Our Illusion Of Romance

Our Illusion Of Romance
© Surazeus
2018 02 28

You are the flower I want to kiss at night
for I am the bee floating toward your light.
You are the ocean bed I want to fill
for I am the stream flowing from your hill.

The orange on the table, full of sweet juice,
shines like the sun rising over the sea.
The mist of the valley, like white dress lace,
reveals the beauty of your long thin face.

The ivy that grows in long curling strands
coils like your hair around your nervous hands.
We walk together under apple trees,
watching horses trotting in the cool breeze.

You are the fountain I protect with walls
as we lounge kissing by the waterfall.
I scratch our names together in the dust
that eats our bodies after fires of lust.

I know we both will die when we grow old
but now we hug to keep warm in the cold.
We savor the pleasures of life today
for tomorrow we will fall in the grave.

I know the way through the labyrinth of dreams
that leads to heaven along sparkling streams.
We cuddle together in the oak tree
and watch the white moon rise over the sea.

Not My Real Face

Not My Real Face
© Surazeus
2018 02 28

Sometimes when I walk down the city street,
when everyone is out getting their lunch
and stand in lines silently in the sun,
I like to crouch down and spread out my hands,
curving my fingers like claws of the wolf,
and bugging my eyes while I bare my teeth,
then growl, as if I were the scary monster
they like to pretend they are not afraid of,
who stalks them in dreams they always forget,
and laugh when they stare startled at my face,
because I want to be king of the world.

I cover my human face with the mask
that mimics the face people think is god,
but the face I wear is not my real face.

But nobody laughs so I drink a root beer,
while leaning against the library pillar
under the snarling gargoyle carved from stone,
and wonder why people always form groups,
and always choose someone to lead their group,
or someone decides they will lead the group
and kills everyone who stands in their way,
or they hire people to work for their group,
performing vital function in machine
of commerce to acquire wealth from our labor,
but they always like to play the group god.

I wear the mask of kings on public stage
but everyone treats me like the dumb fool,
since the face I wear is not my real face.

We no longer worship leaders of nations
as gods with supernatural powers for good
because every great god who ever ruled
died, though their people though they were immortal,
so now we make movies about superheroes
who perform feats like gods in ancient myths
while we walk about on the hard Earth,
making things with the hunger of our hands,
because we want to avoid crushing death
that destroys every living soul in time,
yet we aspire to be gods we invent.

I prance around upon the comic stage,
mocking the leader who thinks he is god,
though the face I wear is not my real face.

When I make weird face at the pretty girl
who looks like Barbie with long straight blond hair
and eyes clear blue as the infinite sky
she laughs and asks me my name, so we talk
about politics, religions, and movies,
and she asks if she can buy me some lunch
so I accept and we eat beef burritos
while sitting on the bench by the tall fountain
where the bronze statue of some general
stretches forth his hand on the horse of power,
then she kisses me slow, and walks away.

I take the old mask of god off my face
and dip it in fountain water to drink,
so the face I wear is not my real face.

Glorious God Of Death

Glorious God Of Death
© Surazeus
2018 02 28

When someone starts shooting bullets of hate
we duck down under our desks without books
and text our mothers and best friends our love
in case the silver bullets pierce our hearts.

Then from the bright rubescent star she flies,
the scorpion queen with flutes of sorcery,
who leads us from our high school under siege
to dance upon the wild Bohemian beach.

I cry to Betelgeuse my mystic word
in flight to groves whence lustrous rivers flash
and hide behind cathedral wall of fear
in jeweled gloom where purple lilacs bloom.

What deathless spark of love inside our hearts
inspires our journey to the Promised Land
when, waving banners of the bleeding cross,
we march against the blind merchants of death.

Instead of crosses, where the mute messiah
hangs crucified to save us all from guilt,
we wear assault rifles on silver chains
to worship the Glorious God of Death.

The actor prancing on the stage of fame,
who shot the tyrant in back of his head,
declares that he would run into the school
and face the killer with brave hands of faith.

Heart pounding at the howl of frightened wolves,
I run through labyrinth of bitter words
accusing me of faking my own death
in staged assault to make lawmakers act.

When faceless kings rule factories of death
the children, who break free from stifling fear,
follow Liberty waving flag of truth
to march in revolution of the mind.

From the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil
Ariel breaks free from silence of despair
and stands before the angry crowd at noon
to preach against the tyrant of the gun.

Wearing assault rifles on silver chains,
we file into the grand Church of the Gun,
singing hymns of our right to self-defense,
to worship the Glorious God of Death.

So when I rise from horror of my death
I face the angry boy who shoots the gun
and feel a thousand bullets blast my brain
for I am every child who bleeds to death.

Strewn high upon the fenced-in White House lawn
the victims of gun violence howl in rage,
ten million zombies risen from the dead,
who sing, we are the champions of the world.

I carve the name of every person killed
on black marble memorial to the dead
to celebrate our endless civil war
with blood staining hands of America.

I see their faces on the swelling clouds,
each man and woman blasted by the bullet
that splatters their blood on the thirsty Earth
so flowers blossom from forgotten names.

Come join us all in the Church of the Gun
and kneel before the Assault Rifle God,
who demands murdered sacrifice each day,
to worship the Glorious God of Death.

We hide in the library among books,
we hide in our classrooms behind locked doors,
and we hide in thoughts and prayers you all send,
but still he shoots everyone in the head.

When the wizard first invented gunpowder,
mixing sulfur, saltpeter, and charcoal,
he molded hollow tube from iron metal
and fired the silver bullet of desire.

The wizard held the iron tube in his hand
and faced the tyrant with the flashing sword
to fire the bullet with the flash of flame
that blasted off his head to free the world.

For eight hundred years angry men with guns
have blasted each other in violent wars
that wash our spinning world in seas of blood
over who will play God of our whole world.

The stars and stripes dripping innocent blood
waves proudly over the Church of the Gun
where preachers lead in solemn thoughts and prayers
to worship the Glorious God of Death.

Broken Wings Of Ariel

Broken Wings Of Ariel
© Surazeus
2018 02 27

When I escape from the prison of water
to dance on the broken rock of salvation
I become the laughter of the tree rings
embodied in the naked beams of light.

Beyond the stone wall of my false protection
I race with the wind to find allegations
that everything I say with my snake tongue
traps your spirit behind mask of your face.

Blind from the blasting bombs of domination,
the wizard in the uniform of soldiers
gives me the holy grail of his lost quest,
the helmet of the dead filled with true water.

So I drink the wandering souls of the damned
to taste the memories of war they suppress
that transforms the person I thought I was
into fierce angel who wields sword of flames.

I stand guard at the pearl-hard gates of heaven
to analyze the face of each intruder
and judge worthiness of their character
if they would harmonize with rites of death.

From wild water that gushes down vast mountains
I build the river boat of exploration
to sail from the island of dancing giants
and become the trees of strange continents.

Nobody rises from the grave of saviors
yet wailing ghosts with television faces
try to crown me the emperor of angels
whose horrible faces appear in dreams.

I see my soul in every movie playing
king of fools on the marble stage of laughter
while the clown who disturbs the universe
floats full fathom five on wings of black fire.

Buzzing atoms of the spell-chanting world
shimmer in the coral bones of my body
forming the lattice structure of vast cities
to watch you with pearl eyes of cameras.

When naked bells knell in cathedral coffins
sea-nymphs mold new body for my lost soul
suffering sea-change from robot to god-human
disguised as the proud strutting chanticleer.

So fast over yellow sands of lost time
we chase wild waves washing meadows of apples
to prance with the horse of the silver moon
who knows how I was assembled from water.

I roar with the voice of the regal lion
while keeping watch in the Magdalene tower
for I am Alfonso, the sixth of his name,
reborn from the shadow of Ariel.

When I kneel in the castle built from skulls
of warriors and wizards I killed in battle
the wily witch of Aquitaine anoints me,
pouring water of their tears on my face.

When I gaze in the water of the Grail
I see the faces of all my ancestors
who admonish me of my rights and duties
to organize my castle just like heaven.

One tear falling like meteor of salvation
plinks in the water of the Holy Grail,
bursting like the first big bang of creation
and flaring forth to spiral pulsing galaxies.

Phoebus wakes in bright castle of the sun
and walks whistling on meadows of Arcadia
where he makes love with Laurel the tree nymph,
beams of light penetrating womb of water.

Small angel of desire flies on quick wings,
sperm of potential aiming for the sun,
transforming egg of fire into green planet
where raindrops spring upward into tall trees.

Sweet Laurel in the branches of her tree
bears my spirit in boy body I dream,
teaching me how to sing the secret name
that pulses glowing in heart of each thing.

Throwing me into empty sky of faith,
my mother gives me the name of the water
that reflects the strange face of my true soul
so I run with the laughter of bright rivers.

I leap high off the mountain of ambition
and soar into the water of the world
to swim to the vent where my genes were coiled
then rise up from the ocean as sun god.

When I escape from the haven of water
to build my church from the rock of damnation
I become the sorrow of honey flowers
embodied in the pollen of fertility.

