Vacant Eyes

Vacant Eyes
© Surazeus
2018 01 31

Bombs explode like flowers from fractured skulls
of soldiers who will never return home
where wives cook and children play hide and seek
while seeds of fruit trees drink the rain of tears.

Wings twisted and torn off thin fractured bones
blind angels behind electric barbed wire
huddle shivering naked in bitter wind
and trudge moaning, feet bleeding from ice shards.

The gentle doctor carries frail young girl
in trembling arms and feeds her sweet warm milk,
then covers her with warm blanket of love,
humming while he caresses her thin arm.

Forty years later the doctor, grown old,
stares beyond cavernous abyss of death
and weeps while clutching hand of his grandson
at shocking memory of her vacant eyes.

They herded millions of people in camps,
attempting to exterminate their race
by feeding them horror with numb despair,
and burned their bodies in ovens of hate.

The skulls of innocent people destroyed
by greed of tyrants who wear business suits
bulge high in mountains of horrified eyes
which howl wordless through busy city streets.

Since I returned home from bloody world war
I worked many years healing broken souls
but my own soul was broken by despair
when I saw millions of people destroyed.

I stare in vacant eyes of that young girl
and feel the conscious souls of millions lost
in sucking vortex of death that devours
everyone, crushing us all into dust.

Why I Build This House

Why I Build This House
© Surazeus
2018 01 31

Through numbers of electrons in each shell,
which spirals singing around the tight nucleus
of protons and neutrons, that pulse with hope,
will molecules connect in sparkling rings.

The universe of galaxies that weave
pulsing stars to nourish planets of creatures
arranges itself in puzzle of forms
who wake and comprehend our complex world.

Crouched on grassy shore of this flowing stream,
I gaze into the sky where I once saw
face of my father who explained to me
that his father created it all with words.

Though his body rotted away to dirt,
where two apple trees grow from his blank eyes,
I feel my father gazing down at me
from huge face in constellation of stars.

I ask him to explain in more complex detail
weird truth about the tree that bears sweet fruit,
harsh reason I must struggle to survive,
and why my heart aches with raging desire.

When seven wolves lope snarling in my grove
and crouch to bare sharp teeth and leap at me,
I grab strong stick and toss sharp jagged stones,
then smack them hard to break each tender nose.

After the wolves flee yelping in the mist,
I toss the stones to see how they will arch,
and wonder why they fly when I swing wand
which knocks them arching to bounce on the ground.

What physics of things causes things to move,
and why does everything in the world move,
and what caused everything to first start moving,
and was that done with deliberate intent?

Or does everything move in ceaseless flow
of cause and effect, rippling into time,
from weird unconscious lust to spiral flash
assembling spheres of pulsing light that sing?

Ten thousand years later we human beings,
taught by priests that invisible God rules,
gaze upward at billions of flashing stars,
hoping to find reason why we are here.

Four hundred generations later I
stand on that same river shore of this world
and contemplate the omnipotent physics
of interaction between pulsing atoms.

When pulsing electrons compose carbon rings
that spiral into taut genetic coils,
matter evolves into small single cells
who clump together in organic beings.

Clumps of matter with better sensing organs
consume other clumps to assimilate
energy of their atoms in their forms,
then reproduce themselves to consume more.

The plants and animals which crawl from waves
in seething tides of transient energy
succeed in reproducing their own forms
in constant battle to consume the world.

For hundreds of years spinning in the void
thousands of scientists explore the world
and formulate theories from sensed results
that measure interactions of moving atoms.

Today I perceive our weird universe
through conceptual glasses defining nature,
forged by those thousands of wise scientists,
that focus my mind on its arcane aspects.

Each stance where I pause on the curving world
provides different perspective of its aspects
so my mind constructs complex virtual model
that mirrors universe of pulsing atoms.

How slippery slide these words I try to stack
to shape conceptual rooms with measured stanzas
in labyrinthine museum that displays
models of reality that cultures build.

Astronomers compile vast maps of stars
to show how all galaxies that exist
form enormous threads in huge oval web
shaped just like flashing neurons of our brains.

So that is why for you, my precious love,
I build this house of stone with hearth for fire,
and tend these apple trees on fertile shore
of this stream that flows from fresh mountain snows.

We sit together under shining stars,
lovers cuddling with children we create,
and sing ancient melodies of desire
to explain arcane mysteries of our Cosmos.

No wise father gazes down from bright stars
and no God created our world of forms,
but atoms pulsing with wise energy
transform to brains who wake in dream of light.

Some father woke ten thousand years ago
and sang his vision of our universe
so we continue song of our one dream
to design virtual model of the real.

We design our concept of loving God
based on actions of men who ruled our tribes
and present this idol of ideal leader
as model for men to play as they rule.

Just as fathers of my father sang tales
describing dramas of human existence
I sing new tales to convey ancient dreams
as you in turn will sing your own new hymns.

Atoms swirl into stars that nourish planets
where we evolve while eating fruit in trees,
so we make love to reproduce our souls
and sing together in sweet dream of stars.

Our Singing Stone

Our Singing Stone
© Surazeus
2018 01 30

The universe is formed from sparkling light,
particles of matter we see as light.
Small atoms pulse inside our bubbling cells,
spinning in wild vortex of conscious wells.

Where atoms link in elements of force
they spiral in vast webs on vital course.
When atoms evolve into dreaming brain
the concept of God wakes up in cool rain.

Each atom beams in triangular flash
that spirals pulsing in material mesh.
These atoms of our bodies glow with soul,
loners singing to join the tribal whole.

God dreams the universe through every eye,
blind mortals learning by researching why.
Our brains are bubbles of self-conscious souls
who survive by inventing social roles.

We float in pneumatic sea of one mind,
woven together by stories that bind.
Each individual seeks their truth alone,
then shares their visions at our singing stone.

Each human face is the mask of one God,
first mother planting seeds in fertile sod.
Come hold my hand and sing on river shore
so our shared spells help us understand more.

The world view we once shared now falls apart,
so we design new universal chart.
No conscious god created all we see,
since we evolve from warm womb of the sea.

Mothers weave our bodies from molecules
that interact based on chemical rules.
Six electrons connect tight carbon rings
that beam our conscious souls with angel wings.

Swan Maid Of Tuonela

Swan Maid Of Tuonela
© Surazeus
2018 01 30

While forging from dark gloom the key of love
to reopen your ambiguous heart,
and fill it with treasure of memories
of our eating pears by river of tears,
I saw emerge from shadow of mute woods
the swan of Tuonela with blood-red wings.

Gliding on smooth wind from my gasping eyes,
she scatters feathers from her broken wings,
so I retrieve one from the wheel-gouged mud
and sharpen its tip with my hungry teeth,
then sit in boat I built from fractured bones
to write spells with runes on tablet of wood.

Drifting in shimmering shadows of hope,
I see through swirling mist of twilight glow
most pure shining light of beauty and truth
approach as tall woman in long white gown
and hair gold as sunlight streaming through rain
who pierces my heart with diamond-blue eyes.

Reaching out thin hand, white as falling snow,
Tuonetar offers gold goblet of mead,
so I grasp it with both hands, trembling cold,
and lift it to my lips to drink her love,
but see black wine mixed with mushrooms and blood
from poisonous adders and rotten apples.

I hesitate, and gaze in her clear eyes,
vast as the empty blue sky of desire
where I may float numb in oblivion,
but Kalma with hair red as writhing fire,
stinking like corpses rotting in mud graves,
kisses my lips, enticing me to drink.

I drink the blood of ten billion dead souls,
and all their dreams of aching lust and hope
slither through the throbbing veins of my flesh,
so I clutch hips of luscious Lowyatar,
howling wild as black wind through mountain peaks,
and impregnate her with seeds of my soul.

Floating on the lost memories of my breath,
I dream the first intensive flash of lust
that bursts out pulsing from the core of death,
and flare on wings of light in boundless void
to spiral into galaxies of eyes
who wake on every planet in the vortex.

Transforming back to original form
of long slender weasel, serpent with fur,
I race along the shores of gushing rivers
in ten thousand valleys of spinning globe
and slip through the net cast by Tuonetar
to escape hands of Tuoni that clutch ghosts.

Gasping for breath in river of the dead,
I stare in celestial sphere of her eye,
then crawl on shore under huge sprawling tree
where sunlight glows contained in apple core,
so I pluck sweet fruit and eat the pure rain
as cold wind of Kalma caresses me.

Picking up the red feather from the swan,
I sketch circles and lines with flapping wings
as musical notes to capture the song
of sorrow and hope I hear on the wind,
then sign it with my name, Sibelius,
before rain smears ink into flowing streams.

Children Of Our Broken Statue

Children Of Our Broken Statue
© Surazeus
2018 01 29

Expelled from the shadow of my own mind,
without the wings my father wove from fear,
I wander old city of ruined towers,
destroyed by steel planes shooting bombs of hate.

We are the children of our broken statue,
worshipping the God who was never real,
because the man that modeled his design
died ten thousand years ago in mute rain.

We all tried to hide from the hungry man
who devoured those too slow to escape,
till we conspired to trap him in his cave,
and I stabbed his one eye with spear of truth.

After writing story of our despair,
to calculate how soon we all will die
from soul-searing blast of nuclear knowledge,
I wad the page and throw it in the fire.

Strange shadow of ambition that escaped
my cracked skull looms over tall city towers
in rumbling thunderstorm where molecules
spiral from stars to weave my dreaming brain.

