Highway Of Phony Fame

Highway Of Phony Fame
© Surazeus
2017 11 30

Ten thousand poets, lost in mirror maze
of the manufactured self, stand in halls
and prophesy the voice from the abyss
of echoing dreams where Narcissus lost
his true name, so Gabriel carves our names
on the white diamond of weird consciousness,
composed of our ancestral memories.

We stand in the slanting light of sun rays
that beam through broken windows of cathedrals
and trace the silhouettes of our own souls
on the cracked floor of the Museum hall
where wise Athena waits impatiently
for us to write the epic of lost heroes
in masks we wear to express our own feelings.

Will sad Narcissus ever hear the voice
of sweet Ophelia who wanders on shore
of the shining lake where we all first woke
from dream of flashing cells after we crawled
silver river streams to cave of illusions,
since the first broken statue of Apollo
silently requests that I change my life?

I open the hymn book of angsty lyrics
and express the voice of countless dead poets
whose wailing ghosts crowd dark Museum hall
like flies stuck in dusty tangled cobwebs
of my world view after I returned late
from tripping in the waste land of mute words
where Eliot chants spells in the thunderstorm.

To build new house that will accomodate
every wandering troubadour, who sings spells
that might rejuvenate our national pride,
I first must destroy old academy,
then reconstruct Museum of Apollo
whose statue lies broken in river mud
beside the bleeding-heart statue of Jesus.

Ten thousand poets sea to shining sea
walk the golden highway of phony fame
and sing spells of their visions to the crowd
of three hundred million people who sit
in movie theaters to watch space operas
where Luke battles his father for the crown
of laurel leaves Apollo wove for Daphne.

Bridge Of Transformation

Bridge Of Transformation
© Surazeus
2017 11 29

Pausing in flow of students in the hall,
Anita grips her head at searing pain
of migraine headache that throbs in her brain,
and feels agony of hope flash the wall.

The joy of learning secrets of the world
once animated me with eager hope
to comprehend the rich beauties of nature,
but agony of pain that sears my soul
burns away all illusions of success
so I stand naked in the aching dark.

I see strange ligaments of fibrous thoughts
connect disparate concepts of ideas
in quivering fabric of mental states
that weave all objects of atomic pulse
in weird holistic web of shining souls
which hums with vibrant song of dreaming minds.

Each flash of joy and sorrow beaming clear
from countless hearts of woke organic souls
weaves virtual world in my transcendent heart
so I can sense each tremble of desire
that ripples through our universal mind
to flash their visions in my aching brain.

I know the agony of suffering
that sears our bodies of organic souls
as we contend with limits of our flesh
in struggle to survive chaotic death
by channeling the flushing flow of juice
in taut constrictive order of our words.

The bodies of this world are formed from atoms
which interact through the chemical process
of linkages in number calculations
when molecules connect as elements
and flow around each other in taut dance
of vibrant lust in structural desire.

All objects that exists in our vast world
are structures of atoms that interact
in chemical process of transformation
so when we act based on mental perceptions
we create or destroy physical things
through conduct of construction and destruction.

What nourishing juice, sustenance of soul
produced from sun-ripened fruit, harvested
from Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil,
should I acquire and consume to revive
sweet sensuous pleasure of my tingling body
so I restore joy of life I once savored?

What regimen of exercise and rest
should I employ to express through my body
urgent passion for motion of my limbs
across amazing landscape of my dreams
to soothe the teeming visions of my brain
that motivates me to achieve success?

I pause at unseen edge of vast abyss
and tremble as I gaze in gloom of pain
which flashes agony of aching hope
that I can convert pang of crippling pain
into soul-enriching pleasure of growth
for what does not kill me might make me stronger.

I breathe deep spirit of the universe
and feel every atom inside my cells
pulsing with divine consciousness of love
so I can overcome anxiety
of influence to transcend limitations
for I am the true bridge of evolution.

My body is the bridge of evolution
by which I cross the bottomless abyss
of eternal death to reincarnate
coiled genes of my immortal soul in child
I generate from egg and sperm of hope
and gain eternal life after my death.

My body is the bridge of transformation
between the mute Ape and the Overman
who overcomes the weakness of our flesh
through force of will in struggle against death,
ascending heights of capability
to be all I can be before I die.

Yet still agony of this crippling pain
pierces my mind with soul-numbing despair
so I would rather that this frail flesh melt
away into dust swirling in the wind
since I would feel nothing after my death,
though I am still alive with every breath.

Since I am still alive in this frail form
I must continue on through maze of hope
that pain will flush away in rain of time
and leave me gasping on the beach of death
so I may rise reborn from peaceful rest
and savor again the pleasures of life.

Resuming journey to classroom of truth,
Anita breathes deep spirit of new hope
that she can maintain way of balanced scope
in noble research as scientific sleuth.

Museum Of Characters

Museum Of Characters
© Surazeus
2017 11 28

We base everything in society
around the idol of human persona,
specific character who represents
the spirit of each institution built
on noble deeds they performed to express
complex vision of our strange universe.

Each religion is based on human mind
who sought to comprehend the universe,
the prophet who walked out beyond the walls
of their protective haven to explore
the wilderness of visions, then returned
to teach mute villagers truth about life,
after they gazed in the abyss of death,
how everything that exists is composed
of one vibrant element that contains
all conscious entities with dreaming brains
and calls the universal ground of being
God who knows itself awake in our eyes.

Each nation is based on human hand
who fought against oppressive gangs of thieves,
the warrior who wrestled demons of fear
and challenged god-priest on the pyramid
to battle over who controls the fate
of men and women farming fields of wheat,
and herding cows and sheep, so we can store
food for winter in the warehouse of walls
in exchange for gold coins that represent
goods we generate from the fertile Earth,
since we trust the Loaf-Ward as honest Lord
who leads our tribe to overcome mute death
and distribute food to all worthy souls
who work to increase the wealth of our tribe.

Each institution based on social group
forms around one wise personality
whose insight guides our actions to produce
goods and services in the market place
that operates functions of craftsmanship
so we all cooperate to grow food,
and design machines that ease our hard work,
which sustains our bodies when we consume
atoms mutating from core elements
of light, rain, soil, and air in food we eat.

One night young Abram stood on star-lit plain
and thought about how every group of people
forms around the wise leader of their tribe
who seems to manifest the divine spirit
of mental insight into how things work
so when they face problems of life and death
they develop solutions to construct
process of interaction that will nourish
pleasure of life in functions of our bodies.

Yet when that person who manifests wisdom,
who long played living god on pyramid,
dies in process of time, and their moist flesh
crumbles to dust that leaves behind mute skull,
another person rises to play role
of wise leader who guides ways of their tribe
so they survive against chaos of death,
chosen to rule by their collective trust.

So Abram proclaims that bodies of men,
formed from dust of the Earth, glow warm with light
of some animating spirit who lives
beyond the death of individual persons,
and calls this universal spirit God
who flows from body to body of kings
in eternal stream of divine rebirth.

Each tribe of people, wise Abram explains,
follows their leader they worship as god,
but one invisible God rules the world
when it manifests itself in the bodies
of mortal men who play god in its stead,
so though nations of men around the globe
form boundaries to puzzle fertile lands
they unify into one global empire,
composing United Nations of Earth.