Now I walk the city streets among you all,
reciting the songs of flashing electrons
that mirror the world in the words we speak,
hiding from death the broken wings of Ariel.

Dream Of Flashing Stars

Dream Of Flashing Stars
© Surazeus
2018 02 27

Through quick spiraling coil of ecstasy
I spring from bottomless abyss of death
to flash awake in chemical expression
this finite consciousness of mortal hope.

The universe is formed of molecules
that interact through chemical congress
in constant mechanical flow of change
that causes breath of spirit to expand.

No conscious mind controls the universe,
yet humming energy of life vibrates
in clicking gears that turn bright molecules
to spin their atoms in quick flashing wheels.

Though all mineral and organic beings
operate as machines of chemical change
the vibrant energy of pulsing atoms
congeal through joy of constructive desire.

When pulsing atoms conglomerate shapes
through marriage of electrons linking chains
to weave vast networks of neurons in brains
then we wake from the dream of flashing stars.

Though some perceive our world of clinking atoms
to be no more than vast mindless machine
that operates from function of blind force,
I celebrate this pulse as spiritual.

The universe vibrates with pulsing atoms
so our brain that perceives its changing form
generates virtual model based on perceptions
to mirror real world in words we express.

We design ontology of strict laws
expressing functions of forms we perceive
to predict process with accurate spell
that calculates what actions will occur.

The pulsing energy of atoms weaves
organic bodies that sustain our brains
which perceive ecstasy of pain and pleasure
to analyze construction or destruction.

When spiraling molecules puzzle forms
through marriage of electrons weaving coils
to vibrate taut webs of neurons in brains
then we sing from the dream of flashing stars.

The universe is vast structure of atoms
that integrate in function of construction
or disintegrate in function of destruction
through constant process of growth or decay.

When our brains perceive process of construction
we feel sweet pleasure at the joy of life
so whatever we do that creates structure
we celebrate as pleasure to seek more.

When our brains perceive process of destruction
we feel sour pain at the horror of death 
so whatever we do that destroys structure
we vilify as pain to avoid more.

We know the world is formed of changing shapes
so we expect to see balance of the Force
between spins of construction and destruction
as warm light of life and cold dark of death.

When glowing cells congeal organic bodies
through marriage of electrons gluing genes
to script visions beaming neurons in brains
then we love from the dream of flashing stars.

Force of energy in the universe
pulses flash of spirit in spinning matter
so electrons of atoms connect structures
that glow in network of our conscious brains.

We organic creatures with dreaming brains
embody our idea of divine God
for we see the functions of chemicals
in process of construction and destruction.

Because we understand functions of atoms
we control our actions to make or break,
so we live well till we dissolve at death
and savor joy with song of ecstasy.

On wild spiraling wings of ecstasy
I spring from cavern of my hoping dreams
and climb high mountain to stand on its peak
and gaze astonished at the spinning world.

When spiraling strands bind genetic souls
through marriage of electrons sparking spirit
to generate consciousness of our brains
then we transcend the dream of flashing stars.

Mute Prophet Of God

Mute Prophet Of God
© Surazeus
2018 02 26

The old man who sits under the oak tree
on the library lawn each afternoon
mumbles while scratching letters in the dirt.
"The best proof that I am Prophet of God
is that nobody listens to my poems."
He looks up when the raven caws his name.

The cars streaming by on the busy road
vanish in streaks of light that flash his mind.
"Cars are the time machines that we drive fast
since we can drive sixty miles in one hour
that would take us twenty-four hours to walk."
The old woman smiles and hands him a star.

Eating the apple she put in his hand,
the old man watches children climb oak trees.
"The entire spinning globe of our huge world
consists of small atoms that pulse with light
and interact through chemical congress
that operates the strict process of time.
We cannot travel back in flow of time
because we would have to force every atom
that composes this giant spinning sphere
to reverse their course of chemical change."
The clock tower on the college campus tolls.

The old man drifts on the glowing sun beams,
sailing the river boat he carved from oak.
"Every civilization of wise mankind
flourished on the shore at the mouth of rivers
because local lands are accessed by streams
and distant lands are reached on ocean tides.
Every great civilization expands
from the egg of their city on the shore
where girls and boys make love among fruit trees."
The old man stares at the broken oak stick.

The old man watches history play on grass,
how one man always plays the role of God
to guide the progress of society.
"When I was sixteen years old in high school
I thought God called me to be his true prophet,
but then I realized clear that all the atoms
of the universe pulse with energy
to form this world nourishing souls that think.
Our brains alone have divine consciousness,
so I am the prophet of the Ungod
who dreams the universe inside my brain."
The little girl gives him a glass of water.

The old man walks into the quiet woods
and lies beside tangled blackberry vines
while everyone else watches television.
"We crawled from the ocean in river streams
and evolved frogs to mice in sparkling pools,
then became monkeys when we climbed in trees.
We learned to grasp sticks and stones with our hands
after swinging through canopies of trees.
The monkeys without tails lived in shore caves,
learning to walk upright in ocean waves.
We learned to talk, signing objects with sounds,
after we ate the psychedelic mushrooms.
Every moment in the beauty of life
and meme of knowledge our ancestors learned
flashes stored in the neurons of our brains.
I sing like Orpheus in flashing rains."
The old man stares mute at the photograph
of his wife and children killed by the gunman
who stormed their school with an assault rifle.

The old man freezes to death in the night,
and Achillea Yarrow blooms from his brain.

Liberty To Live

Liberty To Live
© Surazeus
2018 02 26

The greatest story that enchants our minds
over six thousand years of history
with basic dynamic of social conflict
involves three generations of strong men
seeking to control nature and society.

The young man with magic ability,
aided by the wide old man who guards truth,
battles and defeats the cruel greedy tyrant,
performing noble deeds as selfless savior
who frees people to follow their own dreams.

Osiris helps Horus defeat Set,
Zurvan helps Mithra defeat Ahriman,
Zeus helps Apollo defeat Kronos,
Jupiter helps Phoebus defeat Saturnus,
Jehovah helps Jesus defeat Satan,
Meroveus helps Clovis defeat Syagrius,
Godin helps Balder defeat Loki,
Merlin helps Arthur defeat Vortigern,
Tuck helps Robin defeat Nottingham,
Gandalf helps Frodo defeat Sauron,
Obiwan helps Luke defeat Darth Vader,
Morpheus helps Neo defeat Agent Smith,
Dumbledore helps Harry defeat Voldemort,
and Solarian helps Surazeus defeat Alogias.

This myth of the young fighting the powerful
that rules the dreams of our imagination
guides dramatic actions of politics,
presenting script for election campaigns
where the young rebel with vision of justice,
aided by the teachings of their wise elders,
fights boldly against the tyrant of greed
to give the people who struggle to live
liberty to pursue dreams of happiness.

Listen to the wise advice of your elders
who help you fight for liberty to live
against the tyrant who tries to control
your secret dreams with propaganda lies
by asserting truth we can verify
so we can create rather than destroy
through moral actions of our crafting hands.

Our River That Sings

Our River That Sings
© Surazeus
2018 02 26

The teenage girls run screaming in the store
but vision vanishes in morning haze
so I pause at the strange numberless door
going nowhere in the meaningless maze.

When the hot gleaming sun dries out my pond
I crawl toward blur of green and flash of blue
over stinking muck to the frilly frond
where I sniff for water as secret clue.

The scent of water lures me to clean pool
where I slip into deep shimmering glow
so I float safe till I again feel cool
then search recesses where water plants grow.

I wake from reverie of ancient dreams
in college library, reading text book
about creatures that dwell in lakes and streams,
and recall hiding in the secret nook.

Young woman in long skirt with flowing hair
sits near and looks at me with sea-blue eyes,
so my heart pounds, but I try not to stare,
while longing to kiss her under spring skies.

She smiles at me so I sit by her side
and we share fun stories about our lives,
then walk to my car and go for a ride,
talking of cuisine and science archives.

We lie together on the river shore,
making love among flowers to bird song,
then walk holding hands in the new-home door
to teach our children about right and wrong.

I see visions in the air while she talks
that sparkle when I gaze in her clear eyes,
and we hold hands on slow afternoon walks
by our river that sings to swirling skies.

Window Of All Souls

Window Of All Souls
© Surazeus
2018 02 25

After everyone he loves dies of silence
he breaks all the windows of every house,
then walks away from the city of lies
and wanders only where no paved roads go.

Stopping at the pond in the silent woods,
he gazes at mirror of infinity
and sees every person who ever lived
in its flashing shadows except himself.

He closes his eyes and the universe
stays the same except for one little thing
that buzzes in every nerve of his body
never dreamed by the neurons of his brain.

Walking back to the busy city streets,
he stops for one hour before every window
in every office and in every house
to see what no one else can ever see.

Because now he can see in flashing shadow
of each window the complete life events
of every person who passed by its glass,
and dreams their whole life in blink of an eye.

Though all the people he once loved are dead
he now loves everyone else still alive,
and loves them even though he does not know
their true names or what they dream in their hearts.