Whether we call the God we choose to follow
Prometheus who plots how things will occur,
or Lucifer who lights our path to freedom,
we invent him from secret aspirations.

He lead us from the waste land of our hopes
to storm the ziggurat where blind All rules
but was repelled by blast of bitter anger
and fell from Heaven to crawl in sad dust.

He tries to convince me that, though all creatures
are formed from dust in the wombs of our mothers,
our forms our based on immortal Idea
as spirit that shimmers beyond star shells.

I sit in the cone of the towering rocket
and hold tight to the controls of my mind
when fuel shoots me soaring high into heaven
which shatters illusion that Plato forged.

The shards of his world view, which mirrored bright
our own face that we thought was face of God,
fall around me in drops of sparkling rain
composed of atoms flowing on sun beams.

Rather than small jewels on god-moved shells,
the stars are huge fountains of sparkling matter,
giant suns flashing in galactic web
that forms enormous universal brain.

Breathing deep cool wind on bright winter day,
I concentrate to radiate beams of my soul
so I may expand beyond this frail body,
but no demon escapes to haunt my steps.

Each moment I step from shadow of buildings
sun rays activate ancient memories
of every ancestor who stood at dawn
eager to explore this weird world of dreams.

They all wake at the moment bright sun rays
gleam spiraling through trees on mountain ridge
so all their dreams together glow as me,
illuminating hollow shell of being.

Every morning at dawn for twenty years
I told my children, if civilization
collapses go live on the ocean beach
and spend your day catching fresh fish to eat.

For many years I wanted to learn craft
of building boats, carving trees into shapes
then fitting beams to form wave-gliding hull,
but we drive cars so that art is now lost.

Since I found the magic ring of great power
that gleams halo of light over my head,
rendering me invisible to your eyes,
I walk around the globe ten thousand times.

Since I found the magic book of all tales
that record the deeds and words of dead men,
causing me to sing on bright stage of fame,
I dream in mountain cave ten thousand years.

Chasing the weird shadow of my own mind,
I run through the labyrinth of history
full of mirrors that reflect my lost faces,
masks that God wears to comprehend the atom.

Sitting alone on peak of Mount Parnassus,
I weave angel wings from brains of dead gods
which flap activated by memories
we hide in poems that no one ever reads.

Black Door Of Doom

Black Door Of Doom
© Surazeus
2018 01 28

Confused and twisted in knots I stand blind
on sharp edge of steep invisible cliff
that angles down into the bleak landscape
of soggy meadows where trail of my hopes
shimmers among the naked trees of lies
which give me rotten fruit I cannot eat.

The winter wind freezes bones of my soul
brittle as ice cracking on the black pond
where quiet horror hides in murky depths,
so I dip my frail hand in frozen light
to find the true name my mother once gave me,
and wait for the echo of her dead voice.

I lean against the yew tree by the pond
when icy wind blows through my hollow bones,
and replicates idols of my young body
who stand smiling among black leafless trees
so I think you might now stand just behind me
but when I turn you vanish in moonlight.

The snow drops pieces of dark aching gloom
in hollow dale of my heart where gray rocks
wait to contain this mind that leaks red tears
from my jeweled eyes fractured by sunlight
that rips open the numb despair I savor,
because I clutch apple seeds in cold hand.

I grasp crackling leaves of catastrophe
and design new future where I will live
beyond the nothing of my hopeless fear
because I stand unmoving inside wings
of dead angels, stuck at blank door of doom
my own hands carved from the last tree of fruit.

Call me Sylvia for I am the blind queen
of your woods, goddess of fountain-fed groves
where children once played in rays of my eyes,
and though they smile as skulls on broken rocks
I can revive them from seed of their hopes,
which I tell myself every day at dawn.

Touch me and you will feel my heart beat faint
as stasis in darkness of infinite
time that winds my heart tighter than cold wind
which shudders the substanceless blue of love,
so I kneel to plants seeds in furrowed soil
and taste bloody mouthfuls of shadowed lust.

The cry of my child who was never born
melts down trunks of trees that watch me not cry,
so I grind wheat with cold stone of my heart
while listening to the glitter of the sea
explain white dew drops which splash on my face
when red eye of morning substantiates me.

Our Secret Selves

Our Secret Selves
© Surazeus
2018 01 28

Every time I see you I want to see
our strange world through the laughter of your eyes.
Our faces are mirrors in which we share
our secret selves we did not know we share.

I gaze into the abyss of my heart
and death gazes back with indifference.
I gaze into the abyss of your heart
and you gaze back at me with caring love.

Every atom in neurons of my brain
pulses with sweet vibrations of your heart.
Our talk tunes harmony of secret hopes
that weave our anguish in pleasure of love.

Your eyes compose the star that shines most bright
through the darkest night of my aching soul.
I follow your love through the labyrinth
beyond my waste land to your paradise.

Mississippi Melodies

Mississippi Melodies
© Surazeus
2018 01 27

When gold sun sets behind the city towers
and lamps flare up to light the crowded streets
we leave the offices and factories
to gather in the well-lighted cafes.

The band leader in his dapper gray suit
snaps his fingers and winks, then tips his hat,
and from the silence of the twilight zone
the heartbeat of the night pumps our blood.

We leave behind the aching cares of life,
forgetting all the sorrows of numb hearts,
and with the Mississippi melodies
we rise from death to dance eternal life.

The honky-tonk piano leaps the moon,
then boogie-woogie clarinet escapes
and glides along the rainbow after rain
till everyone is swinging with the stars.

The steady tapping of the snarky drum
leads jealous stomping with the ragtime roll
till all the wooden floors shake with delight
to feel the flowing Mississippi tide.

Deep in the gloomy bayou of my heart
I hear the ancient music of the night
when sparkling stars that beam the Milky Way
slide shimmering through the neurons of my brain.

Then from the deep abyss of death they rise,
the spirits of the dead who know our names,
to fill the emptiness between our eyes
connecting our hearts with the lightning kiss.

Beyond the far horizon of our hope
we swing with Tarzan on his golden rope
to leap the walls of paradise at dawn
and steal sweet apples from the Tree of Life.

Yet here I wander on the signless road,
the dust of aching misery on my face,
still searching far across the fertile land
for work to feed my starving family.

I pluck the rusty strings of my guitar
while standing on the busy street at noon
and sing the blues of my old broken heart
about the pretty girl who waits for me.

Then with three dollars thrown in tattered hat
I mosey down to the Dead Fish Cafe
and eat small bowl of stew with sizzling beer,
while tapping my feet to the ragtime beat.

When silver moonlight in the window gleams
Sweet Emma Barret sings of Dixieland,
then Sidney Bechet plays his saxophone
that conjures spirits from the misty swamps.

We all stand swaying in the moonlight glow,
arms interlinked in chain of swinging souls,
while Sidney wails the aching of our hearts
that weave our sorrows into sparkling stars.

So for one hour of timeless ecstasy
we comprehend the meaning of our lives
as sensuous saxophone of moonlight tunes
transform our misery into carefree love.

The memories of my long and crazy life
flash bright before my teary eyes in scenes
of desperate search for happiness with you,
so I will hold you in my arms tonight.

We sway together with the ragtime beat
as Sidney searches through our hidden dreams
with every aching melody that beams
trilling anguish from his saxophone heart.

So that is how I know our loyal love
will last far beyond the end of our world,
long after the last saxophone note wails
into the silence of the moonlit night.

When the sun rises over city towers
and cars honk as we drive the crowded streets
we head to offices and factories
to work with Mississippi melodies.

Last Queen Of Kamaria

Last Queen Of Kamaria
© Surazeus
2018 01 27

Up from the murky waters of the heart
poisonous serpents writhe from bitter hate
against the monsters that try to devour
soul-sparkling bodies in the hunt for power.

I will play divine god of our great tribe
but if you dare oppose my sovereign will
I will obliviate your willful heart
and twist you to obey all my commands.

These angry thoughts that burn my hungry mind
erupt as bats from cavern of lost souls
who howl in blustering wind from naked sea
that swallows millions of souls into silence.

When world-enclosing empires fall in flames
and cities are besieged by hordes of thieves,
the man and woman holding hands escape,
walking together over empty fields.

They craft new home from tragedy of war
and plant black apple seeds by gushing stream,
then play hide and seek in the twilight zone
with their children innocent of despair.

The little girl with eyes clear as the sky
kneels by the gushing river in gold dawn
and gazes down in turmoil of desire
to dream the motion of creative force.

Three old wise men with long moon-silver hair
that flows in cold indifferent wind of fear
appear before her father picking apples
and proclaim him new emperor of the world.

Your harsh father, who ruled with iron fist
of brutal oppression, trusted young man
he loved to bear his cup of sparkling wine,
and so he drank the poison of our hate.

Since you are eldest son he sired from lust
you have first right to claim his crown of power
and wield the scepter over life and death,
or else our empire will bleed in civil war.

Running from the shadow of some dark fear,
I stand by my father and grasp his hand,
and he looks down in shimmer of my eyes
and sighs with sorrow of the old chained bear.

Though I would love to keep this peaceful life
I know I must go play the role of god
to preserve the system of thought control
my father built to organize our labor.

I tug his hand and whisper in his ear,
I fear they will dress in wreathes of flowers
then lead you like the bull to sacrifice
and slaughter you on the altar of peace.

Turning to the three magi of the stars,
my father smiles and gives them back the crown,
and yet I will maintain this peaceful life
and leave the empty rituals to blind fools.

