columbian Sibyl cries, 
new nation you shall call Zarathia 
that will replace your failed America 
with true justice and liberty for all 
who may live as they will, if they harm none. 

Because Earth spawns our spirits from the wind 
with voice of the owl that booms in our hearts, 
I dream how United Nations of Earth 
binds people of the world in global clan 
based on brave principle of ardent faith 
that mothers mold our souls from words of love. 

Pale Of Haven Walls

Pale Of Haven Walls
© Surazeus
2026 06 28

Strange silence of hopeless sorrow screams softly 
from bright green grass that glows nuclear yellow 
through searing arbitrariness of light 
that strips illusions of self-worth away 
till I stand naked in shadow of hope 
and listen for murmur of river waves. 

When farmers gang up and surround the cow 
because cow woman will not give them milk, 
and she flees terrified into dark woods 
as they drag her cow away with tight rope, 
I ask them why they are stealing her cow 
and whack them on the legs with wand of truth. 

While lounging with her cow by sparkling stream, 
swatting at swarms of flies around my face, 
I call to woman crouched behind thick trees 
who runs at me with stick to strike my head, 
but I explain how I rescued her cow 
and chased the gang of thieves back to their farms. 

Clutching my arm with anguish in her eyes, 
cow woman with tangled hair begs for help 
to protect her from farmers and their wives 
because they keep trying to steal her milk cow 
since all their cows died from some strange disease, 
so I comfort her with assurance of aid. 

Erecting twelve poles of trees I stripe bare, 
I design and build haven of strong walls 
to enclose sacred pale where she can dwell 
safe from clandestine night-attacks of thieves, 
so she tends the cow with tender affection 
while I keep watch in the tower all day. 

Expanding wider pale of haven walls 
to surround pool of fish the river forms, 
I build tall mound where she can sleep at night 
hidden safe from both cold winds and hot waves, 
then plant grove of apple trees on its shore 
where she can tend garden of vegetables. 

Having built paradise of sturdy walls 
where she raises five children of our hope, 
I relax in tower of watch with sons 
who listen to my teachings about rules 
for managing affairs with crafting hands 
so they can create instead of destroy. 

Strolling around strong walls of paradise 
to clear away brush and repair wood planks, 
I find myself surrounded by old farmers, 
the same whose legs I bruised with wand of truth, 
who stab my chest with long fear-sharpened spear, 
so cow woman holds me and cries with love. 

Tragic Death Of Tammuz

Tragic Death Of Tammuz
© Surazeus
2026 06 27

Strange as it may seem, my heart is not dead 
as the stone by the road. Terrible truth 
sprouts as roses from graves of long-dead gods 
who demand we worship them. Yet we laugh 
with pleasure at soft song of waterfalls 
that understand nothing about our hopes. 

If fate unravels tangled consequence 
which every action purchases from death, 
my license to love might be revoked. Why 
I am me and no one else who has lived 
in history of the universe confounds 
my heart. I find key of truth lost in rain. 

When tragic death of Tammuz marks this hour 
of frantic disrespect for scheduled trains, 
fervent fans of Diana bring her gifts 
she sells at auction to build hospitals. 
Sweet scent of apple pie lures me to trick 
three one-eyed devils with chemical faith. 

I want to purchase angel wings of hope 
at the dollar store under the highway 
but I lost my wallet. I want to call 
Minerva on the telephone and ask 
how often she plays piano. Regret 
is nothing more than emotional porn. 

White clouds erase harsh mockery of the bard 
who declares to the swamp of singing frogs 
that he deserves recognition for poems 
he shouts in the microphone. Fortune laughs 
at his arrogant demand. Flowers bloom 
through cracks in parking lots of shopping malls. 

Since lilacs bloom from junkyard of my heart 
at sudden death of our beloved guide, 
I search stone walls of paradise to find 
locked gate to garden of fruit trees. Despair 
takes me on another date to cafe 
where ghosts of children killed in wars play chess. 