Though most people born in this sea of atoms
will experience the same basic events,
they do so in the private shock of life
as if no one else could know how they feel.

He draws their shadows on window of time
with ink that drips red from his finger tips
but, after drawing face of every soul,
he finds the window smeared with dreamless words.

He tries to show other people he meets
what he sees in the window of all souls,
but they can only see their own reflection
while he can see every one but his own.

He walks to the cave by the roaring sea
where the blind wizard who knows everything
teaches him how to forge windows from sand
that will reflect the life of every soul.

Twelfth Of September

Twelfth Of September
© Surazeus
2018 02 25

After walking home from elementary school,
where I wrote one-line poems from list of words,
I take notebook and pencil from my room
to sit at the park bench in our back yard
and write white clouds shimmer in curving sky,
which I imagine is round like my eye.

We call the warm land Texas where I live,
which means friends and allies in the language
of the Caddo tribe who came from the cave
they called Chahkanina, the place of crying,
and I see horses gallop in the sky,
who were born from the apple of my eye.

Looking through row of six thin apple trees,
I see our horses grazing in the field
surrounded by barbed wire along the road
where I ride my bike Sunday afternoons,
and I feel time turning across the sky,
photographed by the blinking of my eye.

Just at that moment, far across the land,
Robert Lowell, my cousin from Anne Bradstreet,
dies from a heart attack in the black cab
after flying from England home to Manhattan,
and his vatic soul spreads across the sky
in Apollo-shaped cloud outside my eye.

With husband and father young Anne Bradstreet,
still dreaming of Castile and Aquitaine,
sailed from England to Massachusetts shore
where she sang poems for our lost Fairie Queen,
and she saw God as sunlight in the sky
who creates the world through our dreaming eye.

Twelve days away from my thirteenth birthday,
I think about Jesus, the king of fools,
who watches me from bright palace of light,
woven from crystal beams on high sun mountain,
who will descend in star ship from the sky
to take me to paradise in my eye.

Wrapping myself in my long green wool cloak,
I declare to my dog, who wags her tail,
that I am the elf bard Solarian
who invented Dream Runes I made from sticks,
and I will hand-glide in the clear blue sky
to see the world like toys inside my eye.

Since I was baptized in the Adventist church,
one year after my singing grandpa died,
by the pastor who was a young street punk
in Brooklyn, I think about gift of heaven,
how I will rise from death into the sky
and see Jesus on his throne with my eye.

The old gray-haired lady in Sabbath School
explains that each person who goes to heaven
will be given their own planet in space
where we will live for all eternity,
so I walk home, gazing at the vast sky
and feel my planet spinning in my eye.

The gray cat Whiskers, with short crooked tail,
jumps on the table and stands on my book,
so I scratch his head and nuzzle his nose,
and invent new words for language of elves
that describe the sun, the Earth, and the sky,
and everything I perceive with my eye.

I name my planet as I map its lands
Ranika for the father of all tribes,
named Ranian as Reynard the wily fox,
and I am his grandson Solarian
who flies silver star ship across the sky,
dreaming history in my omniscient eye.

Since Jesus died two thousand years ago
his descendants ruled the kingdoms of Europe,
but we sail to land of America
to escape tyrants in castles and churches,
for Jesus will not descend from the sky
and I dream the world as song in my eye.

We are the prophets who write riddling spells,
ten thousand poets sea to shining sea
who chant subjective visions on the stage
and glow with light of truth in the mute void
till we lie down and die under vast sky
and our souls vanish from our dreamless eye.

These are my thoughts never written in my diary
on the Twelfth of September in Seventy-Seven,
though I wrote a thousand pages of words
to record observations of my mind
because those clouds are still there in the sky
and I still dream the world inside my eye.

Fragilize Our Unself

Fragilize Our Unself
© Surazeus
2018 02 25

The butterfly who is born from your eye
erases the name of the secret sky.
The mask of the self every human wears
we shape from wet clay of the dreaming Earth
so every creature who ever lived wakes
on flapping wings of our consuming brains.

The butterfly still on the window sill
shapes bomb clouds that rise over the crossed hill.
The boy in the bare room of the school house
stares inward at the glass clock with no hands,
ready to write strange truth on blank chalkboards
erased by the wind that plays on sea shores.

The butterfly that carves runes on our eyes
names the Unself that it would fragilize.
We spiral down double helix of self,
containing multitudes of long-dead souls
whose ghosts still walk streets of bomb-blasted towns
to syntax vast scale of angst-freighted songs.

The butterfly that designs hurricanes
creates human beings from chemical rains.
The teacher aims her pistol at the door,
heart pounding to calculate bullet curves,
while children duck and cover under desks
when the tyrant shoots missiles at the world.

The butterfly who weaves movies from dreams
teleports angels on transcendent beams.
The exile from Eden missing his hands
tries to teach stones to dream roses of faith
so Death smiles while strumming her mandolin
that builds glass cities from airy moon beams.

The butterfly who ballets on world stage
traps wise King Kong in blind religious cage.
While waiting for their Messiah to return
and transform messy Earth to paradise
they miss their prophet in the homeless man
who mutters proverbs by library doors.

The butterfly who rules the world as king
taxes everyone who wears angel wing.
Though our ancestral ghosts dream in our heads
we weave their memories in real face we wear
or twist them in clowns to make people laugh
who ignore harsh threat of nuclear war.

The butterfly who transforms from the newt
becomes Kwan Yin who plays enchanting flute.
We drive cars alone on crowded highways
and talk to each other through glowing phones,
each soul wandering mute in vast labyrinth
while Hades sees all from glass pyramid.

The butterfly who spells my name on air
invades the haven of my secret lair.
We sit together in the cafe space
and talk about the clown in the White House
while apple trees crack the cement veneer
when forests swallow our cities of glass.

The butterfly who enters the church hall
writes prophecies of fire on the clean wall.
She sits in the center of city zones,
dreaming the evolution of all time,
while we chase rainbows of glory and fame
to feast well before we dissolve to dust.

The butterfly who knows why we must cry
generates virtual world in every eye.
Just as I think I know the complete truth
the universe programs new matrix code
so every atom of our planet beats
through vibrant music pulsing in our blood.

The butterfly of your eye dreams your name
so we eat despair to play the love game.
We wake each day alive on spinning Earth
and sing our sorrows at the void of Death
to light our way through labyrinth of dreams
and gather singing on the hill of trees.

Next Soul Stage

Next Soul Stage
© Surazeus
2018 02 24

Warm sunlight through swelling trees gleams so bright
it fills my body with pure cosmic light
where I am sitting by the old clock tower
to study the secret life of the flower.

I slowly turn pages in the large book
to read extensive treatises that look
like swarms of tiny ants on dusty mounds
which describe sex in words with mystic sounds.

Three honey bees float spirals on the breeze
around my face, discussing with the trees
those crazy humans and their tendency
to fight to control natural potency.

All real objects of the world are composed
of atoms pulsing with the soul transposed
in flowing bodies we cannot control
that transform in harmony with the whole.

Humans cannot control the elements
regardless of past divine testaments
so we study to learn how nature plays
and surf the flow of its atomic waves.

Like the Arcadian shepherd on lush hill
I sit under World Tree with writing quill
on university campus to write
epic about questers studying the light.

This haven in the grid of city streets
where the curious recline on marble seats
provides the quiet atmosphere of peace
so students learn wisdom of ancient Greece.

This fortress of truth where knowledge may grow
is now besieged by men who strike hard blow
of hatred and fear to control the land
that rewards with false wealth the grasping hand.

We man the walls with pens like fighting spears
and defend freedom of academic spheres
to study nature of the universe
and ensure knowledge of truth stays diverse.

Though we manipulate atomic course
to wield as weapon its soul-blasting force
we must control our blind animal rage
so mankind evolves to the next soul stage.

Over ten thousand years of history
the most aggressive men fight for liberty
to reign as kings and sire strong warrior sons
who assault women and wave angry guns.

Now that we humans dominate the Earth
by assigning every thing fiscal worth
we strive to evolve into super gods
and race the galaxy on star hot rods.

We compete in Olympic sports events
to overcome all base impediments,
and ascend on angelic wings of power
beyond walls of the academic bower.

From shepherd herding sheep on quiet hills
and farmers grinding wheat in clanking mills,
men join gangs to follow the prophet king
who tries to rule the world with magic ring.

My ancestors built ships that sailed the seas
and colonized the world like honey bees,
so I map history on the virtual globe
and send from Earth the far-voyaging probe.

With Percy Shelley holding my right hand
and Emily Dickinson my left hand
we explore the labyrinth of surreal dreams
to understand the secret of the streams.

We find Anne Bradstreet on the cavern throne,
replacing Hades as Queen of the Bone,
so I strum the harp Orpheus gave me
while Ishtar teaches me how to live free.

She leads me to the land of Onatah
where I play the clown with the tragic flaw
to prophesy the Coming of the Queen
who rules the Age of the Thinking Machine.