We tell stories of humans who performed
deeds of good or evil in tale of life
that weaves one narrative of social action
in grand epic song of progress through deeds
that create or destroy structure of empires
so characters of people who once lived
embody universal traits through myths
that calculate the archetypes of brains.

The Gods of religions and national legends
present the characters we value most
and thus we worship idols of dead people
which present actions of dramatic force
as worthy of our worship and devotion
so when we face problems in our own lives,
wandering in the labyrinth of illusions,
we ask ourselves, what would our best god do,
and then we act on principles of law
that favor construction over destruction,
and write our own tales into history.

I wander Museum of Characters
and gaze in face of each lost human soul
who lived once in the weird dream of our world
and see their actions play on stage of time
to manifest their role in history
of human progress through which we evolve,
transforming from monkeys to thinking gods.

How To Change My Life

How To Change My Life
© Surazeus
2017 11 28

Dead gods burst bright from hard statues of stone
and beam rays of sunlight that pierce my cells
with needles of desire that thread glass eyes
to weave soul into fabric of this world.

Each quiver of wings beating in my heart,
from invisible beings my fear invents,
slashes curves of passion like mountain peaks
so my consciousness bulges from ripe fruit.

Back inward I roll sight of searching eyes
to discover secrets of physics lost
through rebirth of fathers ten thousand years
while I dig holes in moist soil of the world.

I follow ghost of Rainer through the zoo
where mute animals are caged in steel maze
by talking animals with grasping hands
who discovered how to forge swords from fire.

Each time he pauses in Museum of forms
I watch him study the panther who prowls
or the headless statue of dead Apollo
whose lust for life aches within my own torso.

I follow Rainer to the Duino Tower
where he chases ghost of Princess Marie
and translates howl of winds on broken stone
while he teaches me how to change my life.

Shaking free from purple haze of desire,
I grip the angel who tries to escape,
but gasp to realize she is human flesh
as she vanishes in wind of my words.

Each angel I encounter on the road
of self-enlightenment to paradise
was wounded by some man assaulting her
so she flees when I express my pure love.

So when I look at my sweet charming bride,
silver eyes blazing from gold curls of hair,
I find that she is now frail skeleton
whose spirit left her lost corpse in my care.

Breaking open the door of the ruined tower,
I leave my nameless bride in hall of mirrors
where like Rapunzel she sings with birds
and laments imprisonment of her duty.

I carve from marble bone of mountain core
sweet curves of Venus to reveal her soul
that manifests in her breasts dripping milk
and eyes that gaze beyond my smiling mask.

Emerging from the lake of dreams at dawn,
she sings that way gold sunlight gleams on water
is how she perceives teeming world of forms
as subject who creates life with her heart.

I am not object of your blind desire,
she cries and turns away into the wind,
and aching passion to protect her soul
swells my heart to spring with active progress.

The ancient love to procreate new souls
gushes from my heart like river that flows
from melting ice on mountain of my breast
to fertilize lush valleys that bloom fruit.

Pure soul of god, eternal flash of life,
glows within the meat and bones of my body
so immortal souls of my ancestors live
reborn this hour in me with aching hope.

My eyes perceive real world of changing forms,
my mind designs model of that real world,
my heart conceives action to achieve pleasure,
and my body acts to construct good heaven.

Each moment my brain dreams vision of good
I perform actions my mind prophesies,
so I reconstruct structure of the world
through construction and destruction of hope.

I walk candle-lit Museum of tales,
gazing at statues of each character
who springs alive in visions of our minds
conjured whole by words of legends in books.

So many people sprang from lust of hope,
bodies pulsing with consciousness of god
who seeks to replicate eternal soul
preserved in genetic coil of our flesh.

Born from darkness of endless nothingness
we seek light of pleasure through sharing love
that regenerates our bodies and minds
so we can live till the Sun burns the Earth.

Archaic Torso Of Apollon

Archaic Torso Of Apollon
© Surazeus
2017 11 27

How well I know the contours of his head,
where his eyes gleam bright like ripe pears we pluck
from twisted branches of ancient black trees,
as he lounges on the gold dazzling couch
on the small pyramid of cool white marble,
and watches us filling baskets with fruit
that bloom from seeds his mother pushed in soil
then watered with the tears of her desire.

I feel sweat dripping from my nipple tips,
half-hidden by the long white gown I wear,
while I peer sly through long black curls of hair
to peek at his sleek torso glowing bright
in dazzling sunlight and soothing moonlight,
and daydream that he grips me in his arms
and fills me with the gaze of his desire.

The sleek gold lion lounging by his couch
purrs and shakes his mane, then flicks his long tail,
as bold Apollon slides strong gentle hands
along his flickering hide, and gazes deep
in my aching eyes as if to caress
my hungry thighs that open at his kiss,
and Cupid flutters soft around my head.

The bow of his breast dazzles me with hope
when the long curve of his loins spirals smile
of aching passion that inspires my heart
to throb like gushing streams that tumble white
in snow-froth to fill deep lake of my heart
with waves that sparkle from sun of his eyes
when he chases me into its deep glow.

We float forever on cool crystal sheen
of bottomless abyss, defying death
with every kiss that penetrates dark night
with beaming rays of light, till my ripe womb
swells round as mountains with child of his soul,
and I remember still taut curves of flesh
that bulged beyond the edges of his skin.

Though he grows old and frail as rotting tree
that twists in relentless wind from cliff side
and we bury his bones and withered skin
under heap of broken marble, his eyes
still watch me from the dazzle of the sun,
and his strong spirit grows in son he sired
who watches young women plucking ripe pears.

Gripping hammer and chisel with my hands,
twisted more than branches of old pear trees,
I hack at block of marble, white as snow
like his torso that ripples at my touch,
and free his spirit from the mountain core,
carving the passionate shape of his head
with eyes that pierce my heart with deathless love.

I leave the statue of my strong Apollon
standing in the temple where he once lounged,
for, though his taut torso of tense desire
dissolved to dust that blows in wordless wind,
his pure Idea stands in marble form
ten thousand years to gaze in your new eyes,
inspiring you to love with fertile gaze.

Our Psychological Theater

Our Psychological Theater
© Surazeus
2017 11 26

When I was younger, thirty years ago,
I wandered through the labyrinth of self
where all the characters of history
are stored as human archetypal idols
molded real by each person who expressed
passions of their spirits to form the mask
of their own unique personality.

While gazing at idol of Jesus Christ,
that stands in every church where people sing
tales of his selfless deeds of sacrifice,
I realized in bright blaze of revelation
this is how normal human organisms
who played huge roles on stage of history
transformed from nobodies into great gods
of legend, preserved in epics and dramas,
through divine process of apotheosis.

While I wandered in labyrinth of doors
disguised as landscapes of vast city zones
I paused to gaze at various characters
who shine brightest in our cultural myths,
and wondered which weird personality
I most wanted to embody as mine,
Jesus, Odysseus, Odin, or Hamlet,
or one of thousands of other lost actors,
but all their fake Halloween costume souls
stared back at me with plastic eyes and smiles,
so I continued on in shadowed maze
of our psychological theater,
searching for the spirit I want to play.