Beaming with joy, my father kisses me,
then turns away and we walk toward the river,
but the three old magi unsheathe sharp knives
and stab him in the back so red blood squirts.

My shocked father falls thudding to the Earth
and stares at the vast sky of burning fire,
then gazes at my soul with flashing eyes
as he stiffens cold from the fear of death.

The oldest magi grips my tender arm,
and drags me toward the wagon of gold wheels
where they chain me to the high throne of power
and place large crown of jewels on my head.

Now you are the empress of the whole world,
they proclaim as the wagon rolls through city
where thousands of people cheer at my face
when they carry me up the ziggurat.

The old woman sitting on the gold throne
looks down at me with eyes clear as the sky,
and whispers, so that is why I sit chained
forever to this bright throne of world power.

Lifting up her arms till her sleeves slide down,
she reveals gold chains clamped around her wrists
that bind her forever to throne of power,
and she smiles as she makes them rattle soft.

How sweet the music of my chains of power,
she laughs, then leans back on the throne and sighs
as thirty priests play music in the hall,
then stares at me with sorrow of the dead.

You cannot free me from the chains of power
unless you sever my head from my body,
she howls in horrible anguish of rage,
so I leap forward and swing my sword fast.

Slashing off her head with generous love,
I free her soul from torment of her chains,
then face the priests shocked in silence of fear
and laugh as they flee down ziggurat steps.

Cradling her smiling head close to my breast,
I walk through crowds of people staring shocked,
and proclaim, my mother begged me to free
her aching soul from torment of her role.

Now I will rule the empire of our land
but I will not rule chained to the gold throne,
for I will walk with you in liberty
and give each of you what you most desire.

Nothing Of Death

Nothing Of Death
© Surazeus
2018 01 27

How brutally time is grinding my soul down
and crushing out the wild flame of my spirit
so agony cripples with twisted blindness
any sweet pleasure I used to enjoy.
I lie in lumpy bed of grim despair
beyond all sense of time in lightless gloom,
floating in the black hole of my numb heart
that crackles in relentless pain of hope.
I am the bird that smacks into the glass
of a large office window while people work,
and lies twitching in shock on snow-hard grass,
yet still dreaming I glide in open skies.
Like Desdemona, waiting for her death,
sings all a green willow where fresh streams run,
I moan in agony of timeless pain
that sears all memory blank from my mind.
I think I was a young boy in Germany,
walking with my mother in lush green park
on Sunday afternoon when church bells ring,
but all those trees are now dust in the wind.
For many years I applied youthful strength
in setting up computers with programs
linked by wires to manage government business,
but now the wires of my brain fizzle tangled.
Worthless the actions of my hands now seem
when I look back on how I spent my years
since nothing now can ease this searing pain
that splits my brain open to screaming rainbows.
All politics of empires we argued
now echo in the caverns of my mind
like ocean wind that laughs at our ideals
and mocks the heaven we try to create.
Each coming moment of existence bangs
through pulsing energy my body burns
so I can feel the ticking of each clock
that smashes my atoms to smithereens.
My mother generated this frail flesh
from egg of hope sparked by swift sperm of love
then molded this clay lump of lusting flesh
and pushed me out to consume all I snatch.
I devoured the world over sixty years,
eating forests of desire for lost faith
and drinking oceans of hope for new pleasure,
till I fertilized vast fields of gold wheat.
The soil of the Earth transforms all my waste
into wheat and grass eaten by large cows
so I drink milk and eat bread of the world
to energize more consumption of life.
I am but one part of that endless cycle
of transformation that nature designed
when atoms metamorphose from sunlight
to rain to soil to plants, then to my body.
I consume thick material of the Earth
then defecate to fertilize that soil
which nourishes plants we eat in restaurants
while pretty girl sings about ache of love.
What other purpose did I serve the Earth
that spins nowhere through vast abyss of death
than to transform atoms in daily dance
of laughing death who calls out my lost name.
Throw my broken body, aching with pain
that cracks artistic resolve of my heart,
so works my transform my flesh back to soil
that will nourish wheat and apples you eat.
Though my body is broken by harsh pain,
I sired seven children who at this hour
savor the sweet pleasures this world provides
for they are still young, energized by love.
Where are you, Death, lingering in lightless shadow
of my mind-jamming pain, waiting to strike
after you savor my endless suffering,
and twisting my soul into flames of rage.
I cannot escape this body of flesh,
this brain-searing prison of jangled nerves,
since no eternal paradise of pleasure
exists to receive my electric soul.
I will find no relief from endless pain
except when the chemicals of my brain
cease to function in glow of consciousness
and I vanish into nothing of death.

Broken Heart Of Our Mute Messiah

Broken Heart Of Our Mute Messiah
© Surazeus
2018 01 26

The way frost cracks the window of my heart
reveals how dawn light blinds me to the truth.
Using symbols encoded on the chart,
I navigate maze of lies like weird sleuth.

The footprints I left behind in deep snow
hide my quest through the labyrinth of desire.
Everything is false I wanted to know,
so I burn my old truth in silent fire.

I stumble hopeful toward blinking red light
where cars going nowhere ignore my cries.
On the church door I carve my desperate plight,
then wander voiceless under empty skies.

I know the secret you forgot to dream
so I reach out to touch your fragile hand.
We can pretend the perfection of seem,
which explains why I wander nameless land.

The nation our fathers once glorified
fractures like the mirror in the dark hall.
The old mad king who wanders horrified
left bloody handprints on the clean church wall.

The crowd cries for their messiah to come
but no one answers them in falling rain.
Who will appear to lead them all back home
except the robot with computer brain.

I hear call from puppet God in my head
to play the wise messiah they must need.
Every messiah always ends up dead
so I will stay in the library and read.

How far beyond the broken wall of fear
must I run to find the fountain of love?
I wipe the windshield till it seems to clear
then drive till I reach the ocean-cliff cove.

I stand on the beach in moonlight and storm,
dreaming the history of empires and kings.
We elect clowns who rule that we conform
and give up our right to wear angel wings.

I came through the waste land of broken dreams,
bringing holy book with tales that deceive.
I walk with my mate along gushing streams,
preaching we resurrect when we conceive.

Though everything we valued is now lost
we resurrect our nation through rebirth.
We must teach our children what truth will cost
so they may build new Heaven on this Earth.

Taught to enchant your minds by the mute sleuth,
I map world history on the secret chart.
The real world we perceive must be the truth,
so poetry can repair the broken heart.

Omniscient Observer Of All Time

Omniscient Observer Of All Time
© Surazeus
2018 01 25

When the last angel of the broken world
finds me floating in the black whole of light,
she flies me to the peak of sparkling clouds,
that billow in vast swirls of flashing gas
to generate enormous helium stars,
and shows me the entire flow of time.
Outside the vast bubble of timing space
we observe the complete scope of all time
since the singularity of mass banged
outward from the egg shell of hoping lust
and flared forth in spirals of particles
to swirl in galaxies of flashing stars
which nourish worlds of frail organic beings.
We wake from the dream of eating the sun
and drinking the rain to become aware
of our minds encased in bodies of flesh
that we exercise to move through lush space
and so we assign ourselves sacred names.
I see each possible universe beam
from far-curving trajectories of chance
to bloom into tree of vast multiverse
that multiplies from each potential core
till every world reflects all other worlds.
I am awake this hour of evolution
on ten billion planets in the vast void,
each individual one variant of me,
so we sing the electric vibe of atoms
that sparkle in the dreaming brains of gods
and thus become one with the multitude.
The entire process of their growth in time,
transforming from carbon rings of desire,
through connections with swift electron coils
into plants, insects, animals, and humans,
I dream as complete routine of emotion
as each planet rolls through the waves of change.
All things that exist in our universe
are structures of atoms pulsing with light
that interact in chemical operations,
merging together in construction of birth,
and breaking apart in destruction of death,
thus time is the process of moving change
when structures of atoms metamorphose
through one whole cycle of organic being.
We humans on our spinning ball of dirt,
limited in the structure of our bodies,
imagine in our boundless dreaming brains
whole spirit of omniscient diety
outside the huge bubble of space and time
who is able to observe complete scope
of structured objects on galactic whorls
through every iteration of their forms
in all the transformations of their shapes.
But no such omniscient deity dreams
the complex history of the universe,
except in the virtual world of our brains,
for we imagine supernatural god
in anthropogenic form that we admire.
I am that deity in human form
whose brain is able to imagine scope
of our whole universe changing in time
while swirling through waves of cause and effect
first activated at the bright big bang
by the Prime Mover of unconscious will.
As I imagine omniscient observer,
who contemplates entire river of time,
and notes each moment of chemical change
when atomic structures of living souls
float in the black whole of our timeless dream,
frozen in transformation between states,
I become deity I idolize.
How strange I am enclosed inside my skull
yet I can dream the history of all time
while imagining supernatural god
who can observe current of history,
like me standing now on this river shore
to watch water flow in flashing sunlight.
I pluck ripe apple from first tree of truth
and eat sweet essence of the universe
contained in the sparkle of its wet light,
and at this moment of ecstatic insight
I am omniscient observer of all time,
dreaming how atoms compose dreaming brains.
The first angel of the weaving world laughs,
like sun-flashing rain on the apple grove,
and takes me back to the black whole of light
where I become hologram of my brain.

Angel Of Astrakhan

Angel Of Astrakhan
© Surazeus
2018 01 25

While I was exploring in Google Earth
the street view of cities around the world
I saw the most beautiful girl on Earth
striding along some street in Astrakhan.