Beyond the pastoral tale of paradise
demolished by the satire mocking vice
I play grand hero in the epic song
who becomes Jesus disguised as King Kong.

The wise prophet who leads his tribe to heaven
falls from his tragic flaw as social lesson,
so we employ our harnessed human rage
when mankind evolves to the next soul stage.

When the world is burning with wars of hate,
I go watch Maia Shibutani skate,
sweet angel gliding on the ice of time
who flashes eyes of love with graceful rhyme.

Beneath the Tree of Life in glowing light
I eat the Apple of Wisdom and Right
that fills me with the spirit of the stars
so I sing the harmony of the cars.

Celestial Spies

Celestial Spies
© Surazeus
2018 02 23

The weird god-shaped cloud in the silver sky
who sees me everywhere wants to know why
I cannot make dead trees grow angel wings,
but I ignore how deep his comment stings
while carving curses and blessings in sand
that prove I am the wizard of the land.

The girl who rides home on the yellow bus,
amused at how her mother makes a fuss
about her future illustrious career,
wears the boy-mask when the love ghost glows near
because wisdom laughs hidden in the code
that assigns names of the dead to each road.

When the bus of lost souls is running late
on spindly giraffe legs to the pearly gate,
where angels search in vain for broken harps,
I map the way home on top-secret charts,
but wander nameless in the wilderness
to play the wizard of true happiness.

If I move sideways just right in the beams
of sunlight slanting through the church of dreams
to calculate the curve of perfect souls,
who know the arcane nature of black wholes,
I might unveil the ancient tune of light
that will crystallize structure of Soul Sight.

Who would remember that moment of truth
when the priest disguised as the physics sleuth
envisioned from how the hot water boils
pressure will pump the piston on tight coils
when heat of expanding air pops the lid,
so now we drive cars on vast highway grid.

Each sacred moment of epiphany
in whole progress of human history
the archivist with morning-silver eyes
compiles in books stored in the ancient archives
to preserve the moment each human brain
discovers the secret of falling rain.

Expanding air, heated by flames of light,
pushes against objects with forceful might,
since every atom in the universe
pulses with energy that will coerce
other atoms to move in shining waves
that sing wisdom to us huddled in caves.

When we speak the names of people long dead
this conjures apparitions in our head
so though they do not exist in real form
they seem to wrestle with gods in the storm,
thus people worship idol of the air
in the ghost of Jesus who is nowhere.

We beam the visions of our brains in words
that photograph our souls in eyes of birds
who lead us through the labyrinth of dreams
to apple trees on shores of gushing streams
where we first realize that we are real
and the clever thief wants to make a deal.

I sit among the bare trees glowing gold
and wonder the human race is so old
since we first crawled along bright river streams
and rose wet to eat fruit in morning beams
then raced with horses to explore the Earth
and assign every thing its fiscal worth.

I learned to conjure spells of worthless truth
banging guitar with melodies uncouth
while singing riddles on the city street
to people going somewhere on quick feet
by chasing rainbows for rich pot of coins
since we reincarnate through eager loins.

I stare into the abyss of my mind
and laugh at the secrets I always find,
how everything is formed from pulsing atoms
evolving from plants into divine phantoms
who think we are gods in human disguise
because maybe we are celestial spies.

The secrets we encode in freakish dreams
we reveal when we organize sports teams
to compete against gods to rule this globe
by measuring time with the temporal lobe
which generates small virtual world of things
our brains design when our First Mother sings.

I wear the mask of Hamlet on the stage
where I express in weird riddles my rage
against the machine of the tyrant god
who sits on the throne with the iron rod
he wields to rule us for two thousand years
by preaching the hell fire of numbing fears.

The weird god-shaped cloud in the silver sky
who dreams the changing world through my blind eye
makes priests and preachers dance on puppet strings
while giving fools like me strong angel wings
so I write new bible no one will read
that praises scientists who study need.

Apollo snatches my heart from my breast
then sends me to Earth on strange futile quest
to discover where all young mothers go
by transforming my heart into White Crow,
but still I wander singing in the skies
because we really are celestial spies.

Random Anomaly Of Life

Random Anomaly Of Life
© Surazeus
2018 02 22

Like every other conscious spirit born
in all the history of our spinning world
I am but random anomaly of life
spawned by the blinding lust of hungry hope.

I cannot thank some god for my existence
for if God were loving and powerful
they would have created life forms that glow
with immortal soul of nourishing light.

Instead we must kill and eat other creatures
to sustain the chemical interactions
that generate the consciousness of self
which animates our bodies from our brains.

The chance that I exist this conscious hour
in this special composition of genes
of all possible combinations for souls
amazes me with infinite delight.

How strange that I am me alone this hour,
one brain out of seven billion awake,
as if some universal soul of love
vibrates from atoms woven in my brain.

Once prophets and kings remembered as God
woke with enlightened consciousness of self
and taught their followers how to enhance
preceptive self-awareness of our souls.

Now we need no prophets with followers
for every person is poet of their soul,
designing the mask of their conscious self
to play their role in equal justice for all.

So come with me and be my special love
so we can generate new combination
of coiling genes in child whose consciousness
will glow bright after ours are snuffed by death.

King Of Poets

King Of Poets
© Surazeus
2018 02 22

He may play king of poets from the plat
on the pyramid of Poetry Business,
but I sing wicked poetry from the peak
on the mountain where Muses inspire me.

He prances proud on the stage of attention,
reading his white-noise verse with Poet Voice,
while I dance across the abyss of death,
chanting riddles with Voice of Prophecy.

He wins laurels in acclaim from the priests
who parade in halls of official rules,
while I rouse the crowd to chant mocking verse
who whirl before magic mountain of truth.

He wears the mask of the angst-ridden poet,
imitating the style of long-dead maudits,
while I rip my face off the mask of horror
to expose the angst we try to conceal.

I see the woman on the mountain peak
who embodies the spirit of the world
and breaks me apart in ten million words
so I assemble the puzzle of truth.

He enslaves the Muse and demands great fame
to attain high role of authority
while I free the Muse and sing arcane spells
to avoid fake roles of authority.

He steals the masks of shamans to play poet,
reciting words in clouds of choking smoke,
while I mold shamanic mask from my face,
chanting spells that conjure visions of truth.

He may play king of poets on the stage
bu he falls mute when you pull off his mask,
while I chant ancient spells far from the stage,
writing new scripture on ten thousand masks.

He looks back at me from mirror of eyes,
reflecting arrogant pride we all hide,
while I see myself in his phony face,
wearing the mask of invisible hope.

I am the king of poets which is power
to fertilize all brains with seeds of vision
for I am crucified on the world tree
where I see runes shining in the dream well.

Shoot Me With Your Gun

Shoot Me With Your Gun
© Surazeus
2018 02 22

So are you going to shoot me with your gun
because you are blinded by greed and hate?
I am the shadow of the laughing sun
who calculates how best to change my fate.

I go out to the park to have some fun,
exploring how our world of dreams is made.
But why are you threatening me with your gun,
howling at the priest who never prayed?

When are you going to shoot me with your gun
that bulges from the forehead of your fear?
I am the shadow of the weeping sun
prophesied to trick you by the blind seer.

Since you are now threatening me with your gun
I will wave my arms and shout at the sky.
You can never own the rain or the sun
though you perceive them with your dreaming eye.

Though you are going to shoot me with your gun
you cannot kill freedom everyone shares.
I will stand up to you and never run
since your supporters send me thoughts and prayers.

I wait for you to shoot me with your gun
while teaching children how to live in peace.
Do you feel better now that you are done
killing children to give your rage release?

When you threaten me with your angry gun
I see the weakness of your crippled soul.
I am the shadow of the honest sun
revealing fear that pulls you in its hole.

Look at the magic wand cold in your hand
before you shoot me with your fearful gun.
Our ancestors killed natives for their land,
committing genocide in the blind sun.

Outside the walls of heaven we marched on
to slaughter millions in the name of Christ.
We fill bloodied lands with innocent spawn
who feel rage to kill from ancient zeitgeist.

So are you going to shoot me with your gun
to prove you are the man that you are not?
I am the shadow of the careless sun
that destroys your fake pride so you will rot.

Immortal Soul I Am

Immortal Soul I Am
© Surazeus
2018 02 22

I am a billion-year-old animal,
transforming through ten thousand generations
as I evolve zygote to man to god
on my quest to attain eternal life.

Each new body I generate from genes
survives from twenty to one hundred years
till I can copulate with fertile mate
to create new body before we die.

Through every generation of these bodies,
that our genes manage to reincarnate,
immortal soul of growing consciousness
expands perceptive programs of our brains.

Each brain that manages to avoid death
just long enough to generate new body
passes on every lesson that it learns
to program memories in each new-born brain.

This complete sense of consciousness I am
conjures virtual world from all memories
of every ancestor in my genes
so they all wake to become single me.

Though I am me, awake in this brain now,
my brain is programmed with their memories
so all their experiences of survival
glow as one unified soul that I am.

Though the soul from each individual brain
of each ancestor vanished long ago
when they died, they all live reborn in me,
so I am immortal soul of them all.

