Rebel Against Our Archetypes

Rebel Against Our Archetypes
© Surazeus
2018 05 31

When I go outside and look at the sky
I see your bright eyes looking back at me
though you are dead and buried in the ground
where apple trees grow from your rotting heart.

I picture myself like some voodoo doll
to imagine what you might see in me
although the shadow on the wall conceals
my true feelings that I forgot about.

I make small puppet to imitate form
of my ever-changing soul to present
idol of my true self only you know
because I reign unseen in the glass tower.

I hope you see the me I cultivate,
designing my public mask with great care
to polish this character that I play
because its style expresses who I am.

Authentic is this social mask I wear,
for if you tear it off you tear my skin
so I smile exposed to indifferent wind
who wants to know how I identify.

This body I was born with aches with lust
so, do I define myself by who I sleep with
or by what I am when I sleep with someone,
though we share satisfaction of sweet pleasure?

I want to procreate my ancient self
who has lived reborn for millions of years
since I first woke in surging sea of light,
so I find opposite gender I am.

I cannot make love with you unless you
want to make love with me with sweet desire
so we create new life through ecstasy
that flashes love at the big bang of truth.

So was our universe ejaculated
through mind-blowing orgasm of creation
when sperm of desire penetrated egg
of cosmic singularity I Am?

What sparked expansion of material light
flaring forth from the first flash of fresh fun
so we transform from spiral sphere of love
to wake under the apple true of truth?

Because I aim glowing inside my head
I cannot see the me whom you perceive
so I become every person I see,
imitating them with creative flair.

Though you are dead our child is still alive
so you are alive in the child you made
though they rebel against our archetypes
to create their own personality.

Great Circle Of Our World

Great Circle Of Our World
© Surazeus
2018 05 31

I feel pressed down by dark presence of fear,
depressed to silence by horror of death,
which crushes wordless thoughts inside my brain
twill swirling vortex of anger spins taut.

Depression is fuel I burn to express
visions of my mind in words I must sing
through aching howl at our weird universe
who does not listen with indifferent wind.

Hard pressure down on psychic energy
prepares it for my expression of art
when I manipulate matter of things
to fit beautiful pattern I conceive.

I hope that when I look into your eyes
I perceive the real you I know and love
and not reflection of my own desires
that would blind me to secret of your heart.

Though you are precious to me I would not
freeze you into victim of suffering
that would neutralize your progress to grow
as the active agent of social change.

When I realize that I am satisfied
with moral outrage at wrongs of the world
my feeling of superiority at being right
would prevent me from effecting real change.

Instead of proving I am always right,
which perpetuates oppressive order of things,
I recognize I am part of this world
and act to cause constructive change for good.

When the social agents of domination
offer to protect us for our own good
we must operate our own respectful course
to realize equal opportunities.

When I choose specific words to express
fluctuating visions of cause and effect
I repress base desires for self-assertion
to channel lust in productive creation.

I repress the selfish desires of my heart
to work for the greater good of all people
which conjures formation built from repression
to signify the passion I restrain.

Appearing from blue shadows of the woods,
the old man stares at me like I am real
till I understand beyond spoken words
that the unconscious is structured like speech.

Beyond the sunlight of my conscious thoughts
I silently search dark woods for weird truth
that whispers in language I understand
surreal visions in half-remember dreams.

When I satisfy my organic needs
I savor enjoyment of pleasure gained
by filling emptiness of aching hope,
driven by longing to be one with you.

Yet satisfaction of my fulfilled hope
signifies adherence to normal structure
of moral values that guide our behavior
through social rules of unconscious correction.

When I am empty, and recognize hunger,
drive to seek satisfaction activates
unconscious performance to find the source
that will satisfy my organic needs.

Our bodies are functions of chemicals
that interact in strict process of change
to grow more complex, which sustains the spark
of conscious pleasure in our neural networks.

What aching desire drives me to fulfill
hungry need other than preprogrammed function
to seek energy in material form
since success of my ancestors proves right.

When my ancestors felt organic hunger,
desire propelled them to search for fruit
and through successful consumption of matter
they copulated to generate children.

Although once I eat and fulfill my hunger
new aching hope for meaning of existence
sparkles visions in my mind to create
story narrating events of my success.

Too much is not enough to satisfy
negative appetite of strict compulsion
to nourish pulsing of aggressive heart
which propels me forward in maze of dreams.

Inside the Black Hole of the Universe
the Unconscious Soul who does not perceive
vibrates in every atom of my brain
so I hunger to assimilate all.

Within the White Whole of the Universe
our small conscious brains perceive world of forms
so we design ideas to explain things
and narrate stories of human existence.

My heart aches with passionate love for you
so sorrow weighs me down that you do not
love me as much as I love you, so I
release desire for you, which sets us free.

Yet I savor pleasure of love for you
whether you ever love me back or not
so I will nourish hope that you are happy
and cherish your existence every day.

The only cure to escape pain of love
is to erase that love so pain dissolves,
but I would wander numb without direction
so I love you whether or not you love me.

Loss of love would be nothing more than death
so since I want to live and savor pleasure
of existing in this body of lust
I will love more to satisfy desire.

No matter how much I may suffer pain
caused by destructive actions of my greed
I will never yield to blankness of death,
demanding every pleasure I can taste.

Hungry for the ripe apple that glows plump
with sunlight and rain, I reach out my hand,
savoring anticipation of its taste,
when the quick serpent strikes and bites my hand.

Strange sensation surges through my hot flesh
so I walk through grass where wind whispers cold
along the long river sparkling mute sunlight
and to the cave where the old blind witch sings.

Trembling in pain before the God of Death,
I stare into the blankness of my heart
and see myself not existing in time,
so I sing sweet melodies of lost hope.

The old woman with no eyes and gray hair
transforms into young woman with three eyes
who dismembers my body in twelve parts
and scatters my soul all over the world.

She swirls my eyes into the surging sea,
transforms my heart into the blazing sun,
puffs out my chest into the mountain peak,
and twists my hands into groves of fruit trees.

I hold her in my arms and kiss her face
and search beyond reflection of my face
to feel electric sparkles of her soul
and fill her emptiness with my desire.

Holding my hand while I sing words of hope,
she leads me dancing to the upper world
and we pluck apples from the tree of life
to eat them laughing on the river shore.

Her belly swells round as the silver moon
that flashes full nine times across the sky
then from her body our new child emerges
who looks at us with our two eyes combined.

We lead our child through the woods to the hill
where we stand under sprawling apple tree
and we show her Great Circle of our World
that spirals outward from our dreaming eyes.