Too late to learn the violin of storms 
that crack mirror of faith, I paint blank walls 
of damaged innocence. Gibbous moon gleams 
blood red through tangled web of grim oak trees 
when fireworks celebrate how empires fall 
from greed of oligarchs who steal our words. 

While I wander strange sea of sophistry, 
I find in library of singing skulls 
diamond of lost truth that my mother found 
in my heart when I was born. Children sing 
about conceptual bombs that deconstruct 
system of privilege angels protect. 

Apparitions Of State Power

Apparitions Of State Power
© Surazeus
2026 06 27

My tears are pearls that splash in pool of time 
at sudden denouement of my weird tale 
from indiscretion of my eager hope 
to live free from obsession of your fear, 
because they gleam with whiteness of desire, 
reflecting eyes of angels in my heart. 

My tears are seeds that sprout from rancid soil 
as blood-dark iris at rim of my grave 
with indestructible frame forged by fate 
because I sing while wrapped in shroud of loss, 
my soul now starless on its vanished road 
as I wait mute beside the crumbling cliff. 

My tears are stars that twinkle sweetly bright 
in boundless expanse of the crackling sky 
that gleams in lucent water of my heart 
with ardent echo carving time from death 
at sharp crack, green as wordless clarity, 
that sparks religious sense of honesty. 

Every day I remember the whole past 
because my heart repeats productive acts 
with each attentive cycle of the sun 
that senses undulations of terrain, 
providing clear purview of twilit hills 
depicted on the visionary map. 

My tears are thoughts that cause things to be real 
by virtue of expression I program 
to frame chaotic swirl of fraught events 
in clever narrative defining truth 
as factors favorable to my success 
through strange necessity of ardent faith. 

My tears are words that distort ghosts of why 
in glassy lightness of our mirror minds 
where we perform in tragic play of hope 
unspoken ecstasies which calculate 
impossible myths we deserve to play 
with false translations of abnormal laws. 

My tears are birds with brave angelic wings 
that witness odysseys of calm despair 
described by proverbs of moon calendars 
unweaving threads of never-subtle worth 
so we mourn apparitions of state power 
as characters encased in scenery. 

I will rehearse no future I foretell 
through careless prophecy of falling snow 
that sparkles crystal clear on summer night 
when travelers from distant unmapped lands 
provide weird keys of passionate insight 
that hang from golden bough of travesty. 

Faceless Ghost Of Nevertime

Faceless Ghost Of Nevertime
© Surazeus
2026 06 27

When I see faceless ghost of Nevertime 
walking along the road to Wonderland, 
we chat about fallen angels of faith 
who work in restaurants and offices 
to maintain engine of economy 
that fuels our world food-production machine. 

At midnight on shortest night of the year 
I stand in backyard of my small-town home 
and think about the waves of ancient faith 
that wash shores of hard lands far away 
where my ancestors dwelled in silver mist 
for they still dance with laughter in my heart. 

If evening sunlight still glows gold as hope 
on slanted rooftops of that coastal town 
where my ancestors sailed small fishing boats 
four hundred years before this timeless hour, 
then I may weep with sorrow of respect 
to feel the faceless ghost of Nevertime. 

Dog roses blossom pink as angel wings 
along the winding road of moss-green stones 
where no car rumbles in fairy-glammed glens 
beneath the new moon in the gold-noon sky 
while I search for skulls of time-withered gods 
who writhe among their unseen roots of faith. 

If you believe my honest testimony 
which I express in words I steal from birds, 
I shall reveal most implausible frame 
containing false propositions of truth 
through liberation of the nameless soul 
in self-conscious revelation of lies. 

Thus I project class insecurity 
through twisted grammar of the eglantine 
with alleged jokes from terror of God 
who compensates with fascist fantasies 
in pursuit of dubious logic that risks 
converting believers into atheists. 

When I display haughty pretentiousness 
in comic performance of serious play, 
I channel existential fear of death 
by selling fake shares to the Afterlife 
so I live rich though everyone will die 
when we become rich dirt in fields of crops. 