Amid the bustling crowd one afternoon
about two years ago in glow of spring
she walked between the river and brick homes
as if she were an angel from some heaven.

Breezes from the sparkling blue river blew
her long black hair like angel wings on fire
and within the blurred nothing of her face
I could sense eyes that comprehend the truth.

I long to fly around the spinning globe
to walk by her side and gaze in her eyes,
but lunch break is done and I must return
to building homes in Philadelphia.

To Build Heaven On Earth

To Build Heaven On Earth
© Surazeus
2018 01 24

The days when angels came down to the Earth
and guided mankind on the road to Heaven
are recorded in scriptures of folk tales
priests tell peasants to oppress their ambitions.

Culture spins through cycles of war and peace
every eighty years in balance of power
between the leader with their ministers
and the people who obey their commands.

The youth who leaves the pale of their world view,
constructed by the wise minds of their culture,
wanders the waste land in quest for the truth
and dreams visions on true nature of things.

Returning from the waste land to their tribe,
the youth, grown into mage with burning eyes,
describes the magic working of the world
with strange new songs that enlighten their minds.

Teaching their people visions of the truth,
they organize working empire of wealth
based on institutions with ministers
who manage processes of work production.

First unified the culture operates well
to produce food and goods for everyone
till conflict of desires splinters resolve
and two sides clash in conflict of strong wills.

For the first twenty years kings reign control
and rule production with constraining laws
that assign each person their role to play
so everyone benefits from their work.

Strong institutions arbitrate fierce conflict
to balance justice between right and wrong,
ensuring each person who applies work
will gain wealth from hard labor of their hands.

For the second twenty years rebels rise
to oppose the strict laws of those in power
through awakening against thought control
to exercise will of their own desires.

Weakening institutions allow greed
to motivate men who rule other men
to enslave their labor for private gain,
abusing strength without just recompense.

For the third twenty years opposing groups
with different world views about right and wrong
clash over what defines their national soul
as unity unravels into conflict.

Corrupted institutions ossify
into arbitrary forces of power
that cruel tyrants wield to control the realm
and steal wealth from people straining at chains.

For the fourth twenty years the people fight
violent revolution through civil war
to overthrow the rich stealing their wealth
and resassert the will of their own power.

Shattered institutions crumble away
to level the playing field so everyone
cooperates to build better-working state
which boosts liberty and justice for all.

The unified culture built by one mind
splits in two camps with opposing world views
who battle for control of hearts and minds
which reunifies under one new mind.

The new unified culture which appears
after civil war over what is true
combines the best concepts about reality
in supple synthesis of new world view.

The thesis world view of people in power
is challenged by antithesis of rebels
whose opposite view provides wider scope
so new synthesis promotes clearer view.

The angel who descends on wings of fire
places honey-sweetened scroll in my mouth
so I sing about true nature of things
that blossom in structures of flashing atoms.

Real angels with messages of good work
came from the waste land with water of wisdom
and guided mankind on the road to Heaven
which we recreate on this changing Earth.

Here we go around the merry-go-round
of cultural change on the spinning world,
laughing as we sing hymns to the dead god
who showed us how to build Heaven on Earth.

Spirit Of Ozymandias

Spirit Of Ozymandias
© Surazeus
2018 01 23

Through ruins of ancient temples I step
to penetrate shadows of long-lost dreams
that beamed bright from minds of people who lived
long ago in swift spinning of our world.

I see their faces in people alive
today, forgotten memories inscribed
in visions their eyes beam without words
that record how they struggled against death.

From rubble of long crumbled paradigm
I retrieve the face of a broken statue,
and gaze into the blankness of its eyes
to see the hopes and fears the sculptor saw.

Aggressive warriors, arrogant matrons,
greedy merchants, visionary oracles,
dedicated farmers, artistic crafters,
all those people now dust under my feet.

I am alive now on this turning world,
beaming my own paradigm of events
that narrates history of human progress
based on the stories of those long-dead souls.

The grave epoch of history in my heart
weighs my whole body down with eminence
of ponderous purview through vast scope of time
that details achievements of humanity.

I long to break free from enclosing shell
of my body, molded from wet Earth clay,
and fly on bold Icarian wings toward stars
so I may survey migrations of mankind.

When that huge meteor smashed into our globe
and destroyed all the giant dinosaurs
its searing blast killed every living soul
across vast American continents.

Eutherian mammals, hiding in small caves
of towering karst mountains of lush Guilin,
survived the brutal winters of that age,
and migrated west to cover the world.

Swinging between tall trees in playful joy,
we gathered fruit to eat in paradise
and hummed hymns together in harmony,
connecting words to objects we perceive.

Descending from thick trees in Africa,
we tailless monkeys swam in ocean waves
to walk upright in surging tides of hope,
then danced around fires we caught from the sky.

We sharpened rocks and polished sticks as wands,
then caped ourselves in skins of animals,
while choosing wisest mind to lead our group,
and guide us from waste land to paradise.

We followed cows down winding river Nile
and built high ziggurats from bricks we baked
where Amen taught us how to sing sweet hymns
and share our stories of experience.

We spread from Egypt to colonize Earth,
writing pictures in clay to signify
subjects who perform actions in events
that compose epic tale of human life.

I stand on star-high peak of pyramid
that has stood in wind for thousands of years
and see sprawling cities of steel and glass
that shimmer with electric lights of hope.

We build new temples of humming machines
on ancient foundations of broken stone
to honor the Spirit of Ozymandias
who inspires us to build towers of glass.

Anxiety Of Death

Anxiety Of Death
© Surazeus
2018 01 23

While sitting by the red brick wall at noon,
to feel sweet sunrays weaving in my brain
ancient memories of weird enlightenment
when the universe of planets flared forth
from the Big Bang of the Black Whole of Love,
I see large brown spider or lizard jump
at me, so I tense up, ready to flee,
but see it is some leaf tossed by soft breeze.

Two hundred million years of evolution,
when more alert specimens react swiftly
at quick perception of sudden attack,
when unknown predator strikes from shadow
to consume the energy of their bodies,
activates conscious program of my brain
which motivates my bold will to survive
at sudden motion of some wind-blown leaf.

So when my brain resolves its first perception,
replacing aggressive lizard or spider
with accurate image of the real leaf,
I laugh at shock of fear that struck my heart
when my brain injected adrenaline
to activate my fight or flight response,
and shake my head amused that now my brain
shimmers with energy to sing my thoughts.

How many brains of people may malfunction
at crucial moment of vital assessment,
failing to replace illusion of danger
with accurate image of the real thing,
when first perception of danger persists
at shock of fear to maintain weird illusion
so logical analysis will fragment
when terror paralyzes the shocked mind.

Our brains are programmed with this warning system
to alert our conscious sense with awareness
because our ancestors who survived dangers
lived long enough to generate more children,
but we must activate our honest will
to manage process of this alert signal
so we maintain balance of calm sapience
instead of stumbling in paranoid fear.

When atoms, pulsing with bright energy,
evolve from nerves into the conscious brain
of wise organic creature with sensing eyes,
they participate through taut carbon rings
in chemical function of consciousness
through flashing neurons of the dreaming brain
that perceives the structure of the real world,
then designs virtual model of that world.

Physical time is the strict interaction
of molecules that pulse with energy
in vital process of chemical functions,
while mental time is the fluid perception
of objects that aggregate molecules
through analysis of cause and effect
in process of psychological functions,
thus we dream ideology from truth.

The brain develops ideology
based on complex ontological modes
to quickly comprehend new situations
through perception of objects that perform
emotional acts of cause and effect
to generate virtual model of Earth
that reflects real world of transforming structures
which change in long process of life and death.

The brain employs forged ideology,
based on unchanging Ideas of forms,
to analyze the present situation,
perceiving how material atoms form
existing structures of subjects and objects,
and chooses to perform actions within context
of the material world it comprehends
so motion is constructive, not destructive.

When danger seems to threaten our existence
in these fragile biological bodies
we analyze the level of this threat
to comprehend construction or destruction,
and then we act to preserve life and health
so we can survive and consume good food,
then replicate souls in bodies of children
who will perceive same world after we die.

Thus when I feel anxiety of death
electrify the functions of my brain,
alerting me to presence of the monster,
I breathe deep the pneumatic soul of love
and maintain calm perception of the world
so I comprehend true reality,
then perform actions of constructive good
while I surf strict waves of cause and effect.

Stretching my arms to shimmering blue sky,
I savor the sweetness of being alive,
glad that no immediate danger of death
threatens healthy existence of my body,
so I sing weird melody of delight
that this violent indifferent universe
allows me to survive another day
on this rock that spirals through boundless void. 

Goddess Of Theopetra Cave

Goddess Of Theopetra Cave
© Surazeus
2018 01 22

The harmless snake that writhes in agony
and plays dead when threatened by enemies
could be the most apt metaphor I know
for how our society deals with truth.

You cannot know my most authentic voice
because I hide, behind confident mask,
my most intense feelings about the game
of politics that thrashes dragon tails.

I walk out the door of my house each day
and drive my car with you all on wet roads,
then sit at my computer from dawn to dusk
to dream the revolution as chess game.

The clowns who steal from us with charming smile
wear their own faces on the evening news
when they explain the policies they write
to guide the economic growth of bees.

Leaving behind the comfort zone of lies,
I walk among the swarms of honey bees
who pollinate all flowering plants on Earth
and listen to their rainbow songs of love.