Door of Hope

Door of Hope
© Surazeus
2018 05 31

When at the door of hope I hesitate,
to analyze the weird state of our world,
I feel emotions of each soul alive
vibrate in visions of sunlight on glass.

Though haven of my home seems safe and secure
I cannot stay inside prison of fear
so I move forward in the maze of dreams
on through illusions to seek fruit of life.

Though wolves in the woods and snakes in the grass
threaten the integrity of my health
I progress forward, cautiously alert,
to win the prize that will sustain my soul.

Through fields of grass along the flashing stream
I avoid dangers to approach the tree
that rustles in wind on hill of the sun,
then pluck and eat the fruit that wakes my soul.

Though men controlling empires of the world
attempt to assimilate my free soul
in programs of production to earn wealth
I seek my own way through the labyrinth.

Pushing open the door of hope I step
eagerly to join the progressive flow
of people working in teams to create
illusions of fruit from the Tree of Life.

Stranger I Am

Stranger I Am
© Surazeus
2018 05 30

Whenever you lose track of your true self
always go down to the river and touch
the flowing water of the turning world
to hear the whisper of truth in the wind.

When I throw my stone in the silent lake
I hear the sound of your voice in the splash
ripple outward to become our galaxy
who knows why I wait for you on the shore.

I search for new clues in book of the soul
I find abandoned on the river shore
so I record the song of every bird
who shares the secret of my aching heart.

When I go down to the river and touch
the flowing water of my anguished hope
I wake from dream of death to see the sun
who shimmers indifferent to my existence.

I write strange story to explain my life
and how my suffering earns me right to live
free from the social rules that you impose
but its pages become lost butterflies.

We walk together on the ocean shore,
but do we both hear the same melody
translated from waves that still call our names
when we swim down down to the silent depths?

While battling monsters in waste land of fear
I hear voices echo from Cavern of Orpheus
who calls my name in wild bluster of wind
so I walk the Rainbow Bridge with Iduna.

Iduna gives me apple so I eat
glowing spirit of galactic insight,
then blaze new trail winding past paradise
to research algorithm of creation.

Exploring beyond pole-walls of the palace,
I encircle the world with stepping feet
then write encyclopedia of all truth
to record human methods of survival.

I remember how we place stones in rings,
cover frail leaves with twigs and large dry logs,
then strike flint stones to spark flame of the sun,
and tend crackling fire in dark midnight gloom.

I dip my cupped hands in the flowing water
and gaze at my face mirrored by the light
so I dissolve in glow to lie on grass
and become both still hill and swirling wind.

I walk beside my father on the hill,
listening while he explains the names of things
and how they express actions of desire
which motivates everything to move forward.

I sit beside my mother at the hearth,
listening while she explains techniques of cooking
and how to prepare plants and animals
so they will nourish our bodies with life.

I walk away from home ten million times
and follow trail of each ambition far
beyond the walls of paradise we build
so I become every ancestral soul.

I leave my daughter sitting safe at home
to watch new movie in the theater
but when I return after the wild show
I find she vanished on the road of life.

I walk away from home when I am ready
to race for success through the maze of power
and never look back at the open doors
where people watch me play my ancient role.

I climb high mountain and stand in wild sunlight,
remembering the first time I saw my horse
galloping fast as wind along the beach
till I became the wave and rode her back.

So I walk through your door ten thousand times
to hang masks I wear on your moving walls
where I become one among countless souls
because I am every person who lives.

I talk to myself through all of your faces
and listen to myself search for the truth
so I arrange weird memes of information
for ontological puzzle of life.

Although I have lost track of my true self
each time I almost find myself again
I evade becoming person I design
and become the stranger I am instead.

River Gods Of Italy

River Gods Of Italy
© Surazeus
2018 05 30

When I look in the Soul Mirror I see
river gods in marble statues that lounge
on rocks in huge fountains in Italy.

Around Mere of Diana girls in gowns
teach me to live free, rather than play pawn
of arrogant gods who feast on high mounds.

Crossing the river Albula at dawn,
the wizard Tiberinus Silvius drowns
while nymphs at Volturnia dance on the lawn.

When Saturnus gathers people in towns
he teaches us how to work as one team
racing horses across the misty downs.

I understand how, in my midnight dream,
with ripe apple Diana woos the deer
who leads us laughing along mountain stream.

After I fall while fishing on the weir
I build high pont arching over the brook
where I play sacred role of the blind seer.

I write secret prophecies in the book
that people worship for one thousand years
while keeping it hidden in cavern nook.

I run through the maze to escape my fears
but stand face to face with my ancient soul
who teaches me cycle of cosmic spheres.

Corporate Pirate Of Manhattan

Corporate Pirate Of Manhattan
© Surazeus
2018 05 29

The American Man in suit and tie
falls from the glass tower of prestige and power
struck by lightning of the financial war
nine days and nights on broken wings of hope.

More than once in the long drama of his life
he plays the fool in tales of other people
till he steals the crown from the jester king
and directs his own tragedy of wealth.

He builds the heaven of his family home
on the skulls of workers in factories
who read about his parties in the paper
and drink the beer he sells them for a dollar.

Driving sleek gold Cadillac in red rain,
he parades to his castle in Manhattan
to drink the blood of farmers in rich wine
and smoke the money his investments earn.

Standing at the window of his huge office,
he gazes at vast maze of shining towers
and ponders his rise from the small farm town
to reign as king of fools in tower of gold.

Calling quick brokers on the telephone,
he buys and sells stocks in small companies
then sells their assets to profit from loss
and fires people who worked there all their lives.

Despondent at his tactics of brute force
acquiring wealth from corporate piracy,
he drives cross country down long winding roads
into the waste land of his aching heart.

He joins the commune in the coastal hills
to drop acid and meditate in light,
dreaming evolution from sperm to god,
and dances naked among trees in rain.

Seeking redemption for his corporate greed,
he volunteers to cook at homeless shelters,
then meditates in the tree where he lives
and talks philosophy with chirping birds.

The American man in robe and sandals
walks among ruins of prestige and power
to chant peaceful mantras and tend the flowers
that grow from the graves of people he fired.

On The Flosculous Moon

On The Flosculous Moon
© Surazeus
2018 05 29

Despite the apoptosis of my brain
I like to drink the aspergillum rain
and through natation find its pulsing core
because I am the opsimath of lore.

Exploring our paludal paradise
through operose engagement in the real,
I will obnubilate the prayer of ice,
then my orectic play for power conceal.