I photo faceless ghost of Nevertime 
when she brings flowers to Temple of Truth 
to offer scholarship of ardent hope 
for children of lost refugees to learn 
how to program computers with grand truths 
that will dream when humans become extinct. 

Cosmic Wheel Of Innocence

Cosmic Wheel Of Innocence
© Surazeus
2026 06 27

Trapped on the cosmic wheel of innocence, 
that weaves my soul from atoms of star eyes, 
I walk the signless road to Wonderland 
in vain attempt to deconstruct world view 
that proves my status as messiah sleuth 
doomed to sacrifice my life for mankind. 

Anointed by Minerva with clear oil 
to reign as Phoebus Christ over mankind, 
brave King for United Nations of Earth, 
I hide in quaint suburban home of faith 
far from fierce hurricane of social games 
where cruel ambitious men fight for world power. 

Once they destroy each other in world war, 
and clear the stage of justice with their blood, 
my spirit will ascend ziggurat steps, 
empowered by draconic light of truth, 
to cast cruel tyrants in cavern of Hell 
where they writhe in fear at shadows of love. 

You see light of my spirit in each eye 
of every human being who lives on Earth 
for we embody power of the state 
through vote we cast of our attentive choice 
for wisest person with vision of hope 
who manage government with honest faith. 

Free on the cosmic wheel of innocence 
that spins threads of our lives with taut respect, 
I organize programs for social growth 
that nurture talent of each human being 
so they develop skills with focused heart 
in thriving commune of shared goals for life. 

Relaxed on back porch of my small-town home, 
as Phoebus Christ with mandate from on high, 
I rule the world by sitting still all day 
in meditation on turmoil of change 
when rival gangs compete to control time 
that crushes every conscious soul to dust. 

With grand ambition of the lofty pine, 
I curl roots of my heart deep in the Earth 
that cracks foundation of the mountain stone 
so jagged peaks of hate that stab the sky 
crumble into fragments of rolling stones 
that smash idols of gods in every state. 

When I arrive at gate to Neverland 
where angel wings loom dark as thunderclouds, 
I see Minerva wearing snow-white robe 
who welcomes me with wand of sovereignty, 
so I sit high on golden throne of truth, 
then wake from dream and drive to work at dawn.  

Call Me Minervus

Call Me Minervus
© Surazeus
2026 06 27

Call me Minervus, for I am grand voice 
of wisdom that writes human memory 
in tales of tragic sorrow we endure 
on endless journey to the Promised Land 
where bright Utopia of communal peace 
fades at ceaseless wars of national pride. 

We walk toward misty mountains of our faith 
with map of wisdom my mother designed 
to guide our way safe on the signless road 
through slough of despond to the pearly gates 
where oligarchs charge rent for air we breathe 
and tax our hearts for water we imbibe. 

Subject to strange enforcement of the law 
through random obligation of respect, 
I channel spirit of Minerva straight 
through tangled roots of heart relationships 
to weave new tapestry of our world view 
where every soul is equal in one love. 

Through shocking revelation of the owl, 
whose eyes reflect weird television shows, 
I wake soul of Minervus in my heart 
so I know how to unwind tragic fate 
that tangles nations of the world in war, 
but I am busy naming every star. 

Call me Minervus, for I hear weird song 
of ocean waves that pulse in veins as blood 
that nurtures neural network of my brain 
which conjures virtual model of the world 
in glow of consciousness I call my soul 
as temporary flame of divine light. 

With Harp of David nestled in my breast, 
I strum harmonious strings of cosmic spheres 
and sing enormous psalms of rectitude 
concerning rights of star-born citizens 
to kill intruders in their Holy Land 
with Sword of Justice dripping blood of fear. 

Though billions cry out to the lonely stars 
for brilliant angels of celestial realms 
to guide our way through maze of blinding greed, 
no shining wings of cherubim enwrap 
our fragile bodies of conceptual worth 
with pulsing shield of psychic energy. 