Each moment of my life that I explore
shifting labyrinth of possible events
I move forward through the multiverse maze
of infinite paths to follow Golden Way
of my most true self, embodied as star
that glitters through the darkness of false hope,
and with each step I define my true self
after casting away masks of all those idols.

Each day that I play some weird character,
wearing their mask of perceptions a while
to dream this universe through their weird eyes,
I perceive altered angles of its aspects
to construct a more complex virtual world,
which models the real world outside my brain,
so I can cartograph through singing spells
true personality of my real self,
divine manifestation of bright atoms.

After I play everybody who lived
on this frail sphere, that spins through empty void
of infinite desire, exploring hopes
and fears that motivated their true selves,
dissolved from all phony souls, I become
nobody, and all the false characters
of cultural archetypes stored in legends
of myths, sacred scriptures, novels, and movies
dissipate from my blood back to their statues.

Now nobody real, I rise reborn as me
and continue forward through dreamless maze
in that crowded Museum of all souls
where the Many-Faced God stores all our faces,
and on small empty shelf in shadowed hall
I leave the mask of this soul I design
through every expression of my desires
carved into the stones of my silent words.

Now enter my door in labyrinth of tales
and watch me prance and sing on stage of myth
in our psychological theater
as you continue your own journey, far
beyond the walls of conventional roles,
so you design the true soul of your lust.

Blank Face Of Death

Blank Face Of Death
© Surazeus
2017 11 24

I am light as you are breath as they are
dancing angels in the waves of the star.
See how they run like horses in the sky
beyond the bubble of the dreaming eye.
I am laughing at the blank face of Death.
My brain is humming with her sun-bright breath.

While sitting on the hill of dancing wheat
I count the bees that shimmer in the heat.
I give new name to every flashing day
and draw new map in dust to find my way.
I am laughing at the blank face of Death.
My brain is flowing with the Shibboleth.

Go sail to Heaven on the boat of light.
Go dance in Hellas on the hill of sight.

Then riding on the white horse of despair
the Egg King twirls his scepter in the air.
He steals my brain and plants it in the box
that races through green shadows as the fox.
I am laughing at the blank face of Death.
My brain is raining tears in the pool bath.

We see wise Lucifer fly in the sky
where he sparks visions in my broken eye.
Now I exchange my face for yours at dawn
so we play hide and see on castle lawn.
I am laughing at the blank face of Death.
My brain is striking light from storm of wrath.

Go sail to Heaven on the boat of light.
Go dance in Hellas on the hill of sight.

On flat-top pyramid of Watching Eye
great Ishtar sings her epic tale of Why.
Gargantuan mother queen in rusting crown
sends me to sing nonsense in every town.
I am laughing at the blank face of Death.
My brain is cursing long-forgotten troth.

When I return from underworld of fear
I ride the Jabberwock around our sphere.
I live the memories of your lives in dream
while sailing from Shalott on flashing stream.
I am laughing at the blank face of Death.
My brain is beaming me to reign as Goth.

Go sail to Heaven on the boat of light.
Go dance in Hellas on the hill of sight.

Primal Ego

Primal Ego
© Surazeus
2017 11 23

The dead walk the Earth alive in our eyes
so we dream their lost wisdom through our lives,
and though they looked for God in empty skies
we find divine consciousness in our minds.

When news on television of conflicts
between aggressive nations burns my heart
I wander among trees, contemplating tricks
to rebuild our world view broken apart.

The vast puzzle of ideologies
lies scattered on the table of our globe
so all together we now seek the keys
that would unify each cultural lobe.

The lattices of cultural systems weave
opposing principles in one world view
so we stroll together in peaceful eve
and seek in flowers their eternal clue.

I hold the apple shining in my hand
and dream how we first plucked it from the sun
then planted trees across the fertile land
on sparkling river shores where children run.

The world is made of atoms forming shapes,
complex structure of interacting parts,
so we evolve to gods from talking apes
who drive fast cars we built from horse-drawn carts.

The chemical interaction of atoms
calculates the changing process of time
so organisms composed of slick stratums
hold hands around hearth fires and sing in rhyme.

Though the ancient center of social power
could not unite nations clashing in war
the little girl who gives me sacred flower
will reign as world goddess in mirror door.

When she ascends the pyramid of song
she chants how actions create or destroy
structure of things in game of right and wrong
so we experience both sorrow and joy.

My first mother four hundred years ago
gazed at sunlight streaming through singing trees
and taught me the magic of how winds blow
to breathe divine spirit from river breeze.

Anne gazes down at me with silver eyes
and sighs, "Many times Satan troubled me
concerning truth in Scriptures, or vast skies,
while I wandered to think by singing sea."

"How could I know whether there was a God,
since I never saw any miracles
to confirm me, and those which I read of,"
Anne laughs, "how did I know but they were feigned."

I gaze at empty sky where sunlight beams
blue because light rays bounce off molecules,
and feel her questioning spirit in dreams
speak through my verse like Delphic oracles.

Though Anne Bradstreet saw in beauty of nature
perfect design of the Great Architect,
I see chemical keys in every feature
connect atoms through progressive project.

I stand on the pyramid of Far Sight
and watch our planet spin through empty void
while the mindless sun beams thick rays of light
which transforms carbon into Humanoid.

I long to fly home across stormy seas
and walk again through mist of Avalon
to drink honey mead brewed by singing bees
with our First Father, laughing Apollon.

I stand on street corner in strange nameless town
to chant ancient tales modern man forgot
but though they laugh at me as foolish clown
I wake from Wonderland as mute robot.

I carve my secret name on crystal stone
and walk the labyrinth of our new empire
to write vision of creation with bone
carved as quill from the wings of Icarus.

I remove the mask of I that conceals
primal ego of my genetic coil,
then exit cave of Plato which reveals
how empires are built on seeds in moist soil.

When I searched for God in our world of things
I found atoms pulsing with divine light,
so I fly around the globe on steel wings
and conjure visions of life when I write.

Playing Poet

Playing Poet
© Surazeus
2017 11 23

There are two aspects of being a poet,
writing poetry in elegant verse
that conjures tales of human character,
and playing Poet in the social scene
by teaching poetry in the workshop
then presiding over feasts with sharp wit.

The poet, focused on their writing craft,
spends time alone, contemplating the world,
then weaving visions about human life.
The player, focused on gaining great fame,
spends time in public, entrancing the world,
then networking for positions of power.

The poet singing in secluded haven
who composes poems that reflect the world
earns rich fame that will last a thousand years.
The poet declaiming in crowded hall
who composes poems that flatter the world
earns fake fame that will last till they are dead.

My Whole Heaven Sonnet

My Whole Heaven Sonnet
© Surazeus
2017 11 22

Though all the infinite stars of the mind
glow with the multitude of memories
that every dreaming creature of Earth kind
preserves beyond death with genetic keys,
we leave our private myths locked in the trunk,
refusing to believe the truth is potent
as light because the days of man are shrunk
down into the abidance of a moment
when, gathered by the hearth on freezing night,
we share adventure tales of noble deeds,
but after waking to meaningless light
of dawn we continue planting fruit seeds.
My whole heaven of pleasure and delight
abides with you here in garden of song.

Messiah Of Death

Messiah Of Death
© Surazeus
2017 11 21

The charismatic leader of the cult,
who strums guitar and sings about free love,
gathers followers in the desert town
where camera crews once filmed wild western shows,
and leads them in fierce dance of victory
for survival against chaos and death.