Immortal soul I am the complete whole
of every person dreaming in my genes
so all their memories generate glow
from my perceptive consciousness of self.

Each moment of the sunlit day I dream
strange scenarios of action and reaction
that surface from the sea of memories,
providing actions for me to perform.

Though I am billion-year-old animal
I have transformed in consciousness enough
to analyze the process of my actions
and correct my course to ensure creation.

Master Code Of Fate

Master Code Of Fate
© Surazeus
2018 02 22

Another day flashes across the sky
and all the children killed by bullets dance
mute in the shadow of the laughing eye
whose hunger zombies us in mindless trance.

My mother molds me from the mud of time
and teaches me to swing through tangled trees
while chanting what I see in haunting rhyme
to capture spirit of the divine breeze.

My father places in my grasping hand
the stone that stuns the predator of death
and stick that strikes the light with strict command
while leaping on the billows of each breath.

Since breathing spirits crawled from sparkling sea
the Earth has spun five hundred million years
so we design the art of living free
asserting love to conquer crippling fears.

While we evolve to master code of fate
to learn the process of cause and effect
we nullify the blind despair of hate
through the magic spell of honest respect.

When monsters try to eat our hungry souls
we build stone walls with bleeding hands of faith
in strong safe haven where we plan new goals
to protect our children from the cruel wraith.

We man the tower to keep watch day and night,
protecting heaven where our families play,
and wield sharp weapons in the brutal fight
to preserve values of our tribal way.

Ten thousand years we build strong forts from stone
inside surrounding walls of paradise
to fight invaders from the judgment throne
with blessing won from noble sacrifice.

Singing Bones

Singing Bones
© Surazeus
2018 02 21

I hold the bones of children killed by guns
in my anguished hands, but I cannot piece
their puzzling bodies together again,
yet I will carve love into their frail shapes
so their singing bones can express strange sorrows
in haunting melodies of their mute loss.

This bone came from the arm of the young girl
who attended the high school in that state
where birds inaugurate the truth of love
in flocks across the sky when she wields brush
to paint landscapes of our beautiful world,
but now her blood paints sorrow on the Earth.

This bone came from the leg of the young boy
who attended the college in that state
where horses race with the wind over mountains
when he kicks the soccer ball into the goal
and his family cheers to celebrate life
but now his blood soaks the grass of the field.

Alas, poor Angela, I knew her well,
I muse as I gaze in the vacant eyes
of her skull that smiles forever at me,
laughing at the vanity of desires
when we work hard to fulfill all our dreams
till the angry boy shoots us with his rage.

The justice bone connects to the heart bone,
and the love bone connects to the truth bone,
and the sorrow bone we carve into flute
with holes that whistle our aching despair,
so I play haunting melody of horror
when the angry boy kills beautiful people.

I will build grand memorial to their names
with the bullet-shattered bones of their bodies
in hollow cathedral ribbed with their souls
illuminated by blood-red rose window
showing Our Lady of Sorrow who weeps
when the angry boy kills all our best friends.

The merchant of death in gray business suit,
who sells guns and bullets to angry boys,
walks over the mossy graves of our children,
killed by angry boys, and clutches his hands,
attempting in vain to wash out the blood
that spurts from their bodies to drown the world.

I need my gun to protect my family
from thieves who steal from my hard-working hands,
says man in the red cap who falls asleep
on his couch, then his five-year-old son grabs
cool gun and shoots his sister in the head,
so I add her bones to the Church of Death.

Students in every school across the land
walk out of class and gather on the lawn
outside the hall of stone where laws are made
and cry out for assault guns to be banned
but the lawmakers, pockets stuffed with cash
from the gunmakers, laugh at singing bones.

When the gunmakers, hungry for more profit,
melt down our tall Statue of Liberty
and manufacture ten thousand more guns,
we all build new Statue of Liberty
from the bones of our children killed by guns,
and we gather to be the singing bones.

I hold the bones of children killed by guns
in my crafting hands, and make from their deaths
temple of wisdom to preserve their names
for at death our bodies return to dust
and our souls flash back into pulsing light
so all that is left is our singing bones.

Gardener Of My Soul

Gardener Of My Soul
© Surazeus
2018 02 21

When I explore virtual globe of the Earth
I glide slowly over vast mountain ranges
that wind in spirals for thousands of miles,
and enormous waste lands, desolate and dry,
where rivers and streams flow through narrow valleys
that wind forever between jagged peaks,
molded by wind blowing ten million years,
from rugged caves down to the swirling sea.

I want to zoom instantly through gold sky
in whirling disk blinking with ring of lights,
then land in every valley of the world,
walk along its rivers in the soft wind,
listen to the whisper of trees and flowers,
and climb the winding slopes of every mountain
to stand on its peak in the empty sky
and feel the spirit of that place in my bones.

I want to feel the spirit of each place
whistling in the hollow flute of my bones
so I know the dreams of lost memories
that every breathing soul who ever lived
and walked that valley to drink from its river
over the past five hundred million years
experienced in their struggle to survive,
so I live in harmony with the Earth.

When I survey the waste lands of the world,
endless stretches of sand dunes blown by wind,
or plains of silent rocks cracked by hot sunrays,
or jagged mountains where nothing but lizards
and cactus suck life from sun-shimmering soil,
I want to stretch forth my shape-crafting hands
and transform rugged wilderness of thirst
into lush gardens of fruit trees and herbs.

While growing up, attending church on Sabbath,
I heard the elderly lady with gray hair
say that Jesus Christ, savior of the world,
and son of the God who created Earth,
would return from Heaven of perfect forms,
and transform the Earth into paradise,
waving his hands and speaking words of power
to cause fruit trees to blossom from the desert.

When I grew up I learned Heaven is based
on realm of Ideas Plato devised,
perfect forms from which material things spring,
and Jesus embodies Idea of noble leader
who cares for every person in his realm,
so Jesus was wise mortal king who sired
dynasties of kings who ruled from stone castles,
attempting to manage Heaven on Earth.

The sons of Jesus who all reigned as kings,
ruling and judging actions of their people
within tall watch towers of stone citadels,
organized communes of productive workers
to transform wilderness by flowing rivers
into well-tended gardens of lush plants,
growing fruit trees, vegetables, and vital herbs,
safe within high walls of our paradise.

The ancient gardener sleeping in my soul,
who remembers lush meadows of Elysium,
wakes at the sight of untamed wilderness,
and longs to transform waste lands of the world
from plantless deserts into verdured gardens,
smoothing out the jagged peaks of minerals
and constructing vast network of steel pipes
to water all the world with sparkling life.

Though Jesus is dead these two thousand years
the vision of his heart to change the world,
from putrid cesspool of aggressive lust,
where wretched humans struggle to survive,
scraping for seeds from the dry rocky soil,
and fighting each other for bubbling fountains,
still shimmers in the hearts of all his children
as we long to build lush Heaven on Earth.

For two thousand years the children of Jesus
tried to build paradise in castle walls,
restoring the primal Garden of Eden
in every city on lush river shore,
but rival kings battled in bloody wars,
constantly fighting for who reigns as Christ,
killing millions of good innocent souls,
and smashing paradise into waste land.

Breaking from the egg shell of castle walls,
we explore beyond perimeter of truth,
building engines to motorize cars and planes
we drive into vast waste lands of the world
and soar into the sky on outstretched wings,
and now unite the nations of the world
in global civilization of computers
that connect our minds in one consciousness.

United Nations of Earth we compose
from fractured states of religions and races
to unify humanity with one world view
of justice and equality for all
who breathe the free air that inspires our world
so we cooperate to transform our globe
from desolate waste lands harboring hostile gangs
into universal garden of fruit trees.

The Gardener of my Soul, inspired by Jesus,
dreams of transforming waste lands of our world
into lush gardens all around the globe
where small communities of peaceful farmers
live together around fresh bubbling fountains
to tend fruit trees, vegetables, herbs, and grains,
in harmony with busy honey bees,
and sing together in temples of peace.

Bloody Blaze Of Glory

Bloody Blaze Of Glory
© Surazeus
2018 02 20

Ten thousand bullets flaming through the air
pierce the bodies of children while they play.
Ten thousand children fall dead on the Earth
and their blood sparks the seeds of flowers to grow.
Flowers bloom from the graves of our dead children
and we hear their horror whispered in wind.
Flowers bloom from the eyes of laughing children
who play in the twilight of our mute fear.
He wants to go out in a blaze of glory,
the angry boy who fails our game of life.

One hundred young boys, enraged by abuse,
gnaw the bones of hatred with broken minds.
One hundred angry boys, choking on words,
wrestle with the shadow of nameless fears.
The boy grabs the gun of impotent rage
and shoots at pretty faces of contempt.
The boy clutching the rifle of despair
shoots bullets at the blank faces he hates.
He wants to go out in a blaze of glory,
the angry boy who fails our game of life.