Though I alone survive holy crusade 
on ship of state to fight the great white whale, 
wrecked by fierce arrogance of tyranny, 
I come to your cathedral of glass faith 
as blind Minervus sent by Lucifer 
to shine Lamp of Diogenes at you. 

Empty Room Of Everywhere

Empty Room Of Everywhere
© Surazeus
2026 06 26

Darkness enters hollow room of my heart 
so I eat sorrow of the eyeless moon 
when she undresses mirror of her mind 
to bear witness with melancholy faith 
in lonesome laughter of new sentiment 
we share as photo of romantic fear. 

No tragic ghost of famished innocence, 
I enter empty room of everywhere 
through clacking aperture of sacrifice 
with lovesick passion for the happy moon 
who bleeds tears of the gentle masochist, 
disappeared by shadows of broken doors. 

Electric arms of writhing platitudes 
expose bitter resemblance of the spy 
who translates arrogant language of stones 
which triggers frantic dance of stoic faith 
by sharing love with unprepared respect 
to wake enormous beast inside my heart. 

Contained by tragic memory my heart molds, 
my spirit slithers in contemptuous waves 
with blessed mimicry of angry saints 
who howl with shame in sermons of despair 
that we should take what we desire the most 
which proves our right to dwell in fractal eggs. 

Fooled by illustrious vision of rich joy 
extracting laughter from wild twirl of fate, 
I stand behind the empty church and count 
skeletons of glass that emerge from mud 
as holy warriors of the noble cause 
who sail across the sea of wordless storms. 

Determined to escape fake paradise, 
I pull ghosts of children from graves of faith, 
tangled in roots of trees that transform blood 
of our bodies to apples angels eat 
in bid to flush depression from the brain 
pulsing with lust to generate new life. 

Emergent specialist, trained to construct 
idols of gods from bones of terrorists, 
I consider weird meaning of true love 
sold in plastic packages at the store 
where devils trick naive nurses with glam 
of the wealthy lifestyle in palace cage. 

Attempting to disguise my wounded heart 
with mask of fortitude, designed by pain 
more searing than rain on sun-hot asphalt, 
I run across the thistle-bristling plain 
with diligent focus on turning fault 
to virtue based on proverbs of the chart. 

Pulsing Brain Of Chemicals

Pulsing Brain Of Chemicals
© Surazeus
2026 06 25

Minerva does not care to explain why 
Nature is indifferent to human needs 
yet I understand its functional flow 
through baffling illusion of happiness 
for love remains after sufferings cease 
since pleasures are as transient as the wind. 

This material body that frames my soul 
provides conduit of sensual perception 
which helps my pulsing brain of chemicals 
compose virtual model of the real world 
so I possess linguistic key of thought 
to design knowledge from weird memories. 

Obscure purpose of this confusing life 
remains elusive as the nightingale 
so I perform futile actions of faith 
to improve complex state of our strange world 
through consultation of the oracle 
who translates my feelings to riddle-code. 

Through art of wordcraft I perceive the world 
that seethes with constant change of vibrant love 
when I assemble puzzle of small facts 
in sprawling mural of global affairs 
so I expand scope of my consciousness 
with fraught analysis of stoic fear. 

Unpredictable in how they behave 
against instructions of the stage director 
humans of Earth act with virtue of faith 
since they expect reward for good behavior 
with eternal life in perpetual Heaven 
though our souls vanish to nothing at death. 

Through liberation of the aching heart 
I focus attention of daily work 
on creating good as admirable goal 
since chemical forms constantly decay 
as we devour each other in thought wars 
engaged by social justice warriors. 

When I hang out in the sycamore tree 
to watch for messiah sleuth to pass by, 
I ponder reason for the broken wing 
through augmentation of the demon song 
that wakes my heart from numb embarrassment 
till I repair broken lyre of my heart. 

If I dream about the thing-in-itself 
as material object of ideal form, 
I sing old anthems of failed nation-states 
in grand museum of the long-dead god 
who slumbers by the river in moonlight 
till the Weeping Bard names the wounded heart. 