Too long I was the famulus of fame
to sing fucagious secret of the light,
but now my gasconade reveals my name
throughout the luculent code of thought flight.

Appearing as funambulist of words
before tellurian tribes who know the truth,
I come appointed thurifer of birds
to learn zetetic methods of the sleuth.

Since I became Aeolist of our world
I must recite abderian spells of love
to play the nelipot who maps the land
and translates psithurisms of the mind.

Be sure to laugh at my new witzelsucht
since tarantism cripples my wild heart
so sphallolalia might just save our souls
before I bombilate my epic tale.

While I employ adoxography well
I pause at pungent scent of petrichor
to practice quick thelemic scene in Hell
since strikhedonia opens every door.

Now that I run the lubitorium
while singing in soft Lethean afternoon
I compose patriotic enconium
when we make love on the flosculous moon.

Wrong Side Of Reality

Wrong Side Of Reality
© Surazeus
2018 05 28

This morning I wake up on the wrong side
of reality, looking through the eye
of infinite truth to see naked light
searing visions of our struggle to live
in every neuron of my flashing brain.

They shot the president in his black car
and now our men are walking on the moon,
and though I grew up in dire poverty
I own three mansions, ten cars, and one yacht
because I know how to sell people lies.

I left my wife and three children last year
to live with my beautiful secretary
half my age, who loves it when I buy diamonds,
and wants to live in Paris every summer
where she can paint the statues of dead gods.

I punch the mirror with my fist because
strange anger surges through my naked heart
and drives me through the broken door of faith
to wander dark streets with indifferent rain
so I can tell the oak tree why I am.

My consciousness consists of frequencies
of quantum energy vibrating love
which urges curiosity to feel
totality buzz with bright resonance
of electromagnetic vibes through growth.

I hear the nexus of the universe
call me with electric impulse of truth
to navigate unified galaxy
on special journey to connect my soul
at crossroads of hope to the grid itself.

Reality beams with bold messengers
immersed in love to self-actualize proof
of honest success which invocates shift
into quantum potentiality
inherent in the nexus of my mind.

My goal in quest of interstellar spirit
is plant seeds of transcendence in our hearts
through ultrasonic energy of words
via quick psionic wave oscillations
to refine suffering into lessons learned.

I taste electric sparks in stratosphere
of hyper-conscious insight to the key
that helps remove barriers to success
when we summon current of aspirations
to reveal dreamscape of our secret truth.

The quantum matrix beams with soul vibrations
to help us navigate ethereal maze
ruled by illusions our brains must invent
unless we eradicate deeper meaning
to look within and awaken the spirit.

Now I am the traveler of the cosmos,
fusing nature in complex paradigm
which opens third eye of my naked truth,
but nothing can disrupt my quest for breath
when I sing at the crossroads of real life.

The oak tree believes nothing that I say
so I glide through the forest to discover
the mirror doorway from another realm
through which I stumble on my quest for water
and run to escape delusions I conjure.

Though I run faster than rumors in wind
all delusions I once believed as true
flash deceptive pathway through maze of eyes
which leads me to the locked door of your home
where I see my face in the silent glass.

I sell my company for enough money
to travel the world on my quest for truth
then go to drink with friends to my success
but only skulls on seats sing in my choir
so I meditate sunrise on the beach.

I drive blue Cadillac to office tower
where I inhabit the office of words
and design ontology of success
to advertise the secret of true love
if you purchase this product built on faith.

We dance wild in rain on the muddy hill
while the wizard twangs electric guitar
which vibrates peaceful love across the land
to transform warplanes into butterflies
if we find the garden of paradise.

I drop out of the culture of oppression,
I tune in to the frequency of love,
and I turn on my cosmic consciousness
to find the divinity within me
and express my revelation of truth.

When I activate my neural equipment,
programmed deep in genetic coils of hope,
I become sensitive to many levels
of consciousness rippling in waves of matter,
triggered by words to engage spirit vibes.

I interact in harmony with things
to externalize material thoughts
and gain perspective through exploring search
for archetypal nodes within the mind
which reflect patterns of social expression.

I actively select the graceful process
to detach from all unconscious commitments
then find my singularity of spirit
choosing mobile change in expansive sequence
of personal development through love.

I sit on the beach of sparkling white sand
and watch crystal blue waves splash in sunlight
to echo vibrations of cosmic mind
sparkling inside my fragile skull for hours
beyond infinity of dreaming eyes.

Sitting on street corners with cardboard sign,
I bless people walking by to their jobs
who drop money in my hat but avoid
cosmic truth shimmering in my hopeful eyes
till police ticket me for loitering.

Carrying everything I own in backpack,
I walk city streets in old tattered shoes,
sit in the town library reading novels
till they close, then walk to woods by the river
where I sleep under stars in cardboard box.

I live on wrong side of reality,
lost long ago on my quest for the truth
chasing elusive butterfly of love
that lead me through the labyrinth of lies
to my paradise by the nameless river.

Children Who Have Disappeared

Children Who Have Disappeared
© Surazeus
2018 05 28

The laughing children who have disappeared
into the shadows of our glorious empire
will know the secrets of our labyrinth
that we hide behind patriotic hymns.

Who can write all their names on city streets
with chalk that marks where their bodies have fallen,
the nameless children who have disappeared
when their parents were deported from Heaven?

I see them everywhere I go each day,
the happy children who have disappeared
when they walked the waste land to paradise
from the desert to work in shopping malls.

I would sing the tale of every lost soul,
how they escaped control of the drug gangsters
and came to our land seeking liberty,
but no one knows names of the disappeared.

I hear their voices in wind blowing trees,
I hear their singing in rain falling bright,
and I hear their stories in swift ocean waves
that never cease reciting their lost names.

Why tear young children from arms of their mothers
like Nazis did at gates of prison camps
before they exterminated the Jews
because we are not Nazis now, are we?

Where are they now in the maze of the desire,
the care-free children who have disappeared
behind the Looking Glass of Liberty,
and can you hear them calling out for help?

I want to help but I am stuck at home
because I must work to pay bills each month
and buy food to keep my body alive,
yet I will remember the disappeared.

Those people who tear families apart
do not represent my America,
yet they commit these vile crimes in its name,
so how can we unite to stop abuse?

Though some lament America has left
the rules of decency that we once valued,
yet we will write with our inclusive deeds
new tale of a better America.

I stand alone in rain without beliefs
because all I once valued are but lies,
but I will build more realistic beliefs
to enforce moral laws I know are true.