Ten thousand bullets blasting at our peace
splatter the souls of children on walls.
Ten thousand children with faces we love
vanish into the void of troubled dreams.
Flowers sprout from the brains of children killed
by the angry boy who hates their success.
Flowers scream from the bleeding hearts of children
killed by the boy who wants their happiness.
He wants to go out in a blaze of glory,
the angry boy who fails our game of life.

One hundred mad boys, rejected by girls,
shoot guns to kill the beauty they desire.
One hundred dumb boys, enraged by their failure,
shoot bullets to destroy the wise and clever.
The boy who stumbles blind through maze of life
shoots people dead with his bullets of pride.
The boy who fails to fit drama of life
exits the stage in bloody blaze of glory.
He wants to go out in a blaze of glory,
the angry boy who fails our game of life.

Mirror Of Death

Mirror Of Death
© Surazeus
2018 02 20

The wall of moonlight that blocks wind of dreams
was built by the hand of the faceless man
who thinks he owns the bodies of the children,
so he buries them in dirt of lost hopes.

Nothing ever grows from the broken hearts
that she buries in bitterness of fear
unless she polishes them with clean cloth
and places them on the shelf in the hall.

She arranges our long-forgotten memories
with wood statues of folk art from the island
where her grandmother wove stars into flowers,
and the statues smile at the eyeless robot.

The children who climb from the darkest heart
of the man who put their brains in glass boxes
break free from the blinding fate of the wind
and weave moonlight into the car they drive.

Back and forth through the maze of history
we run so far beyond the walls of Heaven
that we recalculate the code of fate
to reprogram the story liars tell.

I feel my lost soul inside the wood statue
of Siwa who dances on the sea shore
slow as the flash of fourteen billion years
to dream the fluctuation of all matter.

The well of moonlight that channels my dreams
through tunnels that spiral between black wholes
reflects the true mask I wear in this life
so I walk the forest of singing pines.

I find the children buried in my heart
so their ghosts float beside me when I go
down the road of my life next fifty years,
and people sense them haunting my weird words.

The ghosts of my ancestors float in clouds
that swirl slow around the ancestral ghosts
of every person I meet in the world
which reveals our souls in mirror of death.

I want no harsh secrets to disappear,
hidden by the quiet ones in clean kitchens
inside the puzzles that no one can solve
then stored in dictionaries of folk tales.

What strange history of horrible abuse
waits concealed in tales of lost generations
who mock the greedy thieves disguised as priests
when they fail to escape harsh punishments?

When I visit the museum of art
I perceive the ghosts of dead people smeared
with rainbow-colored blood from unicorns
to preserve spirit of their characters.

Since they are now dead, their bodies of flesh
no longer exist as active components
in the swirling time-stream of pulsing atoms,
so they are apparitions of our minds.

What weird magic sparkles in words we write
that these little letters, which signify
active objects and qualities they contain,
conjure apparitions of souls now dead.

When I read these words printed in this book
my mind dreams idols of once-living people
who play again the actions they performed
in fate-bound role that they can change no more.

While they were alive they could exercise
free will of their hope, based on what they knew,
to act with aggressive force of desire
that causes effect of dreams to come true.

They played their special role in game of life,
breeding children or building with their hands,
so their actions become our history
as they live reborn in genetic offspring.

I stand unmoving on our spinning world
to watch effects of our actions unfold,
then chronicle the history of desire
that reflects our souls in mirror of death.

Names On Memorial Beach

Names On Memorial Beach
© Surazeus
2018 02 19

Since sunlight gleams indifferent on gold hills,
though thousands of people die every day,
shot by guns, destroyed by disease, abused
by husbands, annihilated by despair,
drowned by floods, crushed by cars, and suicide,
makes me feel that I am invincible.

Death stops by to visit me every day,
so we sit by the window to drink coffee
and watch people walking by on the street
as we play guessing game about their lives,
speculating about secret desires
that motivate their game to face the day.

Then we fall to talking of politics,
how globalization affects our minds
by transforming self-enclosed nation-states
into United Corporations of Earth
controlled by banking wizards in glass towers
while billions work hard for one meal to eat.

The merchants of death who rule the whole world
are my puppets, dancing to my commands,
Death laughs and smiles nuclear-missile teeth,
so I chuckle, amused at his cute joke,
while jet planes and tanks blow each other up,
and children bleed in rubble of their greed.

Seers, who conceal in puzzles of cute poems
prophecies that criticize tyrant kings,
drive cars to work in anonymous traffic
that stream shining on the highways of power
where the cracked skulls of thousands of dead poets
line the cement barriers with glowing eyes.

The Messiah, whom everyone expects
to descend from bright clouds on wings of glory,
walks along the highway in tattered coat,
the homeless man that everyone ignores
though he stands in the cold wind on the bridge
to shout prophecies that no one can hear.

Death and the Messiah give me a ride
in their new sports utility vehicle,
huge silver sedan racing wide highway,
to the glass Olympic ice skating rink
where we watch angels gliding on thin ice
to express beauty of the human form.

The elegant girl with flowing blonde hair,
wearing short pink skirt, glides spirals on ice,
arms flowing like snow-white wings of the swan,
and soars far beyond this physical plane
to flash among stars of eternity,
while thousands of children in war zones starve.

How can these two things exist in one world,
I ask Death and the Messiah with concern,
this beautiful girl like Goddess on Earth
gliding with grace while billions watch her show,
yet nameless children, homes shattered by bombs,
shiver still alive in horror of pain?

Death is our friend for he eases our pain
when he dissolves our bodies back to dust,
and perceptive consciousness of our brains
flickers out to nothing in the mute void,
so we burn to taste pleasure while we live,
savoring the sweetness of music and fruit.

Moving through the ruins of ancient cities,
bombed to rubble by emperors of banks,
I step over huge heaps of rotting corpses
till I find the young girl staring in shock
who will one day unite our great world empire
so I carry her in my arms to Heaven.

Messiah takes me to the snow-clear peak
of Mount Takoma, where Truth taught me spellcraft,
and shows me all the cities of the world,
explaining how men once fought civil wars
by ganging up to shoot each other with guns,
but now argue on social network sites.

Now young men, angry at suffering insults,
buy assault rifles and attack their schools,
shooting bullets instead of hateful words
to kill the normal people they despise,
so people weep at the horror of death,
then offer thoughts and prayers from numb dismay.

I wander through every city on Earth
and look into the eyes of each live person
to see the visions of their glowing minds
and weave our memories in world epic song
that will vanish in dusty wind of time
though we preserve them in lyrical rhyme.

Billions of people die with each new year,
dissolving to dirt in spinning of time,
and billions more are born from lust for life,
so with each new generation of children
we preserve the flame of our consciousness
to replicate our virtual world of dreams.

I merge billions of living human beings
in one general stereotype of their role
to idolize their passions and fierce dreams
in common character idea they play
so their names, written on memorial beach,
are erased forever by indifferent waves.

I stare at sunlight on indifferent hills
and feel our spinning world float in vast void,
remembering how as sperm I swam toward egg
and transformed into body of my soul
through every evolutionary form
till I emerged, and walk the maze of hope.

One purpose guides me on my quest for love,
to replicate my brain before I die
and dream again as children of my soul
since we first woke in ancient sea of dreams,
and live reborn fifteen billion years more
till the expanding sun swallows our world.

Rebirth Of Troy

Rebirth Of Troy
© Surazeus
2018 02 19

Since the mountain shepherd Paris was crowned
Alexandros, son to the King of Troy,
and Enkidu befriended by Gilgamesh,
the Goddess of Love has transformed wild men
with the power of desire beaming her eyes
into civilized men who control lust.

Dig your fingers into the soggy clay
of the great river that flows from the sky,
green Aruru, who created all things,
and mold my body from the clay and water
of this world, then spark my heart with sun flames,
which animates the desire of my will.

Whether Shamhat, Helen, or Aphrodite
rises from the rippling waves of the lake,
teach me, Mother of the World, how to sing
the dreams of action flashing in my eyes
so I can join community of mankind
and feast in the great hall of dance and song.

Though Siduri gives me large glass of wine
and tries to persuade me my quest for life
after death of this frail body will be vain,
I descend the ziggurat from feasting hall
and walk to the farthest end of the world
where I stack stones in circles to build Heaven.

I am Wilush, son of Shamash, son of Utu,
son of Enki, son of Enlil, son of Anu,
son of Ea who breathes the world alive,
and here I build the temple of my heart
to protect my children behind strong walls
so we may eat the apples of the sun.

My fingers bleed when I grip the white stone
and heave it on my shoulders to bear far
bones of the mountain I carve with my teeth,
then stack high walls to surround pool of water,
enclosing haven in garden of fruit
where I stand guard in the silver moonlight.

Desire for daughter of the river god
motivates suppression of blinding lust
to channel energy of aching will
in project building walls of paradise
where she sits pregnant with seed of my soul
and eats apples I pluck from the snake tree.

I pause from reverie of ancient times
on wide cement street full of busy people
between two giant towers of steel and glass
in the vast sprawling American city
that continues from sea to shining sea,
and look at my reflection on glass door.