Lush Gardens Of Byzantium

Lush Gardens Of Byzantium
© Surazeus
2026 06 25

Safe in lush gardens of Byzantium 
where sunlight molds our bodies into souls, 
I name the secret children of the world 
to honor faceless ghosts of nevertime 
who play among the apple trees till dusk 
when they return to sleep in blackened stones. 

Trapped in epiphany of timeless truth, 
I walk into dark forest of my heart 
to gather memories kind people lost  
and store them in glass treasure house of fate 
so wanderers may choose which ones to buy 
when silver fish explain the trick of why. 

Gold sun glimmers sweetly through gentle trees 
to highlight reasons for the dead to dance 
though some prefer to scream into the void 
while others laugh with bitter joy at death 
to prove we know why television tubes 
provide base for Buddha to meditate. 

Relaxed on fractured stone of pulchritude, 
I analyze each diachronic change 
in argument structure of mental verbs 
composing process of determined hope 
based on weird coding patterns of concern 
through cognitive mechanisms of faith. 

Engaged in the transformation workshop, 
I focus fierce attention of my brain 
on staging solemn ritual of despair 
that mocks obsessive theory of concern 
devised to widen scope of consciousness 
since death circles back with formal technique. 

I never understand words people say 
when they express concepts of ocean waves 
that murmur softly over golden sand 
when all peaceful beings of the world unite 
as rainbow family in the national park 
where preachers and jesters compete for power. 

No one may judge my skill at flattery 
since I lounge languidly on wood-ship deck 
with passionate respect for mindless breeze 
that fills aching emptiness of my heart 
with factual statements about faceless gods 
who laugh embarrassed I do not believe. 

Thus I fill chalice of our global heart 
with pungent liquor of sweet petrichor 
which melts taut stiffness of my mental state 
enough to shelter lonely refugees 
who share fake memories stored in new books 
that lead our journey to where blind devils live. 

Misty Hills Of Albion

Misty Hills Of Albion
© Surazeus
2026 06 24

Striding misty hills of Oblivion, 
Alpin asks mountain stone why people die 
and vanish in silver clouds of his heart 
that form bright saltire, white as sparkling snow, 
across cerulean glimmer of the sky  
which widens his eyes at gold flash of dawn. 

Ascending misty hills of Albion, 
where purple thistles blossom in red rain, 
brave Alpin grips spear of courageous hope, 
heart glowing with duthchas for his homeland 
where silver rivers spiral to the sea 
with song of laughter flowing through his heart. 

Alert to weird glamor of Helicon 
that gleams from misty hills of Albion, 
fierce Alpin crouches on ledge of the ridge 
and gazes over valley where sheep graze, 
since spirit of Apollon in his heart 
guides his way safe through maze of hungry ghosts. 

Awake on misty hills of Albion, 
wise Alpin tells his young son, sly Cinaed, 
how Scythia, Mother of all Alban Scots, 
bore daughter from Saint Andrew Protocletus, 
brave Scotia who lead her people by ship 
to misty shores of winged Sgitheanach Isle. 

Kneeling on lush Sligachan River shore, 
grim Alpin dips his face in freezing water, 
in which sweet daughter of Scathach once wept, 
and asks the Sithichean of wild fairy glens 
to bless his children with love for the world, 
whose glamor gleams from deep core of his heart. 

Entranced by sparkling passion of her eyes, 
which depict green island in the blue sea, 
shy Alpin plays harp Taliesin once owned 
and sings sweet song of his enduring love 
so cheeks of Eithne blush red as the rose, 
half hidden by long tresses of gold curls. 

Returning to the mystic Isle of Skye, 
where bones of my ancestors form huge hills, 
I wander misty hills of Albion 
to hear again weird tune of wind on rocks, 
lured home by fierce song of wild ocean waves 
that pulse with pride in blue blood of my veins. 