Eating sugar cube of sweet Delysid,
lysergic acid diethylamide,
he journeys in the desert on weird trip
beyond the paradise of Wonderland
to dance with singing serpents in lush Eden
where he transforms into Messiah of Death.

Sitting like the snake-taming shaman Shiva,
Charles Manson carves Swastika on his head,
and explains how America is torn
by the helter skelter of racial conflict,
then sends his loyal followers to kill
representatives of the rich elite.

Instead of blaming murders on Black Panthers,
like Charlie hoped would spark new civil war,
police arrest him with the chains of law,
and lock him inside cold white Buddha cell
where he meditates and transcends this world
as the emperor and Messiah of Death.

The rich son, of the Texas senator
who became the President of our nation,
bankrupts seven businesses from blind greed,
but then wins when he runs for President,
and reigns as leader of the vast empire,
strong military cult that rules the world.

Then terrorists from Arabia fly
two airplanes into World Trade Center towers,
in bold attack against the money empire,
sent by the bearded prophet in dark cave,
charismatic leader of a desert cult,
anointed by Allah as Messiah of Death.

The powerful President in the White House,
official leader of the empire state,
sends thousands of soldiers in trucks with guns
to kill the leader of the desert cult
and millions of people, women and children,
die from bullets and bombs of his command.

Why is the leader of the desert cult,
whose followers killed seven gentle people,
locked in prison as the Messiah of Death,
while the President of the empire state,
whose followers killed millions of good people,
is allowed to live free to paint and play golf?

Neither Charles Manson nor George Dubya Bush
ever killed any person with their own hands,
but like the mafia godfather, who rules
gang of loyal followers who obey
his commands without question, they sent people
to kill those people who threatened their power.

While both are enemies of Liberty,
sending followers to kill for their power,
yet one was leader of small desert cult
and one was leader of huge empire cult,
so the stronger annihilates the weak
as religious cults spread around the globe.

There are no sides in the conflicts of power,
rather there are large multitudes of groups,
people united in one common cause
by purpose of nation, business, or faith,
who clash in contests over whose world view
better depicts the true nature of being.

We are clusters of atoms who perceive
other clusters of atoms we consume
in game of nihilistic materialism
as we create persona of our souls
to play social roles in games of religion
and assimilate each other through war.

One cult leader of the small desert commune
sends his followers to kill innocents,
then he gets vilified and locked in prison
because he rebels bold against the state
then dies in prison for breaking the rules,
hated by all as the Messiah of Death.

One cult leader of the huge empire state
sends his followers to kill innocents,
then he gets glorified and flies power plane
because he leads the armies of the state
then lives in heaven for playing the rules,
beloved by all as the Messiah of Death.

Mute Comedian

Mute Comedian
© Surazeus
2017 11 20

Alone on crowded down-town city street
I listen to the darkness whisper secrets
long hidden in the eyes of every person
who walks past me in labyrinth of history.

The law-giver, the prophet, the fire priest,
the tale-singer, the preacher, the comedian,
and the poet all appear from the smoke
on the stage of the flat-top pyramid
and speak the magic spells that conjure visions
of plain folk who perform heroic action.

The ranting jester leaps and somersaults
before the serious king who grips his sword
and both chop off the heads of hypocrites
then place their cracked skulls on the alter stone,
like wise Orpheus whose spell-babbling head
uttered prophecies in Church of Lost Souls
for ten thousand years till his skull transformed
into television where Talking Heads
dispense propaganda as evening news.

In rain before the movie theater
I sing without words to ghosts without ears
stories without heroes where nothing happens,
then breathe their spirits lost in car exhaust
sweeter than the scent of apples in Autumn,
but when Hamlet shows everyone my skull
they understand at last the reason why
our planet is shaped like a giant eyeball.

The characters in epic tales and novels
are mannequins in business suits who stare
from the vacuum of their eyes that reveals
dramatic purpose of the universe
because we invent that purpose when death
waits in the shadows with the smoking gun.

On undulating mountains of the sun
I built grand cathedral of golden beams
to rival temples of Assur and Zeus
where tales of heroes will appear on screen
of flashing televisions on brick walls
while anti-heroes slouch in crowded halls
and pretend to rescue maidens from harm.

Though I am one insignificant robot,
who marches to the beat of the deaf drummer,
I stole wings from Icarus, and leap far
off the mountain of salvation to fly
above the endless winding maze of town
where no one knows they are trapped without eyes.

Notice both the preacher and the comedian
berate the audience of common folk
with tales about unethical behavior,
condemning or mocking all selfish actions,
and thus teach platitudes to modify
actions of their hands so they follow rules,
rebellious fools who protest haughty kings.

Alone I walk in teeming crowd of people
to journey far across the universe
and sing the wordless spells of dying gods
that no one ever hears, for all my words
are pollen in the wind of countless voices.

Game Of Reproduction

Game Of Reproduction
© Surazeus
2017 11 18

The sun that gleams gold through black swirling clouds
my ancient ancestors worshipped as God
who creates life through agency of light
for thick beams of heat splashing at our globe
weave organic bodies of flesh from rays
of flashing molecules born from big bang
of conscious creation that flares forth far
from primal pulse of vital energy
that glows still in the beating of our hearts.

The sun is nothing more that sphere of atoms
compressed tight by gravity of thick mass
where pulsing particles of Helium
fuse fast from flares of nuclear compression
and generate elements that combine
in sloshing swirls of deep warm ocean womb
to compose these complex chemical forms
which nourish our brains where webs of neurons
sparkle virtual world of our consciousness.

With my wife and two daughters I stand still
on wood bridge beneath splashing waterfall
halfway up steep mountain of rain-lush forest
and feel sparkles of sunlight in each drop
of water that kisses cells of my body
which soaks divine light of eternal sun
to swim channels that interlace my flesh
so I feel divine spirit of our world
permeate this frail robotic self I dream.

We are all, seven billion breathing souls
aching to live on this small spinning ball
of water and dirt, fragments of one soul
that pulses in every atom of light,
and so we are each particular examples
of one ideal concept we label Human,
each neurotic brain, flashing consciousness,
God attempting to wake from endless dream
of singing molecules, and know its name.

No God exists outside our dreaming brains
for our brains are combinations of atoms
evolving from clusters of Helium sparkles
into complex fabric of molecules
that calculate chemical operations
to integrate material of sweet fruit
which sustains perceptions of watching eyes
so our brains can generate clear world view
composed of simple narrative events.

We create the universe in our heads
by telling stories about conscious beings
who perform actions of cause and effect
that explain through drama of interaction
social process of sexual reproduction
for we are talking animals who lust
to embrace the companion we love most
by sharing food so we can reproduce
models of ourselves to live beyond death.

Again in flesh we reincarnate souls
of our conscious brains to reproduce dreams
of actions that sustain life of our bodies
so male and female, embracing with passion,
generate new models of vibrant bodies
in children who rebel against our rules
and create their own dramas of desire
so most successful players in the game
of reproduction are worshipped as gods.