If every bee on the Earth were to die,
every fruit and vegetable that we eat
would crumble to the dust of broken dolls,
and our skulls would sing with indifferent wind.

My fear of the world-wide collapse of life
I hide behind the masks of characters
whose faces I hang on the temple wall
where the Many-Faced God knows my real name.

When my heart was broken by selfish greed
who took my love without giving love back
I found infinite fountain of true love
flowing from the crack in mask of my being.

My friends emerged from the cave of illusions
and joined broken shards of my heart with gold
with art of Kintsugi, so now my heart
is holy grail that bears juice for your thirst.

I sit in silent meditation on Sun Hill
before the entrance of the ancient cave
where the Oracle of Wisdom has lived
more than one hundred thousand years of dreams.

Since I was born in hills of Oregon
I must retrace migrant steps of hope east
along the highways my ancestors blazed
to find again that cave outside my heart.

Winding backward on the roads of progress,
I find star cave of the Goddess of Stone
near Meteora on Thessalian plain
where my First Mother taught me how to sing.

The scientists who find her fractured skull
recreate her face with clay of the Earth
so once again she gazes fierce at me
with black eyes that know how the world was made.

Since dawn of time in Theopetra Cave
wise Artemis with eyes that sparkle stars
chanted visions with words that she designed
describing how our universe was born.

Gripping snakes that writhe in each hand, she stands
before the cave of illusions and sings
how Gaia created Earth from tears of rain
that cause apple trees to bloom fruit of love.

Nine thousand years ago in land of Hellas
the Goddess of Theopetra Cave grasped
my beating heart and gazed into my eyes
till I could comprehend the game of thrones.

The game of politics greedy men play
is weirder than the circus full of clowns
where the wily Ring Master tricks our eyes
with bright illusions we want to believe.

When will David appear from the waste land,
bearing tablets of spells from cave of dreams,
and defeat Goliath with stone of truth
like Zeus cast Kronos from the throne of lies?

The arrogant clone of King Midas reigns
in the White House now cluttered with gold idols
of people he touched with corrupting hands
since we would be rich if we wept gold tears.

Backward into the Mirror of Desire
we retreat with tactical plan to leap
laughing through the labyrinth of fake news
to dispel the spell of mind-numbing fear.

The stone goddess, shining in pure moonlight,
dives her face into swirling sea of eyes,
and reveals, through her shadow in the doorway,
eternal love that gives with generous trust.

The Goddess of Theopetra Cave sings
while she molds my body from clay starlight
and weaves my brain from dreams of our ancestors
so I sing their names in Epic of Earth.

Part Of Your Life

Part Of Your Life
© Surazeus
2018 01 22

If everyone follows their own desires,
ignoring desires of everyone else,
we would collide in conflict of our wills
and smash the system of cooperation
by which we produce and distribute food,
so, clinging to beliefs, we all would starve.

We compromise the excess of desires
and moderate our actions to compose
harmonious system of product exchange
where each person plays their creative role
in greater good of whole society,
so we feast together in hall of friends.

We confirm integrity of our soul
through disciplined methods of self-control
to express nourishing desire of love
in the formal laws of cause and effect
which predict nature of structures that change
with construction and destruction of forms.

I will perform actions that can fulfill
hunger of desire to nourish my soul
as long as that good pleasure I enjoy
does not cause you to suffer in cruel pain,
so I will do things that are good for me
as long as my actions cause harm to none.

All objects that we perceive in this world
are structures of atoms that interact
through chemical process of constant change,
so I want all my actions to create
better structures that cause pleasure of love
rather than destroy and cause pain of hate.

I want to live well with pleasure of love,
so I can emphathize with your desire
to also live well with pleasure of love,
thus, when I express how much I love you,
know this means I want you to thrive in joy
whether or not I am part of your life.

Spirit Of Solitude

Spirit Of Solitude
© Surazeus
2018 01 21

Each dawn I wake in strange dream of gold light
that streams through the leaves of whispering trees,
still alive in another universe
so I must invent myself a new name
to navigate the dangers of this world
on quest to discover its secret spirit.

Thirsty for the water of boundless skies
that falls at weird flash of lightning as rain,
I wander outside walls of paradise
my father built to protect us from harm
and search the wilderness of silent fear
for the singing Spirit of Solitude.

The fountains of mundane philosophy
nourish the questioning mind of my soul
so I leave my childhood home without wealth
to seek strange truths in long-discovered lands
by wandering tangled wilderness of truth
beyond the broken walls of paradise.

Where will you lead me in this crowded world,
wild Spirit of Solitude whose bright eyes
blaze through darkness of pungent silentness
to lead my footsteps winding through the maze
of competing world views which clash in war
over who best defines the world that exists?

On windy plains, far beyond city streets
where no signs define the land where I stand,
I gaze into the mirror of the world
and in the starry ice of timeless spirit
shines the perfect face of the human race
from which we spring at spinning of the sun.

Mother of this measured and charted world,
favor my ludic song, for I have loved
your flashing eyes that illuminate skies
above each city where your shadow glows
which leads me to the waste land of your truth
where I bathe in pools of your mysteries.

I wander hard streets of America,
lost in glass labyrinth of its liberties
till Alastor appears from blinding light
and shows me how to find the awful ruins
of ancient cities, so I climb steep steps
to stand with Ishtar on her pyramid.

From heights of wisdom I survey the world
and see the steady progress of mankind
transforming from hunting tribes to empires
that construct time machines in cars and planes
so we zoom faster with the spinning globe
while marble statues stand forever mute.

Deep in the jagged mountains of my dreams
where my ancestors lived for two million years
I find the cavern where I woke to life
and follow gushing river to its depths
to grasp the shining jewel of perfect light
forged when the Earth first spun from flashing gas.

I gaze in flashing eye of timeless truth
and watch the evolution of our world
when all the matter of the universe
bloomed outward from shining whole of love
and galaxies flared forth on spiral wheels
to nourish billions of planets with life.

I feel alone on this one speck of dust
that spirals nowhere in the vast abyss,
yet centillions of planets just like ours
pulse with thriving life in the web of stars
so all their visions flash into my brain
in sweet vibrating matrix of all souls.

Obedient to the everlasting light
that shines within taut fabric of my soul
I follow winding river gushing clear
from mountain cavern where my mind was born
through misty forests where apple trees bloom
to stand on margin of the swirling sea.

I hear in its inaccessible source
profound stillness of its eternal song
when dazzling waves from searchless fountain flows
on invisible course through my wet brain
each moment I breathe deep the chanting wind
that links me with the universal soul.

Evolving from the sea, we crawled up streams,
and rose from lake of dreams to stand in light
and pluck sweet fruit from the tall tree of life,
so after I wander around the globe
I will lie on the shore of that first stream
and become the soil where apple trees grow.

Long after the Spirit of Solitude
lead Percy far across the spinning world
Alastor leads me from signless waste land
of my despair at the meaninglessness
of this life and teaches me to create
visions of beauty with signs of ideas.

I sing the beauty of all dreaming souls
who spring from the womb of our Mother Earth
and join the choir of seven billion voices
who harmonize disparate wills to power
in raucous symphony of human minds
joined as one in Spirit of Solitude.

To Keep My Family Alive

To Keep My Family Alive
© Surazeus
2018 01 21

Over lush hills where yellow flowers bloom
we loved to run through groves of apple trees
and feel the sun glowing warm on our skin
as we lay laughing where the white clouds play.

How sweet was the pleasure of carefree joy
on timeless afternoons of our childhood
when we played games in pure eternal light
since every day was the day of all days.

How quickly now they seemed to spin away
those timeless days when the sun never set
with every day the sun did set in gloom
and we woke again to play the new day.

Now every passing day from bright sunrise
to dark sunset flashes before my eyes
and I trudge endless round of work and sleep,
building boats, then sinking in dreamless gloom.

Why can only children enjoy free play,
chasing each other on the river shore
and kissing in trees where honey bees float,
while I must carve wood to build boats all day?

If I did not have five children and a wife
to house and clothe and feed and keep alive
by earning coins from labor of my hands
then I would run free in the fields and play.

I would float on the river in my boat
and watch sunlight flicker on dancing waves
while holding pole to catch fish for my meals
and pluck apples from branches overhead.

I prefer to sacrifice my free time
to earn coins with the labor of my hands
to pay for the house and fresh food to eat
to keep my family alive with my love.

Today while I carve wood for new boat hull
my sons and daughters climb lush hills to play,
dancing and singing among apple trees,
and weaving garlands of flowers for crowns.

When I was young child my father worked hard
each day, carving wood to build river boats,
while I played laughing among apple trees,
but now I work so my children can play.

That is why, first son of my seed, today
you must stop playing among the apple trees
and begin learning to build river boats
for soon you too will marry and sire children.

The cycle of life when we play, then work,
continues with the spinning of the world,
so grasp this tool firm with your tender hands
and shape this wood into a plank for the hull.

Though we work all day, sunrise to sunset,
carving wood to build river boats that glide
swift on the ever-flowing stream of life,
after work we drink wine and tell weird tales.

Sit with us now inside the ring of stones
to eat roast lamb and drink sweet sparkling wine,
and listen to the bard with his tall staff
sing of kings and queens who reigned long ago.

Eyes Of Onatah

Eyes Of Onatah
© Surazeus
2018 01 20

The honking of cars in the morning glare
of sunlight, that wakes ancient memories
illuminating ghosts in business suits
who wear polished shoes that clack cement streets,
wakes something strange beyond the busyness
of people walking through glass tower doors.