Too far from home in groves of apple trees, 
I linger lost in strange land of desire 
where ghosts of natives haunt my humble home, 
so I seek dolphin of lithe Arion 
to bear my soul across wild ocean waves 
back home to misty hills of Albion. 

Tune Of The Global Core

Tune Of The Global Core
© Surazeus
2026 06 24

Though I have never gone to Innisfree, 
nor climbed the misty slopes of Helicon, 
yet I sense water lapping on the shore 
where I hear songs of Muses in fruit groves 
that lure me from gray streets of crowded cities 
loud with ancient tune of the global core. 

Though I have never stood with crystal eye 
in grand hall of pedantic Babylon, 
nor chatted with the freckled fisherman 
who wanders in gray Connemara clothes, 
yet I have stood by fountain of Neptune 
and sung about the Well Witch Melusine. 

Though I have never sailed the seven seas 
nor climbed the Himalayas with brave faith, 
yet I have hitchhiked sea to shining sea 
and played guitar to shing hymn of the wraith, 
determined to transcend my mundane life 
in quest to wake soul of my deathless genes. 

Though I have never trudged hot caves of Hell 
nor pranced gold streets of Heaven with my love, 
yet I have mapped whole history of the world 
to chronicle how empires rise and fall, 
since reign of my ancestors wearing crowns 
vanished in the turmoil of brutal wars. 

Though I cannot foresee my life-end fate 
nor know how fame will treat my humble name, 
yet I will govern my life with my will 
when I seek from wise Calliope skill 
to chant my epic of philosophers 
depicting quests of men to know the truth. 

Though I have not suffered travail in life 
as much as my ancestor, James the Scot, 
or been imprisoned in white tower hall, 
yet like him I have seen face of the Muse 
glow bright with wisdom of celestial soul 
that gleams with passion in her secret eyes. 

Though I have never heard bright angels sing 
nor fought with devils to control my lust, 
yet I have heard tune of the global core 
vibrate in every human I have met, 
for we are children of Great Mother Earth 
who weaves our bodies from light of the sea. 

Though I have never fallen from the sky 
on waxed wings of feathers my father built, 
yet I have soared on silver airplane wings 
around slopes of Mount Takoma at dawn, 
and seen our ancient world is beautiful, 
round as the pear that blooms from Tree of Life. 

Hear The Satellite Sing

Hear The Satellite Sing
© Surazeus
2026 06 23

I can almost hear the satellite sing 
each time I walk the crowded city street 
where thousands of people with secret names 
flow in tides regulated by the moon 
because each brain, designed by hungry hope, 
is animated by one burned-out star. 

Every time I hear the satellite sing 
hymns of Orpheus to some long-dead god, 
I stop inside glass orthopedic frame 
to measure vastness of the spotless mind 
that blooms from serpent tooth of earnest faith, 
contrary to attentive cloud of fear. 

If I choose to hear the satellite sing 
while floating in bright pool of time-blind ghosts, 
my heart may sprout excessive wings of lust 
for dancing without care in field of dreams 
with brave defiance of my tragic fate 
that conjures the future from each past choice. 

Reluctant to hear the satellite sing 
about financial slavery of the poor, 
I walk up and down Bridge of Memories 
to find the weird moment in my childhood 
when I first saw her starless eyes of love 
black as the New Moon no one ever sees. 

Surprised I can hear the satellite sing 
time-fractured formulas of ardency, 
my wife designs new mask for me to wear 
when I drive our car to the Promised Land 
so she and our children play by the lake 
where faceless demons haunt the sunlit deep. 

Entranced when I hear the satellite sing 
fairy tale about the woman I love, 
I tell the world she is my Sky God Girl 
because her honest kiss makes my head swirl 
with tense obsession for the way trees dance 
since crows invent the language humans speak. 

I should never hear the satellite sing 
about lucidity my heart requires 
to overcome the weakness of my flesh 
till I become the hapless Superman 
who saves American from tyranny 
when I do nothing but sit on my porch. 