How can we all join together and search
the vast maze of buildings across our land
to find the children who have disappeared
and reunite them with their families?

Blood Splatter In Red Sharp

Blood Splatter In Red Sharp
© Surazeus
7 March 2007
Lansing, Michigan

Tarzan leaps from high tree to rescue
Jane bound by rope in mining camp
and her torn dress flaps in jungle wind
as he carries her safe swinging on vines.

Beth looks away from Tarzan cartoon
to stare at mother lying still on a couch
who covers her eyes with a scarred arm.
Mommy I want some peach ice cream.
But her mother grunts and never moves.

Crawling over to couch Beth lifts blanket
and stares at smooth shining silver metal
of her prosthetic foot that cannot feel
touch of fingers when she caresses steel.
Tell me what happened to your leg mom.
But mother groans and turns on her side.

Beth runs off to far side of living room
and hides behind curtain by bookshelf.
Bullets kick up dust and ping Humvee
so she hangs on tight to rifle and radio
as Joshua races narrow crowded streets
of Mosul through hail of banging bullets.

Brandy turns to shout at Sergeant Wells
how are we going to find Hajji snipers
then blinks when bullet splatters his brain
all over her face so she wipes away blood.
Blood splatter on window reminds me
of modern art paintings in a quiet museum.
I will name it Blood Splatter in Red Sharp.

Mom I want to take violin lessons again
Beth whispers touching long matted hair.
We used to paint together before you left
giggling as we smeared color on canvas.
If I twang your hair will it vibrate sweet
stretched taught on your pale violin skull.

Doorbell rings so she hangs her head low
bye mom I am going with Amina Aziz
to painting class so I will be back for supper.
Beth waves goodbye to ghost who smiles
in a photo dressed in sharp Army uniform.

Thirsty for water and needing to go pee
Brandy huddles on her cot in barracks
behind barbed wire in wild Mosul maze.
Gripping knife she creeps through hall
out tent door and across vast dark camp
past electric generators rumbling so loud.

Shadows lurking in gloom leap fast
so she swings knife to drive them back
but they grip her wrist twisting her arm
and force her face down in cold dust.
Her platoon buddies rip off her pants
so Brandy squeezes her eyes shut tight
gritting her teeth at sharp searing pain
as they take turns biting at her neck.

Sweating and fighting ghosts tangled
in quilt her children made for welcome
home Brandy falls thump on white carpet
then sits staring sticky-eyed at television.
Lilo and Stitch are chasing a blue demon
whose breath freezes everything to ice.

Beth where are you she calls in a voice
weak from paralysis of numbing fear
then lies down hiding her face to dream
about white pony and pink ribbon dress.
Taste of blood tingles her parched tongue
so she grips spear and rides stallion swift
thundering over oak-covered hills to hunt
men who kidnap girls from her village.

Slave trader cowers before her gold face
of fierce wrath and begs mercy for his life
spare me Valkyrie and I will pay in gold.
Gertrude daughter of Odin Gertwulf snarls
you buy and sell our women and children
and for this crime against justice you die.
Brandy snaps awake at memory of her hand
thrusting spear deep in his heart with a twist.

Lurching to walk on steel and flesh legs
she hobbles to kitchen and drinks cold water
staring at red butterflies in garden of herbs.

Two Hundred Tea Bowls

Two Hundred Tea Bowls
© Surazeus
2018 05 28

Staring at shelves with two hundred tea bowls,
in every shape and color possible,
the old man hugs cracked guitar to his chest.

"That is how I think of the poems I sing.
Each one is a pot I molded and baked
and then set on a shelf with all the others
to just be, so useless and beautiful,
till time cracks the meaning of all their words
into shards of surreal absurdity."

The old woman with three eyes takes one down,
lumpily oval and black with white skull
that grins with star eyes into secret souls,
then pours hot tea in with honey and milk.

Sipping tea, the old man with cracked guitar
sits on the wood porch of the ancient house
and silently watches people walk by,
studying the shapes and colors of each face
to read the history of all their ancestors
and see the trails they walked around the globe
to become this random person in flesh.

"Each one of us, like a special tea bowl,
was molded by the hopes of our ancestors,
and now we walk around the city streets
and sit around in buildings, doing things,
so useless and beautiful as we are,
we humans who evolved by accident
from sweet eyeless ooze of the shining pond."

The old woman with three eyes holds his hand
and points to the young boy with new guitar
who sings on the street corner to the cars
that whiz past in a blur of flashing sunlight.

"I see face of American Apollo
returned alive in that ambitious boy
who howls the agony of modern life
in beautiful tones and absurdist lyrics
that reveal the mystery of aching hope
to evade the mute destruction of death.
I want to hear you sing again, my friend,
for the poet who cannot sing is dead."

The old man presses fingers on three strings
and strums harmonious vibration of thought
that ripples ratio of melodious love
like wind blowing on surface of the pond
which reflects the face of humanity.

"I will mold in the pot of flesh from clay
the face of every soul who ever lived,
and teach them ancient words so they can say
they knew the truth before they were deceived.
We walk down the road of the world to find
the secret of love hidden in our mind."

"We wear the soul mask that our parents made
and play the role that our ancestors dreamed
till we swerve away and try to evade
horror of death with hope to be redeemed.
We walk down the road of the world to seek
the secret of truth in new words we speak."

"You always touch my face with tender hand
and teach me how to become my real self
so when we move through weird maze of this land
we write books of tales we leave on the shelf.
We walk down the road of the world to touch
the secret of hope we long for too much."

"We wonder why we are born from desire
and must invent the person we will play
so we gather to drink the juice of fire
and discuss the life, the truth, and the way.
We walk down the road of the world to eat
the secret of life in the sun-ripe fruit."

People walking by stop to hear his song
with each new line that spirals from his mouth
till large crowd is standing in reverent awe,
then, when he strums last note of aching hope
and stares down at the center of the world,
they disperse onto a hundred pathways
and disappear into maze of the world.

The old woman with three eyes holds his hand
till the atoms that long pulsed in his brain
spiral down into the tea bowl she molds
from the ashes of his body, then paints
his young face with the red blood from his heart,
and sets tea bowl of his soul on the shelf.

Puzzle Of History We Play

Puzzle Of History We Play
© Surazeus
2018 05 27

The challenge we all face is how to live
drama of the chess game of power we lust
to consume every fruit from Tree of Life
if we forget not to plant seeds of hope.

Each moment we swim through the maze of lies
flashing illusions from computer screens
that mirror hopes we project on face masks
people design to shield their souls from lust.