The eerie glow of the computer screen,
flashing numbers when I type clacking keys
to calculate the balance of new sales
which track progress of delivery trucks
hauling boxes of cereals to stores,
envelopes me in hope for soaking rain.

Reflected in the window of my office
I see ten thousand farmers, in large fields
checkering the country between dirt roads,
who tend crops of wheat and corn that gleam gold
in refreshing wind rustling through their leaves,
so I eat corn chips like communion wafers.

While large semi-trucks glide on gold highways,
delivering wheat and corn to factories
where people produce cereal and bread,
I climb mountain between two shining seas
to discover Walt Whitman and Carl Sandburg
drinking whiskey as they chant reverent hymns.

"I am large and I contain multitudes,"
Whitman shouts, prancing in boots and broad hat,
"I am untranslatable, and not tamed,
and I shout my barbaric yawp of love
over the rain-wet rooftops of the world,
and give myself to dirt to become wheat."

"City of big shoulders," Sandburg proclaims,
strutting with arm upraised to the gold sun,
"tool maker, stacker of wheat, wicked town
with your painted women luring farm boys,
killers who go free, and women and children
starving for love, freight handler to the nation."

"We love this land from sea to shining sea,"
they sing together, dancing arm in arm,
then from the swirling mist two singers leap,
and they all cheer in their joyful reunion
when Woody Guthrie and Allen Ginsberg
arrive with marijuana and red wine.

"As I was walking that ribbon of highway,"
Guthrie sings, strumming guitar that kills fascists,
"I saw below me that broad golden valley
where wheat and corn flourish in wind and rain,
because this land was made for you and me,
and all lost refugees from war-torn lands."

"America, I have given you all,"
Ginsberg chants and leaps like Shiva in wind,
"and now I am nothing, for I have seen
the best minds of my generation mad
with hunger for love, angel-headed hipsters
burning for the starry dynamo of light."

Then at white flash of lightning in the sky
they all four kneel around tall shining stone,
and like the brazen giant of Greek fame
the mighty woman with bright torch appears,
Emma Lazarus, good mother of exiles,
who holds large book with names of all lost souls.

Dressed in white robes like ancient temple priests
those four poets of the American spirit
lift up their hands with ritual implements,
Walt holding the Wand, Allen holding the Ring,
Carl holding the Cup, Woody holding the Sword,
then Bob Dylan steps forth holding the Crown.

Like Liberty who stands over our land,
Emma proclaims from the high mountain top
with flaming mouth, "Give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
and send your homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door."

I feel the spinning of our fragile world
as Earth spirals around indifferent sun
which hurtles blazing through the boundless void,
then down with beam of light on angel wings
the wise corn maiden Onatah descends
to stand before us in glow of pure light.

Standing on the stone of justice and truth,
Onatah spreads ten thousand arms with corn,
that shine like warm rays of the blazing sun,
and fills our minds with nourishment of love,
so we sing hymn of worshipful respect
while Bob places the gold crown on her head.

Wise Onatah, First Mother of this land,
names every person living on its soil,
and spirit of her fertile generation
bursts through the hard shell of buildings and roads
to shroud vast continent in blazing corn
as we sing hymns to liberty and love.

I snap awake from vision of the Goddess
whose spirit flows through the soil of this land
and ride the bus, crowded with silent people,
back to my apartment where I drink wine
and watch Game of Thrones till I fall asleep
then dream about the eyes of Onatah.

West

West
© Surazeus
2018 01 20

I saw no spirits of the living dead
in the underworld of our memories
when I descended in the faded footsteps
of Orpheus, Odysseus, Vergilius,
and Dante in my quest to find my soul
as I wander westward ten thousand years.

Each timeless valley of the teeming world
along the way in the journey of hope,
my ancestors blazed, following the sun,
from Scythia to Scotland to Oregon,
they arrived, married locals, then sired children
who continued on west around the globe.

With every generation we move on,
leaving relatives behind who remain
still living there another thousand years,
while we explore further the wilderness
in search of that elusive paradise
that haunts our dreams in western twilight glow.

No matter where I live across the land
of America, sea to shining sea,
I do not feel at home, whether I stay
one year or fifteen years, in school, at work,
or traveling through as I play guitar,
singing tales of explorers who go west.

From England to Massachusetts by sea
Anne Bradstreet first sailed to America
to establish new home as my first mother,
three hundred thirty years before my birth,
and still I wander far across the land,
chasing rainbows east and west toward the sun.

I see the ghosts of my ancestors float
forever in the yards of homes in towns
where they lived and died long before I woke
conscious of their soft voices in the wind
that teach me how to sing dreams of the dead
which light my way west to paradise lost.

Labyrinth Of Hope

Labyrinth Of Hope
© Surazeus
2018 01 19

I may walk ten thousand miles to explore
the cluttered continents of our huge world
beyond the secret of the numbered door
but I never have to leave the white room
to hear the heartbeat of electric doom
that echoes through the labyrinth of our dreams.

I leave the banquet halls of palaces,
mirrored with the portraits of noble men,
and walk the fields of war where soldiers lie
blasted by bombs and bullets in red mud
who watch me with their mute eyes of despair
descend on angel wings from empty sky.

I kneel beside the cold heart-broken streams
to wash the blood of warriors from my hands
and ask the ancient woman without eyes
how I can find my way to paradise
far beyond the stone walls of the citadel
where my father declares he rules the skies.

I build small house on singing river shore
in every lonely valley of the world
where every dawn I stand on shining rock
and whoosh the whirling wind with flowing hands
to send the vision of my chanting words
on wild indifferent wind of silent death.

I cuddle with my lover in tall grass
and we make love as sun sets beyond time
so all the twinkling stars may pierce our hearts
with aching passion to create the moon
that polishes our faces marble white
therefore we stand nameless long after death.

Our four children who sprang from our desire
walk four directions to explore the world
and populate lush valleys with offspring
who sing hymns to worship us as their gods
and carve new statues from our memories
then kill people who worship other gods.

I stare at my face in mirror of truth
and wonder why I am me with these eyes,
just one nameless soul on the spinning world
among billions of people alive now,
and centillions of people who have lived
in all the evolution of our kind.

They still dream in the coiled genes of my brain,
all those people who have lived on the Earth
since we become primates learning to talk
in fruit trees eighty million years ago,
and they dream through the functions of my mind,
guiding me through the labyrinth of hope.

 

Great Choir Of Truth

Great Choir Of Truth
© Surazeus
2018 01 19

Sunlight flickers on the pool of my mind
and flowers blossom from my fingertips,
transforming my dreams into flashing fruit,
so though I walk the crowded city streets,
amid honking cars gliding between towers
of shining glass, I bring the peace of woods,
that flourish on hills above flowing rivers,
with me when I amble through urban maze.

In the placid face of each human being
alive today, I pass on city street,
in ceaseless machinations of production
that oils the engine of economy,
I see the faces of people who lived
the past ten thousand years in distant lands
where our dead ancestors lived long ago.

I see the flicker of their ancient souls
behind the masks of the living today
still echoing from nameless memories,
which casts dim glamor of dramatic plots
to veil my eyes with spirit of their lives,
so though I remember forgotten roles
of interaction our ancestors played
I try to let those emotional waves
wash over me in present hour of life,
for we are new people in this new age,
since our ancestors who clashed are long dead.

I see the children of farmers and kings
swarming around me in the urban maze
who play new roles based on their own desires
in our endless search for pleasure and truth
that motivates our progress through its space,
even though we wear the discarded faces
of ancestors who managed to survive
and generate children before they died.

Each generation writes new cultural tale
about who plays old archetypal roles,
preserved in legends and myths of lost nations,
to represent the spirit of our hopes
in aching quest to transcend fear of death
and live the joy of eternal life now
through rich expression of visions we share
when each person stands on the stage of words
to chant their spell in formula of thoughts
which weaves all our dreams in great choir of truth.

In the middle of the vast teeming city
at the heart of metropolitan maze,
which spreads like mushrooms around our frail globe
that spirals nowhere through abyss of death,
we stand under Irminsul of Humanity,
the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil
that provides fruit which nourishes our souls
when we consume the soul of light and rain,
transforming from plain mortal human beings
into angelic messengers with wings
of divine inspiration that whirls spirals
of genetic coils through our dreaming minds.

Sunlight flickers on the pool of my eyes
so I perceive our teeming world of atoms,
then design virtual model in world view
incorporating all aspects on one sphere
that reflects weird chaos of the real world,
which helps me navigate strange maze of mirrors
and surf relentless waves of constant change
with elegant balance between extremes
of conservation and progress to transcend
horror of death with joy to be alive.

I sit beneath the Tree of Life and sing
visions that flash from seven billion brains
so we can see the Black Whole of One Soul
that spirals from heart of our galaxy
and weaves our bodies and expressive minds
from pulsing atoms in vast web of light
which weaves all our dreams in great choir of truth.

Representative Of Our Nation

Representative Of Our Nation
© Surazeus
2018 01 19

Each group of people always chooses one,
one person to represent everyone,
whose words and actions symbolize the soul
that glows to unify all in one whole.
This Platonic Idea in standard form
composites variations in one norm,
so normal person reigns as divine God
who wears proud crown and wields the legal rod.
Whatever leader the people elect
reveals the spirit of the national sect,
so we can judge the tribal character
based on who they choose as their heritor.
Whether our President is kind or cruel
sets the tenor for this stage of our rule.