How many generations I survived
since I first carved blocks of stone from the mountain
and built the towering citadel of Ilium
where I ruled the boat-trade of the Green Sea,
one small hill-top fort where I played World God,
till wild horsemen thundered from the vast plain.

We lived inside circular walls of stone,
transforming from hunters and gatherers
into craftsmen and merchants who sell goods
in market towns on every river shore,
united by bright vision of the god
who sees all from his high ziggurat throne.

We still form groups around the leading head
who manages crafting work of our hands,
transforming kingdoms into companies
where chief executive officer plays king,
and the president plays wise emperor,
thus I am Cassandra, prophet of truth.

How many cities these three thousand years
sprout and flourish from the ruins of Troy,
as godfathers of family enterprises
build kingdoms and empires on market towns,
balanced between the roles of Hector and Paris
till Augustus conquers Marcus Antonius.

Foolish Alekassandros Paris, listen
to the prophecy of your sister,
wide-eyed Kassandra who raises her hands
toward empty sky and proclaims, I see fire
burn our nation because you choose the woman
above the prosperity of our tribe.

When Goddesses of Wisdom, Power, and Love
offer their gifts for the apple of fame
in contest over who should rule our hearts,
choose wisdom of knowledge about this world
over power of trying to control this world
or over lust for the pleasures of love.

Armed with wisdom about nature of things,
the wise ruler may exercise true power
to organize farmers and construction workers
who operate system of food production
which feeds every hand who participates
so mothers may raise children of their souls.

In Arcadia I am the shepherd king
who strums lyre while watching sheep on lush hills,
and sings about the simple life of work,
creating things from the Earth with my hands
by tending fruit trees and building with wood,
while my children play laughing in the fields.

We build global empire of companies
based on the labor of farmers and craftsmen,
erecting giant banks of steel and glass
on the ruins of Troy where I once danced
inside ring of stones with my wife and children,
singing stories about heroes without names.

Goddess of Love, Ishtar, appear to me
from flash of insight in the falling rain
where I wander lost in city of lies,
and guide me to lush meadow of fruit trees
where I may rebuild our civilization
that will fall at the turning of the world.

Our Infinite Mind

Our Infinite Mind
© Surazeus
2018 02 18

The way lamp posts and telephone poles grow
from cracked sidewalks of our infinite mind
reveals the road that goes beyond the wall
painted with large mural of rainbow colors
depicting the life and death of the hero
who was born nearby though his name is lost.

The forgotten books in stale library halls
conceal lost myths of our infinite mind
which writhe like serpents to escape on wings
of rotten wisdom from the flat dimension
where mankind hides most bloody incidents
when blind angry gods commit genocide.

The factory workers and waiters who browse
shelves of books, bloomed from our infinite mind,
find the faces of their ancestors smeared
on tattered pages of oracles, torn
by the Sibyl from the twelve books of Saturn
who howls at the loss of his memories.

For ten thousand years of our history,
woven in wires of our infinite mind,
we walked on foot in crowded city streets,
but now we drive cars on highways of lights
that regulate cadence of traffic flow
as we race each other for gates of Heaven.

When Saturn haunts the sea cave of our dreams,
where we first woke from our infinite mind,
we fear he intends to devour us all
so we unite in cause of revolution
to overthrow the tyrant from the throne
where the judge of life and death sits alone.

Lost somewhere in the doorless labyrinth,
that spirals weird through our infinite mind,
I sit on the sidewalk of broken dreams
beside the numberless door back to Heaven
to strum the strings of the lyre Hermes made
and sing the wordless breath of desert wind.

Each grain of sand that slithers from my hands,
and spirals into our infinite mind,
composes this giant planet that spins
somewhere over the rainbow of my dreams
where we will meet again some sunny day
and sing together in the apple trees.

From high library window I can see
people walking through our infinite mind
who stop and wait for me to sing sad spells
like blind Rapunzel still stuck in her tower,
but I chant weird calculus of our souls
flashing visions in neurons of our brains.

While we all live together in calm peace.
in noble land of our infinite mind.
the mad king and his greedy courtiers
proclaim good neighbors our worst enemies
so we unite to return to strange land
where our ancestors tended crops all year.

For farming land and building wooden ships
that sail the sea of our infinite mind
I lost the instinct for real natural action
but the white owl in the ancient oak tree
still watches me perform my social role
when I chronicle the tragedy of kings.

The grass that whispers by the red brick hall,
recording songs of our infinite mind,
devours the flesh of everyone who dies,
whether they played the global emperor
or washed the toilets in the bank bathroom,
so I translate the concepts of her dreams.

The old blind bard in the library hall,
who knows all tales of our infinite mind,
mutters endless epic of humankind
at the blank book that captures every word
where it lies entombed in the national crypt
and devours the soul of our own numb hearts.

The tale of every soul who ever lived,
woven in dreams of our infinite mind,
carved in the mask of each dead character,
springs awake like the vampire of lost hope
to possess our minds when we read their tales
so we wander lost in maze of their lives.

Pale gold sunlight glows on the empty lawn,
abandoned stage of our infinite mind
where misunderstandings of comedy
and fatal arrogance of tragedy
calculate interactions of humanity
through the drama of generative lust.

Though I try to hide in the apple tree,
sprouting from soil of our infinite mind,
I hide true secrets pilfered from your brains
in apples that hang from the Tree of Life
in valley of horses where we played free
before we conquered the world on horseback.

After hearing tales of his divine exploits,
recited well for our infinite mind,
we met the legendary god at last
and found he was plain human after all,
yet he dared defy tyrants on high thrones
and freed us from the chains of superstition.

Way Of Our Numb Heart

Way Of Our Numb Heart
© Surazeus
2018 02 17

The way of our numb heart is to devour
hopes and dreams dropped from the generous hand
so fast the broken mirror that reflects
weird twisted face blurred by smudges of lust
flashes secret signals through meadow mist
to deceive the honest eye of the fool.

She gives me flowers with the shy smile of love
so we walk together the empty sky.

Loose as fluffy clouds, with nowhere to go,
I float along the crowded market street
to steal hopes and dreams from small bags of coins
and buy the key that unlocks door of death.

We are the children of the living god
who lounges lazy on the throne of power,
devouring the fruit of our laboring hands.

Reverse the spell to discover the code.
Blind I sing visions on the signless road.

Because I claim to rule all these strange lands
I will charge you tax for our tree and flower,
then chain you with blind greed while you applaud.

Struggling to stand, I inhale deepest breath
that fills my head with the flash of my loins
because our souls depend on this frail meat
to glow with consciousness of silent snow.

The whole world is not contained in my eye,
I sing to no one while lost in the cove.

I build virtual world in my head with tool
that fine-tunes weird metaphors in the gist
of all my prophecies written in dust
encoded in the riddles of my hex
that proves I am the spirit of this land
in the way of fools to exercise power.

Reverse reflection of blood runes I write
to see the web of truth in cosmic light.

River Of Broken Hearts

River Of Broken Hearts
© Surazeus
2018 02 17

I walk by the river of burning eyes
where the blood of children killed by guns flows,
and tumble away into empty skies
where their mothers and fathers weep in snows.

The sheriff who once ruled the desert town
plays guitar on the stage of skeletons
who dance on the grave of the fallen clown
because we are formed from star elements.

I walk by the river of laughing skulls
where the blood of children shot by guns burns,
and stumble into the church of blind fools
who worship the god who never returns.

The shaman who once spelled the broken world
plays guitar on the pyramid of ghosts
who know where the demon of despair whirled
laughing at the blinded king who still boasts.

I walk by the river of howling souls
where the blood of children killed by guns flames,
and ramble mumbling without noble goals
while ghosts of dead children seek their lost names.

The joker who once deceived loyal fools
plays guitar in the temple of fake gods
and chases screaming children from safe schools
while the politician of greed applauds.

I walk by the river of weeping moms
where the blood of children shot by guns swirls,
while angry dads shoot each other with bombs
that blast to hell gardens of boys and girls.

The angel who once brought the book of truth
howls in bloody streets of America
while the king of lies hides from honest sleuth
who decodes love with esoterica.

I walk by the river of broken hearts
where the blood of children killed by guns boils,
so I map their stories on secret charts
that reveal how our brains are wound with coils.

The wizard who once revealed atom power
forged magic wands that fire bullets of hate
so lovers who once shared the marriage flower
weep at the blasts of guns that twist our fate.

Beach Girl

Beach Girl
© Surazeus
2018 02 16

Awake in the gloom of the windy cave,
the beach girl reaches out her shadow hand
till she touches wet stone, slimy with moss.
Curling around beat of her heart, she stands
and gropes along cave wall to shining light.
Stepping forth into the featureless glare,
the beach girl pauses in the gleaming air
till the vastness of the gold shining sand
resolves from the rays of the rising sun
that floats scarlet on the calm silver sea.