I want to play the noble role I write
for myself to star in movie of fame
while puzzling facts to create my new name
from how ice-frosted windows reflect light.

I enter world stage through false door of hope
and speak these lines I rehearsed in the dark
but other actors do not speak their lines
because they each play star of their own movie.

I refuse to play the supporting role
in that movie where you are tragic hero
so we all walk away from empty stage
where the hungry clown entertains the troops.

I sit in the park under nameless tree
and paint stars with the atoms of my brain
that weave the mask of this self you perceive
from the roots of fruit trees gripping my heart.

I strum strings of the lyre but melody
of despair jangles my heart out of tune
though my eyes are made of rays from the moon
which follows me through the forest of shadows.

I stop by the black river to confront
the blazing light that shrouds me in fire wings,
singing wordless horror till I know well
that name eternity whispers through me.

The man in the tower sent silver-winged planes
to bomb the home I built with broken hands
and fire burns the trees my grandmother planted
so I walk the waste land beyond paradise.

We gather on shore of the poisoned river
and soak the desert sand with bitter tears
so the world swallows our sorrow in silence
and leaves us staring at the cloudless sky.

You cannot see this agony of hope
written on the wrinkles of my fake face
because I hide in these secret runes
that riddle puzzle of history we play.

I am not Nostradamus nor Orpheus
but they both howl through the mask of my soul
so I play their roles on the stage of life
though no one is watching my comedy.

Gem Of Foresight

Gem Of Foresight
© Surazeus
2018 05 27

The Snarky Hero in the black trench coat
grabs the hand of the sensuous Femme Fatale
and both run through the city of dark mist
to escape the goons of the Dragon Queen.

Bullets zing off steel pillars and brick walls
as they dash down the narrow alleyway
and break through the secret Door of Despair
then stop in the lair of the Dragon Queen.

Eyes glowing gold as the most ancient stars,
the Dragon Queen gives them a glass of wine
and diamonds sparkle on her crown of power
as she requests the gem he tries to hide.

The Femme Fatale slips it out of his pocket
and hands it to her mother with a smile,
then looks away and steels her aching heart
when the Snarky Hero gasps in surprise.

Asking how he retrieved the Gem of Foresight,
the Dragon Queen studies its shifting aspects
as the Snarky Hero recites the tale
how the Femme Fatale came to him last month.

They followed mysterious clues through the maze
of lies and deception to the cathedral
where the King of Thieves operates large gang
of honest priests who steal from working people.

Six false gems they found in various places
till at last they found the true Gem of Foresight
ensconced in forehead of the marble statue
of the Ancient God in Temple of Feasts.

Battling thirty guards in temple of shadows,
they pried the gem loose from the mindless statue
then ran through the maze of deceptive mirrors
till they escaped through the Door of Desire.

The Dragon Queen holds the gem to the light
that gleams from the heart of the silver moon
and smiles to possess the power of foresight
which reveals process of future events.

Surprised at the vision that she perceives,
the Dragon Queen orders her Mute Enforcer
to kill the Snarky Hero and his bride,
then glares at her daughter, the Femme Fatale.

Admitting they married in city hall
because he won her heart with honesty
and goodness to protect the weak from harm,
the Femme Fatale runs back into his arms.

The Snarky Hero pushes her away
just in time to avoid the slashing blade
then battles the Mute Enforcer in fight
of wits through swift elegant dance of death.

Pretending to fall backward in misstep,
the Snarky Hero snatches the sharp knife
and stabs the Mute Enforcer through his heart,
then stands tall and straightens his suit and hat.

The Femme Fatale in the slender skirt suit
grabs the hand of the handsome Snarky Hero
who cracks a joke and kisses her soft lips
and both run to follow the Dragon Queen.

Catching up to her on the shining bridge,
that arches over the River of Souls,
the Snarky Hero and the Femme Fatale
stand together before the Dragon Queen.

Holding the Gem of Foresight to the sky,
the Dragon Queen gazes at flashing visions
which reveal everything that may occur
from this moment through the cause of our actions.

Overwhelmed by strange visions of all futures
that could occur from multitude of causes
branching outward through infinite volutions,
the Dragon Queen screams and clutches her head.

Lightning bolts flash from the Gem of Foresight,
zapping the functions of her flashing brain
that short-circuits the world view of her mind
which collapses into disordered chaos.

Snatching the Gem of Foresight as it falls
from her twitching hand, the Femme Fatale slips
the dangerous gem safe into leather purse,
then holds her mother twitching in her arms.

Weeping at the blank stare of her gray eyes,
the Femme Fatale mourns the death of her mother
while the Snarky Hero stands in the wind
and muses on the arrogance of power.

Temples Of Authority

Temples Of Authority
© Surazeus
2018 05 27

The constant turmoil of human aggression
causes imposition of law and order
through reaction of stronger government
to arrest and restrain rebellious forces
so offices performed by noble heroes
encrust into powerful institutions
that require new people to maintain strength
of life beyond each passing generation.

Like coral reefs erected by small creatures
who live and die for many generations
yet leave behind massive calcium structures,
government institutions grow from work
of individual officers who follow
guidelines established by actions of heroes
so monarchies long ruled by dynasties
of individual kings spring from great gods.

Yet why do we build nations on one god
who played dramatic role of noble action
wrestling death and defeating greedy tyrants
to lead their band of people through the desert
in hungry quest to find the fertile garden
and, after killing indigenous tribes,
establish eternal empire of justice
based on the story of his great achievement?

I would push statues of heroic gods
off high pedestals of national worship
and burn legends of their noble achievements
to free minds of all people from the grip
of their huge overshadowing divinity
so every person can write their own myth
that stars themself as the heroic god
on quest to earn happiness through great action.

Instead I would place statues of the gods
of every nation in hall of great heroes
on equal level in myths of mankind
so every tale of heroic achievement
is read and cherished by all human tribes
and presented to children as role models
for wrestling death and defeating numb fear
that blocks true way to build our own good lives.

Though institutions of our governments
loom over us as temples of authority
we navigate the endless maze of mirrors
to evade illusions of social power
and seek to live our own dramatic lives
refreshing old systems of interaction
to break beyond the walls of paradise
and write new myths in the history of life.

I Am The Rain

I Am The Rain
© Surazeus
2018 05 27

The rain that falls on my head in this land
falls not on the heads of people in deserts
where no butterflies spring from rotten hearts
of the dead who fell out of broken doors.

When the rain falls I stand inside the door
of the house I built not with my own hands
to watch the faces of people in rain
who once lived here two thousand years ago.