Illusion We Call United States

Illusion We Call United States
© Surazeus
2018 01 18

The cities of the world like mushrooms sprout
streets spiraling from huge computer brain
in tangled webs of wires from eye to eye,
connecting our lonely minds with the news
that hide what his happening in the world
so we vote for Midas as King of Earth.

The smiling zombies in red uniforms
parade to play music in falling snow
on the first day of the year when the hawk
of warning swoops down from the statue torch
to explicate how we got it all wrong
before the ship of state crashes and sinks.

The oldest woman in the world, with hair
gray as rules of morality inscribed
on grave stones, walks down Wall Street in the rain
to reprimand the Minotaur who bets
retirement funds of school teachers on game
of chess played between the Jester and Death.

Though I wandered lost in the labyrinth
of normality, when Darth Vader ruled
the empire of money, two prophets came
from Hell to show me how to prophesy,
William Blake and Robert Lowell, both clowns
who wrestled Hercules and won the war.

The epic of evolution inspires
my heart to sing of atoms that compose
these temporary bodies which sustain
sizzling sponge brain that generates our souls
to maintain hologram of virtual world
based on perceptions of the mirror self.

Utopia will forever beam our minds
as perfect society where all people
live together in harmony of justice,
ideal we hope to manifest as real,
but clumps of atoms urged by thinking brains
clash in constant war to control the world.

We mold metal into statues of people
who attain lofty positions of power
with authority to steer ship of state
and establish rules to control behavior
while countless working people die unknown
and forgotten in the dust of the Earth.

After I fell asleep reading with verve
the Odyssey in the afternoon sun,
I wrote a new epic poem about fools
who follow footsteps of Odysseus
down into the underworld of the mind
to discover the secrets of the world.

Individual people who rule their nations
come and go in the ceaseless tide of life,
messiahs and devils wrestling for power
or debating to win votes of our hearts,
but the Spirit of the Leader remains
to possess each new person we elect.

The land, and the people of flesh and blood
who dwell on the shores of its flowing rivers,
I perceive clear with affectionate eyes
if I strip away the glamorous illusion
of America, the land of the free,
and walk its roads from sea to shining sea.

Villages of hunters wandering the land
were replaced with farmers tilling the land,
in turn replaced with cities of glass
that shimmer bright with the hum of computers
which connect our minds in one supermind
with illusion we call United States.

When I hitchhiked across this ancient land
the bubble of illusion in the sky
vanished in the hot shimmer of the sun,
and from the swirling mist of naked dawn
young woman approached, bearing sheaf of corn,
and filled my heart with love for Onatah.

The king who attempts to control our minds,
so he can control actions of our hands
performing work that benefits his wealth,
must exercise great strength of legal threat
to enforce counterfeit authority,
and hides fear behind strong mask of contempt.

The king who allows our minds to explore
complex contours of our revolving world
and guides our actions with weird principles,
will exercise secure justice of truth
to encourage creative authority,
and shows love through gentle mask of respect.

Witch Of Dorovernia

Witch Of Dorovernia
© Surazeus
2018 01 18

I see fallen angels in human skin
map unknown memories of their loss and gain
on fertile landscapes of indifferent world
to eat the sparkling fruit of sun and rain
that energizes motives of our minds
which conjures virtual model of the real.

I stand on the mountain of helpless pain
and shake my fist at the glorious sun,
demanding my right to justice and good,
but the wind does not even laugh at me
as the world continues to spin away
and I wander somewhere in silent woods.

I wept when my mother and father died,
killed by the men with sharp swords in their hands,
but after forty years of wandering lost
and helping villagers fight against kings
I sit alone under the apple tree
and realize that everyone becomes dirt.

How can I hide and heal the aching hurt
that bleeds angry words from my limping heart
when each new day, that the sun rises red,
I push forward through the confusing world
to find food to eat and shelter to wait
till the men with swords find my hiding spot.

I shudder in horror at painful death
each time I remember how laughing man
of death thrust sharp blades of arrogant hate
in hearts of people I love, and they cry
in terrible pain at shock as they die,
then vanish to dust that blows in the wind.

I keep their skulls lined on garden wall
to frighten thieves and slavers who appear
but they laugh and invade heaven I made
and clap chains on hands of people I love
while I hide shivering in shadows of fear
then weep lost in cold indifferent rain.

The Earth keeps on spinning around the sun
and bleak memories of their violent attacks
fade into the wind that blows through the trees
so I wander old and fragile as eggs
to village where children throw mud at me,
frightened by the trauma carved on my face.

Fifty years ago on warm summer night
I was crowned the last harvest fairy queen
and reigned in the ring of stones with sweet songs
till the men with swords invaded our lands
and took everyone away in hard chains
so now I am old as the silent moon.

Why are you frightened of me, I cry out
when they drag me through the village at dawn
and bind me to the pole from broken tree
then shout strange words I cannot understand
as they set me on fire with flames of fear
and the pain burns my mind into the sun.

Real World Of Things

Real World Of Things
© Surazeus
2018 01 17

The standard practice of any dying god
is wind the clock three times against the void
to tick-tock radiance from her open eyes
that see the spirit we just try to hide.

I see reflected in your smiling face
the face I left behind twelve years ago
when I escaped the haven where dead gods
sit chatting long in peaceful twilight glow.

I hide the code of immortality
in musical notations on the wall
so anyone who buys their liberty
will lose their soul to the ghost in the hall.

The more I grow into my unknown self
the more I redesign my secret name
so every memory I want to preserve
will bloom from seeds I planted in my brain.

If I replace every organic part
comprising this body my mother forged,
except my brain, with mechanical parts
I will become robotic Superman.

I will still be me inside silver shell,
mapping the journey I meant to engage,
while I record the tale of human life
that will vanish when our sweet sun explodes.

Of all the people living in this world,
whom I adore in photographs of ink,
I want to be nobody else but me
because I transformed into my God Self.

But who am I, I ponder while I stroll
the crowded boulevard on Christmas Eve
where thousands of people who have no names
buy each other empty boxes as gifts.

I mail my dreaming brain to Tennessee
where she grows hawk wings from dinosaur bones,
yet no one taught me how I can live free
so I carve signs of gods on shining stones.

I cast the Rune stones on windy plain
where sparkling rain streams down from the weird sun,
and in their arcane spells I read the truth
that nothing lives beyond the empty sky.

Inside the swirling atmosphere of souls
we swim in search for fertile mate to spawn,
and when our children leave our haven home
we play in our quaint garden by the pool.

Since everyone thinks I am the weird fool
who carves images of people on trees,
I walk into the hall where angels sing
and drink the mushroom wine from Holy Grail.

Though I was human when I was still young
once I was crowned as king, and given wand
of wisdom, I transformed from beam of light
into immortal God who rules the world.

I stand before the angels in white robes,
the Elohim who know the secret codes,
and explain, I and my Father are One
because he sired my soul from seed of God.

I left the haven walls of our small garden
and wandered waste land of immortal light
where goddess of love appeared to my eyes
and gave me book of prophecies to read.

Now I return to garden I escaped
as messenger of god that is not real
to proclaim the truth that no one can see
so we can dream the real world as it is.

The real world as it is, composed of atoms,
flashes in the rays of sunlight I dream,
so I imagine model of the world
that shimmers as hologram in my brain.

We all live in the same real world of things,
but our brains design from parts we perceive
small virtual model to reflect the whole
that helps us navigate weird maze of dreams.

Replicants That Mirror Me

Replicants That Mirror Me
© Surazeus
2018 01 17

So, even if I travel at light speed,
two million years of spinning time would pass
before I could arrive at the first star
in the nearest galaxy to our own
to meet anyone who might be alive.

I am lonely for all the conscious souls
who have been born on every world that spins
around one hundred thousand million stars
in all one hundred billion galaxies
that spiral in our boundless universe.

I want to know the name of every soul
who wakes from darkness of unconscious hope
and walks the shores of rivers on their worlds,
to walk beside them in the timeless glow
of afternoon, then eat ripe fruit and sing.

I want to feel the pleasures of their minds
as they gaze at the weird worlds that evolve
in their own spinning through the sparkling void
so I can sing the secrets they discover
in sweet harmonious tune of ecstasy.

We could kiss under the tall tree of fruit
and merge our bodies in the dance of love
so taut genetic coils of our two souls
could weave new soul from our two lonely codes
then we would live to taste the world again.

I stand alone on my own spinning rock
that spirals nowhere through the empty void
and gaze at vast infinity of hope
where every variation of my mind
stands on their world, wondering about me.

Ten billion replications of my soul
on ten billion planets spinning through space
in ten billion galaxies of desire
write ten billion copies of this one hymn
so we sing in choir of angelic love.

The faint vibrations of our ringing songs
ripple outward from the Black Whole of Light
to flash across the emptiness of sorrow
and weave our galaxies in tangled neurons
of one enormous universal brain.

So all the galaxies of flashing atoms
that twinkle in huge web of glowing eyes
compose the brain of God that we invent
to mirror our own faces in the void
so I feel less lonely in vast Unknown.

Now that I think they may exist somewhere,
the dreaming replicants that mirror me,
I see them all on planets lost in space
reflecting infinite number of selves
as we all sing one epic of the mind.

True Liberty Of Action

True Liberty Of Action
© Surazeus
2018 01 17

Though sunlight sparkles on new-fallen snow
which hides the ugly decay of our age
we sit behind the mirror of despair
and contemplate the rebirth of weird truth.