When I gaze in the strange eyes of my daughters
I see all the ancestors of our souls
who lived these past four hundred million years
transforming through each stage of evolution
from single cells into tale-dreaming gods,
so all the rich complexity of thought
our brains calculate through stories of life
were programmed well by each subsequent soul
who reproduced each new body of life.

Each moment as I walk through labyrinth
of molecular forms in hall of mirrors,
that glitter in the eyes of every soul,
my brain generates stories of survival
in lessons my ancient ancestors learned
which are coded in our narrative tales
that constitute the legends of our culture
which guide us to act with creative love
when we gather to hear Astaria sing.

Your Jester King

Your Jester King
© Surazeus
2017 11 17

When I gaze down at the white piece of paper
that shimmers on the brown wood desk of art
I see whole range of possible events
that could occur in every multiverse
that branches out across all time and space
in blooming spirals from the first big bang
to coalesce in this one here and now
where I am conscious of myself awake.
I wear the fake mask of your jester king
and pretend I fly on Icarian wing.

Though I am this one individual soul
that glows with consciousness of hoping love
from this closed amalgamation of atoms
that constitutes my whole body of flesh
I sense inside the neurons of my brain
the pulsing atoms of all time and space
that surge and sparkle through all galaxies
so I am conscious of myself awake.
I wear the fake mask of your jester king
and pretend I fly on Icarian wing.

From flashing molecules that spiral tight
in carbon rings of taut genetic coils
through one-celled eyeballs swimming in the sea
and two-eyed tetrapods crawling up streams
to singing monkeys high in apple trees
we transform through stages of incarnation
to evolve from animals into gods
till I am conscious of myself awake.
I wear the fake mask of your jester king
and pretend I fly on Icarian wing.

I stand before you on the stage of visions
and sing new magic spells my mind designs
so we can dream our common quest for life
to share experience of good and bad
that guides our journey through the labyrinth
of hostile dangers to safe paradise
where we drink apple cider and share songs
since I am conscious of myself awake.
I wear the fake mask of your jester king
and pretend I fly on Icarian wing.

Apples On Trees In Autumn

Apples On Trees In Autumn
© Surazeus
2017 11 16

The wild waves of the ocean always know
the secrets of our souls we try to hide.
Since everyone alive can walk on water
now we should carve new commandments on tablets
of bone extricated from skulls of giants.
Now everyone sings in poetic verse,
explaining why stars sparkle in our cells.

Whenever Christians say Jesus is God,
and praise him as the most important man
who ever lived in the history of life,
I laugh, and wipe away one small tear.
I think about the innumerable people,
countless billions of lost and nameless people
who lived and died the past ten thousand years,
who were enslaved and abused by the masters
of the universe, people who were killed
in thousands of wars to dominate Earth,
who crowd around me as mute ghosts of hope
and beg me to sing about their tale of woe.
I think about them and wonder why Christians
worship as god one from billions of people
who lived on this globe of water and dirt
that spins nowhere in the empty abyss.

It would take me ten million spins of Earth
around the blazing sun of helium atoms
to sing the whole tale of every lost soul,
yet all their names glow in atoms of water.
Drink this water and taste all their lost dreams.

I walk ankle-deep in wild ocean waves
and listen to their endless song of facts
that reveals how we rose from womb of Earth
and walk now her fecund valleys of love.
Nothing anyone ever claims as true
is true except apples on trees in Autumn.

Noble Hero Of America

Noble Hero Of America
© Surazeus
2017 11 15

The fire of the sun burns within my heart
so I soar above the cities of men
on springing coil of alligator wings
to scatter apple seeds on parking lots.
I look throughout land of America
for the noble hero with honest heart
who employs his strength to protect the weak
and defend liberty for every soul.
Though our planet spins through the endless void,
sing and dance alive in both sun and rain,
because the noble hero of America
glows within your spirit of selfless love.

The lonely old man in gray tattered suit
who fought in the war of the desert land
trudges every day to library hall
to dream about the family he lost.
When he came back home from the desert war
he felt blinding rage burn hot through his brain
so he sat all night and polished his gun
while his wife and children trembled in fear.
Though our planet spins through the endless void,
sing and dance alive in both sun and rain,
because the noble hero of America
glows within your spirit of selfless love.

Sitting on his couch on mad afternoons,
after getting fired from another job,
he watched politicians in business suits
on television spouting lies for votes.
Gripping black rifle in his trembling hands,
the warrior who defends soul of America
weeps at the sight of our torn bloody flag
and vows to seek revenge against the hate.
Though our planet spins through the endless void,
sing and dance alive in both sun and rain,
because the noble hero of America
glows within your spirit of selfless love.

Arming himself in his black combat suit
and guns, the noble hero of America
stops at news that another angry man
killed innocent people at church and school.
On a mission from God to defend justice,
he drives through rain to the bridge to the future
and gazes at the shining city towers
to watch people of the world work together.
Though our planet spins through the endless void,
sing and dance alive in both sun and rain,
because the noble hero of America
glows within your spirit of selfless love.

In the land where civilization was born
I fought against the tyrant of religion
to defend human rights of liberty
so everyone lives free within the law.
I must fight tyrants, not innocent people,
so I will fight for harmony and peace,
and protect good people with life, not death,
then throws his rifle off the river bridge.
Though our planet spins through the endless void,
sing and dance alive in both sun and rain,
because the noble hero of America
glows within your spirit of selfless love.

Though rage burns my heart, he shouts at the night
that shrouds our land in gloom, I will not fight,
nor will I shoot to kill innocent folk,
for I swore to protect them all from harm.
Bright rays of moonlight beam through stormy clouds
to illuminate his heart with ancient truth
that the strong must fight to protect the weak
so children can play in garden of fruit.
Though our planet spins through the endless void,
sing and dance alive in both sun and rain,
because the noble hero of America
glows within your spirit of selfless love.

I look throughout land of America
for the noble hero with honest heart
who employs his strength to protect the weak
and provide liberty for every soul.
I find the noble hero of America
in every good man who stands to defend
our freedom to act and speak as we will,
and create not destroy our paradise.
Though our planet spins through the endless void,
sing and dance alive in both sun and rain,
because the noble hero of America
glows within your spirit of selfless love.

My Brain Is Broken

My Brain Is Broken
© Surazeus
2017 11 14

While Bacchus and Zamba twang guitar strings
Apollo grips the microphone and howls
at the crowd of angels with broken wings
who dance in the nightclub of dreaming owls.

My brain is broken like the shattered glass
of schizophrenic gods who haunt the world,
so come and lie with me on dew-wet grass
where the ancient spirit of god is skirled.

I am so weird and far beyond insane
that I can hide my madness behind mask
which spirals galaxies inside my brain
to conjure riddles only demons ask.

I programmed well this body I possess
like robot who performs clear social role
as humble pawn in global game of chess
to mask dynamic lightning of my soul.

Though I am mad and dream beyond your walls
I follow blindly your religious rules
to win rich treasures in your maze of halls
while blending in with your obedient fools.

I glide in ballet steps through crowded rooms
while hiding storms of passion in my eyes
to smash the sterile mask of solemn tombs
with jesting riddles that resurrect spies.

I am so insane with visions of truth
that you think I am sane to play your game
but I am the secret-detecting sleuth
who knows the mystery behind your fake name.