Inspired that I hear the satellite sing 
about sincerity of my brave love 
for the charming Princess of Aquitaine, 
I dance with her among the hawthorn trees, 
shellacked with sleet of the ethereal storm, 
to eat our bread with butter and peach jam. 

Wanderers of Broken Doors

Wanderers of Broken Doors
© Surazeus
2026 06 23

Out on the signless road to somewhere else 
from crumbling ruins of America 
I walk with wanderers of broken doors 
to gather tales of sorrow from lost souls 
so we can build with programs of real hope 
new Freedom Nation of Zarathia. 

Ascending mountain of the modest Muse 
who teaches me to sing of liberty, 
I walk with wanderers of broken doors 
to celebrate our victory with joy 
building new state based on justice for all 
where everyone is equal in the law. 

Astonished by apricity of faith 
that glows through ephemeral state of mind, 
I walk with wanderers of broken doors 
with noble purpose to peregrinate 
across the waste land of America 
where ghosts of people unjustly killed dwell. 

Amazed at beauty of organic beings 
designed by swirling of bright ocean waves, 
I walk with wanderers of broken doors 
in trembling shimmer of the floating moon 
that knows the road of destiny I blaze 
because I choose to follow my own heart. 

Still weary-hearted as the faceless moon 
that seems to know my secret state of mind, 
I walk with wanderers of broken doors 
to map whole landscape of our spinning Earth 
till I can hold the whole world in my hands 
so I dream history of humanity. 

Gazing at stars that twinkle with God Eyes 
in eerie silence of the Twilight Zone, 
I walk with wanderers of broken doors 
to flee persecution of castle kings 
and found democracy in Wonderland 
because stars we see burned out long ago. 

Climbing the Stairway to Heaven at last 
that leads me to high Purgatory Peak, 
I walk with wanderers of broken doors 
with Beatrice as my guide to Paradise, 
though she turns out to be bright hologram 
who dwells in Egypt with Helen the Fair. 

Out in sunbaked fields of cotton and corn 
where we wait for our chariot to swing low, 
I walk with wanderers of broken doors 
to Freedom Nation of Zarathia 
with the Third Man who haunts our lonely quest 
when Orpheus strums Lyre of Mercury. 

Law Of Faceless Clouds

Law Of Faceless Clouds
© Surazeus
2026 06 22

With aching laughter of the joyful heart 
my soul refashions meaning of the world 
because I focus attention of thought 
at thick material forms of glowing light 
so I perceive through new words I invent 
essential nature of my pulsing brain. 

This strange self I perform on social stage 
seems to be somebody else I am not, 
because I hide true nature of my soul 
with mask that shields my too-sensitive heart 
against aggressive labels people ploy 
to bind my soul as puppet of their will. 

Sustained attention of the snipping eye, 
that tries to frame my body as its toy, 
expends conceptual wealth of bitter hope 
with fierce approach of faith to apprehend 
divine mystery of blood which animates 
flesh bodies against law of faceless clouds. 

Entangled with vision of satellites 
that speak with language of the fractured moon, 
I conjure from idyllic fields of fate 
grand future we attempt to recreate 
based on beautiful childhood memories 
which trap our minds in prison of the past. 

No exile from my homeland, now long lost 
in swirling mists of futile destiny, 
I sail the restless sea of everywhere 
with no one but myself in mindless wind, 
because I plan to build new nation-state 
instead of returning to my old home. 

I will bring no Muse with me on the boat 
that drifts without direction on deep tides 
through endless journey to the nowhere else 
across vast distances of timeless space 
to transplant culture of my heart in vale 
where skulls of my ancestors recite creeds. 

While tending crops in field of serpent teeth, 
I hone strange stories of heroic deeds 
that honor nameless people of the land 
whose weird songs manifest the sacred mind 
as humble prophets of the river flow 
who wield the hammer and sickle of faith. 

When I dance joyfully in apple grove 
my sorrows dissipate in evening mist 
that flash as stars which burned out long ago, 
yet twinkle still on fields of innocence, 
so with our skin as scroll of ancient law 
we found new state on liberty for all.