We know why power corrupts the honest heart
and how hungry greed gnaws at innocence
but no one told us tyrants could well rise
again from the ashes of victory.

We once united to defy with courage
hard facism that seeks to enslave the mind
so bodies would obey the strict command
when working in the factory of wealth.

Now our nation that fought cruel tyranny
is hijacked by the tyrant of blind greed
so we must fight again for liberty
to reassert freedom and justice for all.

Our platitudes of liberty for all
that guided our way through darkness of fear
fall burned out into cold indifferent mud,
leaving us to grope in gloom of the void.

How tightly we cling to this spinning world
that spirals nowhere through infinite space
while arrogant men declare themselves gods
anointed by divine right to rule our minds.

We write our flowing tale of history
to focus on those people who realized
spirit of god is our own consciousness,
then played grand role in theater of absurd.

Why must we always choose one mortal man
to channel immortal soul of the leader
who plays the role of god on judgment throne,
deciding who will live and die today?

Each man whose brain generates virtual world
as grand ontology that defines truth
enforces their will to recreate vision
that guides our actions in the game of life.

Tribes clash and merge into empires, that clash
and merge into large nation-states, that clash
and merge into strict religions, that clash
and merge into corporations of robots.

I wish that we could dispense politics
of rival factions that compete for power
by following the leader of their vision
and found united world on standard rules.

People should act according to good rules
written on their own hearts by wise Isaiah
rather than by authority of law
that threatens death to those who disobey.

True liberty of action, by my will
to power of construction with crafting hands,
applies when I do good because of love
and cooperate in production of goods.

The weakened king, clinging to throne of power,
decrees loud with divine authority,
"You shall have no other gods before me
for my vision presents the most true world."

The secure king, releasing throne of power,
exclaims soft with human authority,
"You are all gods with consciousness of love
for we share visions of one complex world."

The castles we build from sands of religion,
to bind again our actions to one purpose,
crumble at the indifferent wind of time
so we wander beach of hope, singing hymns.

I kneel and clutch at golden sands of time,
and wonder that each sparkling grain of light
composed the body of some living being
who sang to the same indifferent moon.

Come follow my mystic materialist view
that defines the whole swirling universe
as thing of substance and not-thing of void
so we survive careless forces of nature.

We walk on snow like Jesus walked on waves
and feel the sparkle of atoms beam rays
of eternal soul to pulse in our brains
where the Black Whole holographs dream of life.

I feel shimmer of immortal soul
that pulses in the neurons of our brains
so while we live we savor joy of life
and share harmonious hymns till we all die.

Orpheus And Ophelia

Orpheus And Ophelia
© Surazeus
2018 01 16

Sunlight gleams white through green fluttering leaves
and glitters on the blue pool among trees
where large pollen-frosted honey bees hover
in spirals over flowers blooming from moss.

The young boy with long gold hair on broad chest
reaches up to pluck ripe apple from light
that blinds his eyes with dazzling glow of color,
so he drops fruit that plops in the still pond.

Ripples shimmer silver sparkles of hunger
when he kneels to grasp fruit from shining liquid,
but pauses when he sees beautiful creature
resembling his mother with silver eyes.

Gazing enraptured at face of his love,
he reaches down to embrace the sweet stranger
but falls splashing into the silver pool,
and floats astonished in silent blue glow.

Sputtering water with thick moss on his head,
the young boy laughs and climbs back on lush shore,
"I fell in love with my own lovely face
and fell into the dark pool of despair."

"Dark pool of despair," someone echoes words
of his laughter, so he pauses enthralled
by ring of her voice, and calls out to shadow,
"Where are you hiding, and what is your name?"

"What is your name?" she echoes once again,
so he searches the shadows of his hope
and finds young girl with long black hair and eyes
black as moonlight shining on the still pool.

"Who are you?" he whispers as his hand
caresses her flushed cheek, and she echoes,
"Who are you?" as he kisses her rose lips,
and embraces her trembling in his arms.

Kissing her soft mouth with hungry delight,
he slides his hands down over curving hips,
grasps her bottom, and opens her legs wide,
then slides inside the mystery of her soul.

Sliding her hands through his long flowing hair,
she wraps her legs around his thrusting thighs,
and gasps with anguish of pleasure to feel
their bodies merging into flash of light.

The spirit of his life flows in her womb
and fertilizes the egg of her soul,
and they giggle flushed in sweet after-glow,
then kiss in the twilight with cricket song.

At dawn he wakes and reaches for her face
but she vanished in the flash of moonlight,
so he tunes his lyre made from tortoise shell
and strums gut strings that twang ache of his heart.

The young boy sings sweet melody of love
with weird enchanting tune of aching hope,
"Your eyes shine silver as the moon at night,
and your hair flows soft as the waterfall."

Her voice shrieks through the morning rays of light
so he runs gasping along river shore
in time to see the tall bearded man grasp
the young girl by the waist and kiss her mouth.

He pauses shocked to see her kiss him back
and open wide her legs to let him in,
and she cries out with pleasure of desire
just like she did when he made love to her.

When he rolls off she tries to run away
but he clutches her arms as she writhes quick,
and drags her to his shining chariot,
then snaps reins and races far to his cave.

The young boy ponders action he should take,
to forget her since she enjoyed his love,
or rescue her since she tried to escape,
so he follows the track of chariot wheels.

Approaching cave dug in the mountain cliff,
he pauses at the sight of three large dogs
that snarl and snap strong jaws, so he strums lyre
and sings with sweet heart-aching melody.

The three dogs fall asleep in warm sunlight,
so he creeps slowly down into the dark,
groping in the cold sunless underworld
till he arrives in the cavern of death.

He finds the bearded man sitting on throne
before large crowd of warriors cheering loud
as he presents the young girl to their eyes,
and proclaims, "She reigns as my Queen of Diamonds."

Stepping forward bold through the cheering crowd,
the young boy strums the sweet vibrating strings,
and sings enchanting spells while warriors dance
and drink sweet wine for hours while he sings tales.

The young girl sees him strumming strings of light
and they gaze at each other with desire
while he sings glorious songs to make them dance
and praises drinking so they all drink more.

Long after all the warriors fall asleep
the bearded king snoozes on throne of gold,
then the young boy and the young girl hold hands
and run together through dark cavern halls.

Just as they leap toward gleaming light of dawn
that shimmers into underworld of death
he feels her hand slip out of his at cry
of her fear, so he stops and turns around.

The bearded man with eyes as cold as death
clutches the young girl to his chest and growls,
"This fertile bride is queen of my dark realm,
so you run fast or I will stab your heart."

The young boy turns and runs into the sun
and stumbles to his grove of apple trees
where he kneels by the shimmering pool and weeps
while staring at his face reflected back.

Wandering forlorn in the wind-whirling woods,
the young boy strums ringing strings of his heart
and sings heart-aching melody of love
about the pretty girl he loved and lost.

Large crowd of girls, drinking bottles of wine,
dance around the boy singing on the stone,
leaping and singing in light of the moon,
then vanish at flash of dawn over hills.

While gazing at his face in silver pool,
the young boy laments, "I lost my sweet love,"
but someone echoes words of bitter loss,
so he searches shadows of desperate hope.

The young girl huddles by the apple tree,
and whispers, "I escaped his realm of death,
but my belly swells with fruit of his seed,
so you can drown me in pool of your tears."

The young boy glares to see her belly swell,
and snarls when bitter rage poisons his heart,
"The child that grows in your belly is mine
since I was first inside your secret heart."

The young boy stares up at the thin red moon
that shines through the apple trees before dusk,
"I will not raise child of some other man
so sacrifice the child to god of death."

The young boy turns his face away from hers
when she begins to weep from broken heart,
so he runs away and sits on large stone
where girls dance to his singing in moonlight.

Returning to the grove of apple trees,
the young boy kneels to wash his face with water
but just beneath the shimmer of his face
he sees the face of the young girl gaze blank.

Pale as snow her face shimmers in the pool
where she floats suspended in clear blue light,
both hands clutching flowers and fruit she picked
as her eyes stare blank at the empty sky.

Bearing her in his arms to bed of flowers,
the young boy weeps and kisses her cold lips,
then kisses her body down to her feet
where he sees that a snake had bit her heel.

"You were gathering flowers by the stream
and when you reached upward to pick ripe apples
the snake of sorrow, sent by grim death, bit
your heel so you fell and drowned in the pool."

Laying her back into the flowing river,
the young boy sings lament from broken heart
as she floats away in the sparkling waves,
still clutching flowers she picked from his heart.

Sitting alone by the pool in moonlight,
the young boy stares into his own clear eyes,
and sighs with sorrow to kiss her sweep lips,
so he leans down and kisses his reflection.

The dancing girls appear and call his name,
demanding that he play sweet melodies
so they can dance in the glow of moonlight,
but he shakes his head and throws lyre away.

Enraged at his rejection of their love,
the girls grab his arms and legs with strong hands,
demanding that he play enchanting tunes,
but he struggles to escape from their grip.

Shrieking in rage, the girls tear off his arms,
and, while others hold his body braced tight,
they twist his head and rip it off his neck,
then drink the blood that gushes from his soul.

They throw his head into the flowing stream,
which bobs on waves illuminated bright
by the moon gleaming through sad apple trees,
then devour his body while they howl wild.

Eyes staring at the twinkling stars, his head
floats beside the body of the young girl,
slipping into the crook of her left arm,
and they float together to the vast sea.