Stepping forward in cold blustering wind
that roars from the sparkling swirl of blue waves,
the beach girl lopes toward the large round gray stone
that stands alone on the broad beach of sand.
Gripping the solid stone with both her hands,
the beach girl crouches against warm sand,
then crawls into the swirl of ocean waves
to submerge under its shimmering blue light,
till she stands upright in the surging tide,
buoyed by the air she breathes in her heart.
Breathing deep the wind blowing in her face,
the beach girl swirls her arms and legs in circles,
and leaps sideways to follow the beach edge,
pulling herself forward with stroking arms.

Gazing downward into the clear blue water,
where waves of sunlight flicker back and forth
in long flashing curves of thick wriggling lines,
the beach girl watches fish swim near her legs,
then, when she sees the largest silver fish,
she dives down and snatches it with boh hands.
Clutching the fish, that wriggles to escape,
the beach girl leaps through waves back to the sand,
and stays upright as she walks to her stone.

Smacking the fish against the large gray stone,
she crouches in the shadow of its bulk
and tears at succulent flesh with her teeth,
chewing and swallowing juicy white globs,
then licks her hands as she devours it all.
Tossing fish bones aside on sparkling sand,
the beach girl climbs up on the large gray stone
and stands tall in the cool blustering wind,
then spreads arms outward to balance her stance.

When strange ache of joy surges from her heart
the beach girl hoots and hums sweet melody
to harmonize the fierce buzz in her breast
with the wild tune of the blustering wind.
Dancing up and down while flapping her arms,
the beach girl, balanced on large gray safe stone,
shrieks as she cries out the joy of her heart
in concert with the flock of swift-flying birds
that swoop on flapping wings along the beach.

Exhausted from expressing song of joy,
the beach girl crouches on her large safe stone,
and watches creatures moving on the sand,
turtles crawling slowly, crabs lurching sideways,
sandpipers skittering past in small flocks,
and starfish glistening orange like the sun.
Rounding her mouth and clacking tongue on teeth,
she gives each creature she sees action name,
and motions her fingers in various shapes
to mimic how each creature moves on sand.

The beach girl crouches on the large round stone
that stands alone on bright sand at low tide,
and watches sunlight gleam on grains of sand.
Wind swirls her long black hair around her face,
so she twists loose strands tight in bundled braid,
then wraps ivy vine to keep her hair bound.
She gazes at white clouds that swell in the sky
and feels the whole world of mountain and sea
shimmer within the flicker of her eye.

The beach girl gazes at shape of her hand,
flexing four fingers and thumb in loose fist,
then opens them out, splayed like gold starfish,
and caresses the soft curves of her palm.
Leaping from the stone, she lopes along beach,
fists and feet in rhythm splattering gold sand,
then crouches by the pile of yellow driftwood,
and slowly reaches out her hand to grasp
the long curving stick, opening her fingers
to curl them tightly around its smooth shaft.

Grasping the stick tight, she raises it high
toward the sky, and swings down to hit the sand,
watching how its sharp point carves curving lines,
then swings it upward, trying to hit the cloud,
but wonders that it floats beyond her reach.
Skipping along the beach back toward safe stone,
she smacks the sand with the stick to carve lines
at equal intervals while loudly yawping,
then leaps on the gray stone and crouches down.

Ocean waves roar as they slide over sand,
white foam flashing in the yellow sunlight,
like they do every day when the sun glows.
Things move but they always move the same way,
and the waves always roll over the sand,
and the wind always blows around her face,
and the sun always rises in the sky,
and the fish always swim in the waves,
so she smiles and stretches her arms out wide
like she does every day on her safe stone.

At the sound of rocks crashing to the beach,
she looks behind her at the high steep cliff,
and pictures wild waves grinding rocks to sand,
but when she imagines the entire cliff
crashing down in great roar of broken rocks
she shrieks and covers her eyes in surprise.
Trembling, she waits to feel rocks crush her head,
but nothing strikes as steady wind blows,
so she opens her eyes, moving her hands,
and sees the cliff still stands against the sky.

Sliding off safe stone, she crawls toward the cliff,
and pushes her hand, five fingers splayed wide,
against its enormous solidity.
Looking to her left along the flat cliff,
she notes the narrow ledge sloping upward
to its top ridge, solid in empty sky,
so she slides slow along sloping ledge,
face and breast pressed against the solid cliff.
When her foot knocks a small rock off the ledge
she watches it tumble down to the beach,
and for long moment feels the whole world spin
upside down till she hangs over the sun,
so she closes her eyes and grips the cliff
while ocean waves crash with her beating heart.

Breathing deep the wind to fill her with hope,
the beach girl hugging the crumbling cliff tight
opens her eyes to peer at the bright light,
and notes the top edge of the solid cliff
looms just beyond the reach of her small hand,
so she slides farther up along the ledge
and pulls herself up onto the flat ground.
Lying on her back, she stares at the vast sky
that opens wide around entire horizon
so the huge cliff and the vast flowing sea
all vanish into the emptiness of blue.

Rolling over on her belly, face close
to the solid ground that supports her body,
she sucks in air to fill herself with light,
then pushes herself up onto her knees,
and gasps when she sees the wide plain of grass
which stretches farther than the longest beach
and bulges upward into giant hills,
many times larger than her safe beach stone.
Slowly standing upright on trembling legs,
the beach girl spreads both arms out to the sky,
and opens both hands to grasp the warm light
and glory in the feeling of vast space.

She breathes the eerie quiet of soft grass,
startled that no wind blusters at her face.
Twirling around three times on trembling feet,
the beach girl surveys the broad plain of grass
that stretches outward on the upper world.
Now that she has reached the world of the sky,
she wonders what the lower world looks like.

Turning around backward on careful steps,
the beach girl peers over the steep cliff edge,
and stares shocked to see that her wide gold beach
now appears so small, narrow strip of land
between the endless stretch of shining sea
and the broad expanse of high rolling hills,
divided by the steep abrupt cliff edge
that winds both directions into gold haze.

Searching the shining beach with desperate eyes
to see her large gray safe stone in the sand,
she gasps surprised when she finds it at last,
so small and barely visible in mist
that rises from the stillness of the sea.
Picking up the small pebble at her feet,
she holds it up between finger and thumb
so it covers the shape of her safe stone.
High on the upper world of grassy hills
she gazes at the whole world she has known
since she first remembers crawling gold sand,
and feels sad that her lower world is small,
but then gazes at the high mountain peak
and feels joy that the upper world is huge.

Stretching both arms to the glowing blue sky
where the yellow sun glides toward mountain peaks,
which normally disappears behind high cliff,
the beach girl breathes the fresh flower-scented air
and follows the sun toward the strange new world.

Secret In Puzzles Of Truth

Secret In Puzzles Of Truth
© Surazeus
2018 02 15

What is the key that would open the door
and allow me to enter paradise
where blind angels record the cosmic score
which calculates the harmony of eyes?

What is the code that would reveal the lies
we see in the mirror of dreaming brains,
revealed by galactic coils in disguise
so we comprehend what the Book contains?

I stand before gates of Heaven at dawn
and listen to angels sing holy hymns
while I wait with the cart of wheat on the lawn
and watch children play where the blind king swims.

I long to enter grand cathedral hall
where unseen god rules on the golden throne
and view paintings of saints on the stone wall
but the priest calls me a wicked old crone.

With magic letters in the Book of Dreams
I write the secret of rebirth from death
but the priest drowned my children in cold streams
before I would reveal the shibboleth.

The Tree of Life with swirling wheels of flame
I see on the mountain where gods dance free
before they play the deadly power game
so I give birth to Queen of Liberty.

I hide the secret in puzzles of truth,
mirrored in the Kabbalah Tree of Spells,
so you must continue as the word sleuth
on quest for the tune lost in water wells.

Beyond perimeter of world you know,
measured by the proverbs your parents spoke,
you can hear the tune in the water flow
so explore despair till you become woke.

On the street of your town my idol sings
magic spells that design mask for your face
so when you hear the rhyme of angel wings
you will feel one with the whole human race.

What is the tune that will harmonize views
of opposing factions who fight for power
to narrate the truth in the daily news
which defines the spirit of America?

What is the song spell that will best express
the strangest dreams that dramatize our lives
so in the temple where devils confess
we may portray love of husbands and wives?

Wherever I roam, sea to shining sea,
west around the globe, to follow the sun,
my heart is my home in land of liberty
as we fight the tyrant who wields the gun.

We stand on the mountain top with our friends
and sign weird spells for the victory of trust,
for the arc of history toward justice bends,
and after death we all return to dust.

Though the fantasy of our noble nation
crumbles with every bomb our war planes fire
we can redeem our souls through wit salvation
if we overthrow the clown of desire.

Who sees the old man in empty white room
who scribbles prophecies on the blank wall
to calculate safest way beyond doom
after kissing the plastic princess doll?

He writes your name in the big Book of Souls
to record your deeds in the War for Truth
so mail to him the list of your true goals
before he dares question your sincere faith.

I encode your dreams in puzzles of verse,
woven in the Kabbalah Tree of Tropes,
so become one with the whole universe
to understand the scheme of psychic hopes.

I sit blind in the Cave of Liberty
and chant weird visions of life and death
while writing spells with Voice of Prophecy
that sparks true spirit with each spiral breath.