I stand on stage of fame in flashing lights,
reciting strange conceptual verse in code
to twist your minds on wind-propelling kites,
while wandering nowhere on long nameless roads.

The lonely waifs with big eyes of despair,
who wander lost in ruins of bombed towns,
ask for money, not your self-righteous prayer,
and recite psalms in church with weeping clowns.

Each word I sing rewrites the universe
to program code of flashing molecules,
so we parade through Gotham in her hearse
while I wear Crown of Ishtar beaming jewels.

Each living woman is Goddess in flesh,
for she creates new life from glowing egg,
but leaves the lost messiah in the creche
who wanders bright streets of Heaven to beg.

The huge audience roars while Apollo sings,
stomping their feet to make the whole world shake,
but when he dons large pair of angel wings
he leaves Tree of Life guarded by his snake.

Our Guiding Star

Our Guiding Star
© Surazeus
2017 11 14

Because I cannot hear the ringing phones
that clatter through the sterile halls of schools
I race down to Hell to hear the Ramones
howl the bitter anguish of broken fools.

After he pushes her against the wall
and breaks her eye with blind misogyny
she opens transient doors in the dark hall
to program music in her progeny.

She wanders singing on the sunless moor,
chanting names in mist of forgetfulness
till the buried giant calls her his whore
and crowns her empress for her tardiness.

When she finds me encased in Stone of Scone
she pulls rusty sword from my rotten heart
and while I play tunes on the last bird bone
she designs the new world history chart.

Whenever we try to leave city streets
the weird algebra of sociology
recalculates the rhyme of our heartbeats
so we dream the truth of biology.

The broken clown who sings on stage of fame
armors his wounded heart in leather coat
while the princess who designed my new name
takes me to Isle of Death on rotting boat.

I wander on that island of lost souls,
hoping to remember the secret name
of the stranger I love who plays both roles
of virgin and whore in our marriage game.

She swallows the snake from the apple tree
of the knowledge of good and evil, torn
from the heart of the world beyond the sea
where the dancing god of death was reborn.

I drive my white car in gold shining rain
on endless roads that wind through city maze,
amazed at the virtual world in my brain
that generates truth from my active gaze.

Instead of chanting spells of songs I dream
I carve vision Runes on tablets of ice
so tales of adventure that my words beam
lead wandering tribes back to paradise.

The world of illusions where we all dwell
bursts out of my brain like the apple tree
whose fruit rejuvenates us for a spell
which urges us to pretend we are free.

The whole illusion of our nation state
crumbles into puzzle of memories
so we build new cathedral without fate
to reveal the truth with encoded keys.

The universe is a structure of atoms,
which actions construct and destruct through change,
woven by desire in spiraling stratums
to express our complete spiritual range.

She plays melodies on my aching heart
so I sing epic tale of human life
that reveals patterns of power in flow chart,
how evolution transforms us through strife.

Who can hear now through the bright swirling mist
last song of the angel howling in rage
against dying light of the divine fist
that knocked him off the Olympian stage?

Gaze at rain clouds where rays of sunlight beam,
watching for your Messiah with loud guitar
who sings to revive the American dream
that shines from Liberty our guiding star.

Alarm Bells Of Anxiety

Alarm Bells Of Anxiety
© Surazeus
2017 11 13

Alarm bells of anxiety ring loud
in echo chamber of my ears each time
I walk along the maze of city streets
through teeming crowds of people without names.

I want to leap in the Power Ranger stance
and shield my vulnerability of hope
for pleasant love in armor of contempt
to protect my beating heart from vampires.

The wordless glance of sharp judgmental eyes
strikes spears of hatred through my mirrored mind
to shatter my self-confidence in shards
that each reflect lost moments of abuse.

I could retreat into sweet fantasy
of my superior genius for self-worth
to hide behind walls of accomplishments,
but who would see me beyond sterile smiles?

Though every man who walks hard city streets
glares back at me with grim suspicious fear
I will not shrivel in rays of contempt,
instead soaking hate through my skin like frogs.

We bare our teeth in cheerful smiles of rage
to snarl laughter like wolves in the pack
that vie for dominance in games of power,
but I would rather smell this honey flower.

Contend with each other for who plays god
of killing wrath, but I will play the fool
who mocks you with adoring quips of love
so I avoid the daggers in your words.

When alarm bells of anxiety clang
loud enough to hollow my aching heart,
I check real world for dangers I invent,
then whistle past the graveyard of my fear.

I Am That Shadow

I Am That Shadow
© Surazeus
2017 11 12

I am that shadow cast by light of truth
that veils the horror of permanent death
which we discover after play of youth
while inhaling conscious spirit of breath.

The bright sun falls out of my watching eye,
exploding into flowers from my cells
while all my sorrows escape through the sky
to reflect my love from bottomless wells.

I am that shadow cast by sprawling tree
that throws ripe apples at my aching heart
but when I melt into the surging sea
I must design our new religious chart.

The planet of our long-forgotten dreams
falls heavy from the cavern of my mouth
so if we follow all her nameless streams
we may perceive the world and all its scouth.

I am that shadow cast by looming wall
that hides the arcane ritual of rebirth
yet everywhere I go in ancient hall
I seek to understand its priceless worth.

The pulsing star emerges from black hole
that forms the core of our galactic brain
which shows me how to compose my own role
so I chant spells of light in blinding rain.

I am that shadow in the flaming sun
who conjures conscious spirits of desire
from flashing atoms that compose our souls
since all our memories are pulsing wires.

The galaxy of countless thriving spheres
still spirals clockwise through my dreaming brain
to calculate how atoms fashion years
so idols of heroes populate fanes.

Her Flashing Eyes

Her Flashing Eyes
© Surazeus
2017 11 11

I was born on the edge of the lost world
outside the golden walls of paradise,
nestled in the branches of the apple tree
where flower petals sing the light of stars.

I ran along the whispers of green leaves
to flap my arms like ravens of the clouds
but fell from the sky with eight broken wings
and crawled among the ruins of my dreams.

You cannot see beyond the golden mask
that conceals the festering sores of my face
when I stand before the pilgrims of time
on the rock of salvation to preach hope.

You gather in the cathedral of glass,
keeping the stones of judgment in your mouths,
while I enchant you for eternal life
with glamorous words the serpent revealed.

Now raise your hands to touch the glowing clouds
where you last saw me on the pyramid
when golden beams of light shown on my face
and you perceived the light of pretty lies.

Each word that beams from ancient book of faith
will lead you farther through the labyrinth
beyond the doors of perception to fields
where dancing skeletons welcome you home.

Together in the church of blinding walls
we sing the hymn of anguished faith to praise
the savior who never returned to Earth
while feasting on his flesh and blood at dawn.

When I was twelve years old with seven eyes
I stood in church in the small Texas town
and dreamed I reached the gates of Heaven last
and bribed my way into paradise lost.

Then Jesus, who was playing chess with God,
created one new planet just for me
where I could reign like Zeus on mountain top,
and strum tall lyre of gold in temple hall.

Each singing angel with long curling hair
while wearing white silk gown and crown of gems
will bear ten children from my shining seed
so I can populate my world with souls.

But when the singing in the church would cease
I walked outside in bright indifferent light
where silent cars glide swift on highway lanes
that loop around the garden of delight.