Though the rain falls from the eye of the sun,
transforming into the soil of my flesh,
each seed I plant in the hearts of the dead
grows tall knowing the name I tried to hide.

Rain drops splatter against the silver window
to write the original songs of life
in fluid letters that flow down the sky
and water seeds of laughter in my brain.

The rain that falls in my eyes in this land
once sparkled in lakes all over the world
and reflected the eyes of conscious creatures
who became aware of themselves alive.

Though all those creatures who gazed in those lakes
died and dissolved to dust before my birth
the conscious visions of their hopes and dreams
shine still in the rain falling on my face.

The dead who try to crawl back through the doors
wander whispering in the wind of our dreams
for our brains invent ghosts we want to see
who alone know secrets we want to hide.

Gold sun gleams through swirling clouds after rain
indifferent to strange energy of love
its beams spark bright in our hope-aching hearts
which sprout songs like flowers from our moist brains.

The rain that falls on my face in this land
at one time in the spinning of our world
was consumed by conscious creatures who woke
from dream of atoms and sang to the rain.

Every drop of water cycles through shapes
down mountains as rivers through lakes to seas
then swirls as clouds that fall on us as rain
and pulses in every cell of our bodies.

I feel the rain gushing as flashing blood
that flows through the veins nourishing my soul
so we we look at each other in eyes
of shining water we kiss as the rain.

We are the rain in these bodies of flesh,
embracing each other to generate
more bodies of water who wake from dream
and remember our dance in the vast sky.

The rain that falls through my soul in this land
remembers dancing in the flow of waves
through every river and lake of the world,
and leaping high from every ocean tide.

Only the rain has smaller hands than yours
so when we hold hands on our endless walk
the drops of rain that compose our strange souls
connect our hearts with the song of the rain.

When I die all the water of my flesh
will evaporate back to the vast sky
and become one again with swirling wind
to dance in the sparkling beams of the sun.

Falling rain soaks soil and is sucked by roots
then bloom as flowers that bulge into apples
which I eat to taste the soul of the world
so I am the rain and the rain is me.

Cartilage Of Our Clan

Cartilage Of Our Clan
© Surazeus
2018 05 26

While twisting ivy vines into thick strands
to weave wicker basket with crafting hands,
Lucia whistles popular melodies
that muses play on the theater stage.

Returning from the vineyard on gray donkey,
Tumnus falls drunk into soft pile of hay,
then staggers across atrium to workbench
where he slouches to watch Lucia twist vines.

"I am the most worthless fool in the world,"
he mumbles, caressing her long red curls,
"for I am the cartilage of our great clan,
the stupid drunk in house of senators."

Lucia grips his chin to glare in his eyes,
"You are strong cartilage of our noble clan,
for your twisted jokes that mock haughty fools
bind our hearts together with your pure love."

"Since our mother died in the accident,
crushed by frightened horses pulling the cart
heavy with brass cauldrons, your playful words
lighten our heavy hearts with loving laughter."

Kissing her check, her shoulder, and her arm,
Tumnus laughs and flops backward on the bench,
"I am the big toe of our noble clan
for I keep stubbing it in trying to dance."

Lurching to his feet, Tumnus sways to music
only he can hear, curving arms up high
like cloud-leaping hawk wings, then twirls around
like old women in some cordax mask dance.

"Your playful joy for the beauties of life,"
Lucia giggles, watching him dance, "inspire
my heart to see the world the way you dream
its mundane facts as wondrous miracles."

"You weave your dance through spaces of our hearts
like I weave these strands of elegant plants
to create baskets that help me carry fruit,
along with nuts and mushrooms I can find."

"Though many people buying meat at the market
discard the cartilage of the animal
as the part worthless for us to consume,
yet it binds bodies of all creatures whole."

"You are the cartilage that holds us together,
focusing our minds on important tasks,
for though you are wild from angst of stalled hope,
yet you lead us straight on this journey of life."

Bowing to her praise, Tumnus lifts small flute
he carved from hawk bone, and plays melody
quicker than hummingbird on lilting wings
while prancing pale in beams of flashing light.

Running From Desert Of Snakes

Running From Desert Of Snakes
© Surazeus
2018 05 26

When the world around us crumbles to lies
we wake from dream of illusions to see
real world of buildings and people in sunlight
because the dome of the world view we shared
shatters from strain of twisting contradictions
when dictators and their minions attempt
to impose false world view that does not match
reality we sense and measure with words.

I stand on the lawn of my home and stare
at silent blue sky where white clouds swirl slowly
to scatter sparkles of hope in my hair.

I wonder why we are alive at all
and why anything exists in vast space,
then savor the surge of blood in my veins
that feeds the spark of neurons in my brain
which conjures virtual model of the world
assembled from every tale I have seen
in one seething mosaic that presents
complex world view which can incorporate
every world view humans have ever dreamed.

I mow the lawn in hot afternoon sun,
wiping sweat from my eyes with old tee-shirt,
then think about the Guatemalan woman
shot dead in the head by the border agent
when she was running from desert of snakes
to cross from Mexico into lush Texas.

Though I love her I will not say her name
for I would have to name ten million more
who flee from war to seek the Promised Land,
so I cannot sing this grim elegy
for her alone while she lies in my arms,
eyes staring blankly at the godless sky
where the rainbow of her soul pierces deep
my heart with love to bring her back to life.

O beautiful for spacious skies, they sing,
marching with guns to attack desert lands
so bankers can control the fields of oil
that fuel machine of our global empire
connected by computers that blink numbers
to calculate functions of productive action

Since we arrived four hundred years ago
we swarmed across this land of fertile plains
from sea to shining sea, paving highways
from asphalt mixed with tar that swallowed dragons
and now fuels engines of cars and airplanes
that swirl around the Earth like honey bees.

Now I will say her name with aching love
for she is the spirit of Mictlan,
the world that teems under America,
Claudia Patricia Gomez Gonzalez,
though in her face I see the ancient soul
of Ix Chel, Goddess of Fertility,
who sparks rain to drench my home in her tears.

In bright jungle of Cozumel I listen
to Ix Chel proclaim oracle of truth
while jet planes soar across the boundless sky
and tanks rumble into deserts and jungles
so the Emperor of Money extracts
minerals from the heart of the weeping world.

On top the giant pyramid of skulls,
shrouded in the vines of computer wires,
I find Ix Chebel Yax weaving from light
the fabric of our bodies to contain
eternal pulse of sunlight in our brains.