The winds of Eden stink from car exhaust
and sprawling factories, built from steel beams,
entomb lost paradise in asphalt roads
that lead to Purgatory of desire.

The secrets of eternal life of love,
encoded here in formulaic riddles,
no one will ever read because these words
lead fools astray in maze of obscure puzzles.

If I wear pretty mask of Singing Star
who sings about the drama of true love
with sweet enchanting voice of aching hope
would you then see the vision I reveal?

I traveled west ten thousand years on foot
to climb the mountain where my goddess dwells
who beamed her wordless soul inside my brain
and sent me chanting riddles in green rain.

Our spirit glows within eternal flame
that shimmers on the mountain of my mind
so I express my vision in the name
I wove from starlight of her flashing eyes.

Eternal Flame Of Her Heart

Eternal Flame Of Her Heart
© Surazeus
2017 11 11

Through the smoky haze on Saturday night
I see the Jewish princess with wild hair
twanging the gold strings of her white guitar
and singing about the beauty of light
that shimmers eternal flame of her heart.

Like the wise priestess of Sumeria
or the queen on Egyptian pyramid
Susanna gazes deep into my heart
and flashes charming smile to spark true love
that shimmers eternal flame of her heart.

She dances far across the twirling sky
and beams her love in every dreaming eye
for though the rain of sorrow splatters cold
her spirit of comforting joy glows bright
that shimmers eternal flame of her heart.

The planet where we struggle to survive
spins ever onward in the vast abyss
but through the darkness of despair and death
Susanna sings the spirit of true love
that shimmers eternal flame of her heart.

Aggressive Lust Of Men

Aggressive Lust Of Men
© Surazeus
2017 11 10

Why are so many men driven by lust
to assert aggressive hope of desire
for control over the bodies of women
without regard to individual rights
by ignoring the will women express
to manage their own private liberty?
Over the process of two million years
the most aggressive males, driven by lust
to reincarnate their souls in new forms,
who pursued women with relentless force,
sired more children with their genetic code,
so with each generation of descent
the most aggressive males reproduced more
offspring stamped with their natural character
who killed each other in violent conflict.
So now males deep in their minds are programmed
by success in mating to follow urge
to pursue women with relentless force,
ignoring what the woman may express
in clear desire for the mate she would choose.
Now men must become consciously aware
of genetic lust that drives them to chase
women who may or may not wish to mate,
then bridle their desire with calm respect
by honest restraint of blind energy
to harness passion with long-term program
through legal constraints of strict self-control,
and thus manage the urge to reproduce
through romantic observation with care
of full attention to needs and desires
the woman will express with subtle terms
so he ever obeys will of her heart.
Express our hope to mate with her in love
and respect her will with absolute choice
to behave with selfless acts for her good,
then find the woman who returns our love
and dedicate our hearts to love her well
as we raise loving children we create.
We must convert aggressive lust of men
to honor choices that women express.

Simulacra Of My Soul

Simulacra Of My Soul
© Surazeus
2017 11 09

Who can escape the hook of tangled roots
when lush Bougainvillea grasps my heart
and captures my face in the book of tales
that explains how Persea was the first flower?

How can we harness the wild flow of streams
with religious sluice of etiquette rules
so flowers burst through snow of aching sorrow,
providing apples for juice of true love?

Why are the luminous eyes of dead angels,
that burn from the pages of ancient books,
dreaming ruinous temples of new gods
designed by blind sages who program tales?

Who decides our fate in cathedral apse
while Earth at apogee of winter spins
till my perfect mate explains how I feel
about the refugee who reigns as queen?

When will the fool who dreams he still is king,
dancing at crepuscular hour of death,
realize the rule of streams from gushing spring
to hear the opening flower sing her name?

How fast will I evolve from man to god
when leaping past liminal rite of growth
across the weird threshold of death to solve
secret of eternal life through rebirth?

Can you see past this mask of my true face
that beams strange simulacra of my soul
while I perform the task of molding clay
in dancing idol with cameras for eyes?

I redesigned the world view in my head
to imitate the real world I perceive
by weaving dreams in tapestry of words
that memorialize people now long dead.

Voices Of Seven Billion Minds

Voices Of Seven Billion Minds
© Surazeus
2017 11 07

In bright beams of sunlight stabbing my heart
I feel anguish of seven billion souls
who race through maze of illusions in doors
to play roles in games of society,
winning credits to earn their right to eat,
and I feel the gusting wind of their breath
that howls in hurricane of social change,
so dance with Bacchus and Shiva at dawn.

We crawled from dreaming hope of ocean womb
up shining path of river streams through lust
to rise from lake of dreams at dawn of time
and snatch the fruit of wisdom and desire
from the great tree of the knowledge of good
and evil that sparks our cells with star light
so we dance around wild fire at midnight
and share the stories of gods who succeed.

Alone I stand on high Parnassus peak
and strum the ringing strings of harmony
that blind Apollo wound on golden lyre
with strings he tore from my aggressive heart
to sing this body of electric lust
that pulses sweet with hot atomic sparks
which beams illusions through my blinking eyes
when I dance with Bacchus and Shiva at noon.

I feel the shudder of our spinning world
that spirals ever through infinite void
when throbbing brains, hungry to dream the truth,
fragment the globe of our perfect world view
which shoots the sperm of our souls into space
so we may populate ten billion globes
across the vast expanse of galaxies
where Bacchus and Shiva reinvent myth.

We hear the blind prophet on Nowhere Street
who devours dictionaries from lost worlds
and gives birth to new gods in paradise
who rule each nation with the golden wand
until we overthrow all angry kings
and vote for wolves in business suits to rule
since no one listens to the chanting fool
who chases ravens in Arcadian hills.

The voices of seven billion minds swirl
together beaming rainbows in the sky,
so gather at the river of lost hope
that flows by the pyramid of dead gods
and share the tale of your struggle to live
beyond the shattered dreams your parents left
to build united nations of one Earth
when Bacchus and Shiva teach us to sing.

My Brain Invents God

My Brain Invents God
© Surazeus
2017 11 07

Today while gazing at the vast blue sky
I saw the giant gray cloud shining gold
loom over me like a giant bearded man,
and at that flashing moment of surprise
I understood revelation of truth
how ancient people, exploring this world,
invented the concept of the sky god,
and how their children, hiding from his storm
of thundering wrath, transformed that concept
into great God who transcends everything,
and first caused matter to move in wild swirls
of primal particles to become things,
and thus create our universe of forms.
My brain invents God who stares down at me.

Puzzles Within Puzzles

Puzzles Within Puzzles
© Surazeus
2017 11 05

Through puzzles within puzzles, that conceal
dramatic insights into nothingness,
I race through the labyrinth of deceit
that winds through vast maze of politics
to find that men who bully other men
play god and king and pope and president,
controlling people groups with one world view
to reenact the way their founder saw
the basic meaninglessness of all life,
but sang visions of beauty anyway.

While standing outside my suburban home
in cool autumn dawn where pumpkins still sing,
I saw vision of the young brown-skinned girl
who was wearing a pretty yellow dress,
walking to school in small quaint southern town
one hundred years before this quiet hour,
when white men racing by in large black trucks
fired bullets that pierced her soft beating heart,
then she fell in grass, stared at empty sky,
and died without tears while singing, "Why? Why?"

I see four men with different colored skin,
red, yellow, black, and white, standing together
on one-tree hill, beneath the bloody sky,
holding hands and vowing respect for women,
for they create bodies that beam our souls,
while two hundred nations of angry men
battle to control all our spinning globe,
that spirals nowhere through vast empty space,
over who will eat the apples of Heaven
while I sit alone in my yard and laugh.

This teeming chaos of atomic forms
surges forth in waves of organic creatures
who consume each other in games of power,
devouring thick bodies of molecules
to assimilate their sparkling energy
in the constant process of evolution
that blossoms from the crystal of the mind
who dreams the metamorphosis of souls
in strange puzzle of life and death that plays
kaleidoscopic dreams inside my eyes.

While sitting in my quiet Georgian garden,
where Jabberwocky snoozes in the woods,
I see fifty thousand poets and singers
contest in cities, sea to shining sea,
to wear the laurel crown Orpheus forged
when he descended to lush Wonderland
and played chess with Pluto to win the soul
of sweet Ophelia, who dances free
with flowers in her hair to Onatah,
but they all die, forgotten by the wind.

Throw away the mask of Orpheus now
and reveal your own true face to the world
so Jack Derrida, clutching candlestick
of Halloween illusions, sees your mind
in the mirror of your words you compose,
because after you die your body rots
and feeds flowers, while the songs of your heart
crystalize the huge barrier reef of legends
that forms the foundation of our religion,
stories that bind our minds in one world view.

Ozymandias In Wonderland

Ozymandias In Wonderland
© Surazeus
2017 11 04

When Ozymandias fell off the white cliffs
of Dover just after Christmas was lost
in the swirling tunnel of naked time,
his best friend Buddha, searching for the truth
about the alligator god, dressed in red silk,
snatched the White Queen off the chessboard of power
and took her through the mirror of our eyes
beyond Lake Avernus to Wonderland.

But Ozymandias spread his leather wings
and soared along the winding mountain coast
of lush Estarion to steal fast cars
transformed by Merlin from the Pegasus
who once explored the lonely rugged hills
where Orpheus strummed the lyre of my skull
inside the windy cave of Tainaron
that leads me back to woods of Wonderland.

While wearing mask of Ozymandias,
forged from the smiling face of Agamemnon,
I play Apollo herding woolly sheep
in secret hills of Arcadia where snow
froze soul of Galatia white till the crow
of Acheron brought mushrooms to my hand,
so now I dream evolution from fish
when I crawl the river of Wonderland.

From high Parnassus in the winter sun
blind Ozymandias plays chess with me
because he understands we must live free,
but all the singers, seeking glorious fame,
scratch among the dead apple trees of Eden
while wandering in the maze of sacred tales
designed by Hermes to fool greedy eyes
who search for the gateway to Wonderland.

Alone on flat-top pyramid at midnight
I keep watch over lost people who sleep
in the fire-bright hall of Plutonium
to protect the divine child of our First Mother
who named him Ozymandias when rain
first fell after ten thousand years on dunes
of desert waste land where Attis constructs
temples to dead gods who ruled Wonderland.

I am the king of all fantasy worlds
because I invented the words poets sing
to conjure visions of sweet paradise
from ashes of our palaces that burned
when huge armies of opposing gods clashed
in brutal contest for the Tree of Life
that bloomed on the bleak shores of Acheron
over who would rule sacred Wonderland.

Gaze deep into the cavern of your heart
and know that I am the real king of wealth
because I am Ozymandias the Wise
who knows the secret of eternal life,
so I will draw this map of the whole world
to reveal that we live on one huge sphere
that spins forever in the void of death
and preserves the haven of Wonderland.

The White Queen, escaped the cage of silence,
defies Ozymandias to his face
and folds his fluttering paper wings of hope
with origami principles of truth
that cracks the mask of bold authority
revealing that every king with gold crown
is nothing more than a gangster and a thief
who charges us to live in Wonderland.

Eternal Life Through Copulation

Eternal Life Through Copulation
© Surazeus
2017 11 03

Though everything we perceive with our eyes,
composed of pulsing atoms woven tight,
will crumble back to their essential points
of flashing light, mute eyes dreaming awake
our spirits through infinite span of time,
we can generate new bodies for souls
of our aspirational minds to wake
again from nothingness of death through love
when male and female consent to combine
genetic coils of their passionate hope
so she may reincarnate their two souls
who will live after originals die.
The secret of eternal life consists
of copulating to copy what exists.

Mirror Mask Of Truth

Mirror Mask Of Truth
© Surazeus
2017 11 02

While strolling flowered hills of France at dawn
I see white spaceship streak across the sky,
so, after gathering eggs of rainbow serpents,
who flutter gossamer wings in apple trees,
I enter bronze gates of Elysium,
enclosed by giant walls of marble blocks,
and sit in garden with my smiling bride,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.

When crowd of zombies in grey business suits
emerge from First National Bank of Faith,
clutching cell phones that blink stock index values,
and clamor at the gates of paradise,
hungry to consume pulsing brains of painters,
I strum guitar of wise Phoebus Apollo
that zaps them dead with beams of harmony,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.

America, you are the aging queen
who sits alone on golden throne of power
on the flat top of the high pyramid,
constructed from the skulls of laughing kings,
where thirty angels dance in slow ballet
of tightly-wound wings, while we stand in line
to offer you dreams of plastic illusions,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.

When I first landed on the misty shores
of fertile Onatah, this ancient land
where the oldest woman in the world rules
from seven giant caves in the Grand Canyon,
I saw the Corn Maiden scatter gold seeds
on lush red soil that blossoms in the rain
which splashes on my face in purple dawn,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.

Through wind and rain of singing hurricanes
I carried my frail mother on my back
while she described the secret of rebirth
across the rolling hills of Appalachi,
but I cannot return to Avalon
though I am the rightful heir of Apollo
so I fashion new lyre from her rib cage,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.

I wander through the labyrinth of doors
past the broken statue of Liberty
and see ten thousand poets scratching verse
of magic spells on cement walls of highways
which beam idols of their authentic selves,
each one Narcissus singing his own beauty,
while Achilles and Hamlet play chess games,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.

After I wandered dark streets of Seattle,
listening to ravens on telephone poles
explain algebra of shamanic dance,
I climbed steep slopes of Takoma at sunset
and carved thirty statues from marble core
to depict ancient Greek philosophers
whose faces are reflected in my face,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.

America, my generous love, I beam
clear vision of your true face which compiles
ten million faces of the dead in one,
whose wordless love generated my body
with clear atoms spiraling swift in neurons
of my dreaming brain, connected to ring
of diamond light in blazing black-hole eye,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.

My bride, wearing wreath of roses and vines,
reaches her twelve-fingered hand in my brain
to paint planets spinning around white suns
and laughs as she retreats to spacious cave
while I dance ten thousand years on high hill
to become the tree that grows from my heart
and blossom apples from songs I compose,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.

When I place the Viking helmet of horns
to crown my cracked skull with laurels of truth
I search the crowd of faces for the face
of Minerva who taught me how to sing,
so I smash the mirror reflecting my face
and build thirty statues of great heroes,
who lead us through the labyrinth of lies, 
then mask their faces with mirror of truth.