She takes my hand and leads me to the pool
of ten billion souls where all our eyes glow
with star light beaming from the Whirling Whole
then molds new mask of life for me to wear
after breaking the mask that silenced me.

Now I sing the magic of her true name
for though she was shot by bullet of greed
she lives forever in our memories
teaching us to play new more equal game.

This land is my land, this land is your land,
from Guatemala to the hills of Georgia,
but this land was made for me, not for you,
so if you try to cross the border wall,
enclosing paradise for me alone,
I will shoot you behind the Tree of Life.

Who will weep for you while I eat my slice
of the American Pie, clever Claudia?

Who will work in orchard of apple trees
I planted on the graves of your ancestors
when my great-grandfather shot them all dead
and planted seeds in their still-beating hearts,
except for you, so if you can evade
Jesus-worshipping patriots with guns
I will hire you for ten cents an hour
to pick ripe apples from the Tree of Life
which I bake in the American Pie.

No Angel of the Lord came down from Heaven
on rainbow wings of Ix Chel to protect
Claudia Patricia Gomez Gonzalez
forever running from desert of snakes,
though I say her name to keep her alive
so her ten thousand sisters with star eyes
will arrive safely in the Promised Land.

I stand on the lawn of my home and stare
at silent blue sky where white clouds swirl slowly
to scatter sparkles of hope in my hair.

Take The Knee

Take The Knee
© Surazeus
2018 05 26

During his weekly television show,
discussing the games and players of sports,
the young sportscaster lays aside stat sheets
and speaks about the recent controversy.

"The fierce game of football is nothing more
than men fighting over plump pig-skinned ball,
like two villages fighting for the herd
of pigs that roam the woods between their gates."

"Now ball players take the knee to protest
policy or injustice they dislike
and focus attention of society
on something they personally feel is wrong."

"The white male Christian Tim Tebow would kneel
to share his faith in the Bible and God
and protest the law that allows abortion,
presenting himself as the good role model."

"The black male Colin Kaepernick would kneel
or sit when the National Anthem was sung
to protest police murders of black people
and support the Black Lives Matter movement."

"So thirty-three franchise football team owners
meet to discuss these protests during the Anthem,
then vote that every team player must stand
with true respect when the Anthem is sung."

"I wonder why the owners of football teams
vote to ban acts of protest during the Anthem
when the black man protested police killings
but not when the white man protested abortions?"

Leaving the question hanging in the air,
the young sportscaster gathers his stat sheets
and signs off the broadcast, then walks away,
heart beating with fear that he lost his job.

Songs Of The Desert Wind

Songs Of The Desert Wind
© Surazeus
2018 05 26

Across the sun-blistered volcanic fields
of Al-Safa in the Harrat Ash-Shamah
where cinder cones simmer in waste of Syria
ten thousand stones glow with letters of words.

Warriors and herdsmen walking the hot sands
of Al-Safa, in search for pools of water
and safe caves to hide from the heat and war,
inscribed their names and deeds on broken stones.

Ahmad Al-Jallad, professor of language
in Arabic and Semitic linguistics,
leads us in the waste land of broken stones
inscribed with the songs of the desert wind.

"I, Addan son of Aws son of Adam,
while herding sheep lament my brother Saad
was captured by enemies, so I pray
that Wise Mother Al-Lat will set him free."

"May the words of my hand not be obscured
for though my name was once in every mouth
they are silent now as wind on the sand
for they forgot my glorious deeds in war."

"I am Ghayyarel son of Ghawth, shepherd
alighting in this meadow of the wind
to keep watch for the brother of my mother
who fed me with the sweet milk of her heart."

"May this halting be only for the war
as we seek the glory of foremost fame
for those who return suffer from our wounds,
so let this day be the final encampment."

Tribes of Arabs who watched their herds of sheep
learned to write the letters of Alexander
to preserve the names of their families
and record the songs of the desert wind.

Like graffiti on walls of ancient cities,
ads in classified sections of newspapers,
and posts on social media internet sites,
their stories dream their names on broken stones.

Were our civilization to collapse
and we wander lost in ruins of cities
would we write on cement walls and steel pillars
our names in the songs of the desert wind?

Wounded By Love

Wounded By Love
© Surazeus
2018 05 25

Stopping on the hill in the pouring rain,
he stares at the cottage nestled in trees
where firelight from the hearth glows in the window
uncanny flicker of aching despair.

His mother and the farmer who raised him
sit together silently by the hearth
and listen to the rain splattering the roof
in steady roar of horror and acceptance.

Pushing open the door from gusting wind,
he enters the sheltering warmth of the cabin
and stands before the farmer and his mother,
clutching the sharp knife he found in a grave.

"You always beat me with a stick till blood
burned hot under my skin and in my head
but I never understood your grim hate
because fathers never beat sons they love."

"My mother sent me to the herbal witch
who lives alone in the huge mountain cave
behind the waterfall to buy the potion
she needs that will soothe the pain in her bones."

"The old witch with eyes white as the full moon
told me the strange true tale about my birth
that harrows my heart with fear and weird joy
that her son is my real father, not you."

"When you were young my mother loved the son
of the witch, while the farmer loved my mother,
so my mother slept with the son of the witch
which swelled her belly with life of my soul."

"But when the tall handsome son of the witch
vanished without a trace one afternoon
my mother married the farmer at church
and gave me his last name when I was born."

"But when I grew older my face transformed
to imitate the face of the lost man
so the farmer beat me with the oak stick
and told me often I am not your son."

"While digging for truffles on the river shore
I found strange skeleton buried in mud
and the old witch fell to her knees and wept,
clutching the skull of my father her son."

"Now I can see strange vision in my eyes
how the farmer killed the son of the witch
in jealous rage and buried him in mud
so my mother thought he abandoned her."

"I found this knife in the grave of my father,
the knife you used to stab him in the heart,
so now I have come to exact revenge
and destroy you the way you destroyed him."

"You can beg her forgiveness all you want,
shrieking you loved her more than life itself,
but you can see by the shock on her face
that she now knows you for the fool you are."

Hurling the knife so it stabs in the wall,
he clutches the hair of the farmer tight
and shoves him outside into the cold rain
then shuts the door and sits by the warm fire.

He holds his trembling mother in his arms,
caressing her gray hair with gentle strokes,
and smiles when the farmer in pouring rain
howls in horror and rage at his dire plight.

"Tomorrow we will visit the old witch
for she is the mother of my real father
and I want to learn secrets of her art
so I can heal people wounded by love."

Silver Starfire Of Death

Silver Starfire Of Death
© Surazeus
2018 05 24

Hooded in the dark mantle of the night,
Death walks beside me on the road of light
and shows me how to navigate the maze
beyond the wall of paradise in haze.

I pluck ripe apples from the Tree of Life
and tear thick honeycombs from the beehive
to brew sweet apple cider at the hearth
where the woman screaming in pain gives birth.

Face wet from drops of wind-blown river spray,
she molds my body from foul oozing clay
then breathes silver starfire into my heart
so I fly till my body falls apart.

When flowers blossom from my fecund brain
I run in wild forest to catch the rain
then dance in flashing rays on river shore
to express sorrowful joy with cosmic roar.

After steaming it soft in bubbling pot
I bend oak plank into wheel I wrought
to imitate the spiral of the sun
which dreams my true soul with the eye of One.

Wagon loaded with baskets of ripe fruit
rumbles on shore to music of my flute
when we blaze new trail along flowing stream
while our faces glow in the last sun beam.

The strange silver bird with unmoving wings
glides among clouds where the pure angel sings
then lands in wheat field with strange roaring sound
so God steps out and walks on mortal ground.

The immortal god with shining blue eyes
offers to take me up into the skies
and show me the shape of the world below
so I can see where last apple trees grow.

I step on board his silver chariot
then change into egalitarian
when he soars off the world into frail clouds
where angels wander in burial shrouds.

While gazing at the world I catch my breath
to glide in the sun-sparkling rain with Death
who drinks the blood of billions as they die,
till no one lives in the sphere of my eye.

When Death calls out my name in cloud-high flight
I turn to see her eyes blazing pure light,
and from this spinning world of changing shapes
she vanishes into vines of red grapes.

Bubbles Of Frail Light

Bubbles Of Frail Light
© Surazeus
2018 05 24

We humans are like bubbles of frail light
who appear from this sea of molecules
to exist for one brief moment of time
when the Earth spins around the blazing sun
some few dozen times in vast void of space,
then vanish into nothingness of death
as if we had never been here at all.

How hard we work to build strong legacy
of our existence in children we make
and raise to maintain our rituals of living,
or in things we create with our hands
like gardens, walls, cities, stories, or laws,
that may still exist long after we die,
yet they too will vanish in turn of time.

So why should I make friends with anyone
who could sparkle bright with beautiful soul
that would enchant my heart with generous love
if they but disappear and break my heart,
except that, since this frail life we enjoy
burns out so quickly, we should savor well
each moment we find ourselves still alive?

Every day that I wake from foggy dreams
to emerge from gloom and stand in bright rays
of conscious awareness of my strange self
and the marvelous world of seething forms
in which we swim, consuming and consumed,
I rejoice that infinite nothingness
has not yet swallowed me down into death.

How strange that so many people who lived
on this spinning world for thousands of years,
before I was born and gaze this bright hour
on the landscape of their lost memories,
left behind in stories of gods and heroes
how they perceived themselves within this world
so I can see them still play out their dramas.

With every generation that goes by
we know more about all the past who lived
and understand more clearly this strange game
of social drama we perform to choose
what role we play in hierarchy of power
which regulates who eats and copulates
to generate new children from our dreams.

Without stopping to question my own role
I played the ancient game of learn and love
to comprehend the nature of our world
regulated by mindless laws of physics
and apply my hands toward the code of craft
to create action through the flow of atoms
which spawned children to follow my example.

In choir of voices everybody speaks
I hear consistent visions of their thoughts
expressing complex concepts of perception
through astute analysis to decide
how to live well with creative progression
that motivates our motion toward that heaven
of this good world we desire to create.

Thus I encode through strict elegant verse
conceptual paradigm my culture dreams
which calculates actions of moral justice
to guide our behavior through interaction
with other people we meet in the maze
of flashing illusions beamed from our eyes
so we sing together in choir of creation.

We hold hands and leap along rainbow bridge
of assumptions and desires which our hearts
express in beams of logistic concepts
woven into psychological dome
of crystal perceptions which mirrors eyes
of our brains that blind us to the real world,
and will vanish from our dreams when we die.

The stories and poems we compose from words
printed on paper bound in volume books
outlast everything we make with our hands,
even vast cities of computer networks
that now connect everyone on our planet
in single consciousness of flashing visions
to form frail bubble of one world mind.

Though we are fragile and will disappear,
buried under mountains, swallowed by seas,
and smashed into smithereens by stray comets,
we must shine now with the songs of our hearts
expressing the joy of our consciousness
so we achieve the best we can imagine
to glow with love in the infinite void.

Key That Unlocks Minds

Key That Unlocks Minds
© Surazeus
2018 05 23

The way I cope with rain that melts my eyes
continues to explain how laughing trees
know what I will not do before the stars
reveal forgotten clue to where I go.

Empty as the strange streets of nameless town
where the dead angel tweets old melodies
my hollow heart reveals what we all lost
before I designed wheels that mimic minds.

Overwhelmed by black light of spinning wholes
I aquire second sight from eyeless god
whose heart contains the sea of primal ooze
from which I molded key that unlocks minds.

The girl with three white eyes writes my lost name
in book of foolish spies because I lost
the last book she designed before the world
blossomed from the peach rind of timeless truth.

Beyond the dark mirror of aching love
my face shimmers clearer in ancient mere
where seven stars still shine which proves my right
to erect sacred shrine for my sweet wife.

I drive through rain on road of winding weird
to alleviate code of twisting words
that spiral genes which program memories
so I know how to grow trees from my chest.

These are not the false tales that priests contrive
to weigh our hearts on scales of moral games
when ghosts categorize our broken masks
since queens accessorize cold sterile homes.

When I climbed over wall of paradise
and invaded grand hall of haughty gods
I discovered real wings spread from my heart
so on the street she sings riddles for quests.

Once I step through the door to other worlds
I invent ancient lore to illustrate
allegory of faith in nothing real
when I become the wraith worshipped by fools.

Falling with rain these dreams electrocute
ancient spirit from streams to haunt my eyes
so everywhere I go in maze of tales
reflected in bright snow I feel the love.

Follow me through the maze of broken toys
to comprehend strange phase of rapid growth
from exponential flight around our globe
which glows woven from light of the White Whole.

Commissioned as the Lord to guard warehouse
I will play the Loaf Ward to store your wheat
and give each man one coin for every bag
so thieves will not purloin hot loaves of bread.

Walking on wild sea shore in midnight wind
I become secret core of circuit brain
which calculates weird truth we must conceal
before eccentric sleuth finds my real name.

Alone in city of ten billion souls
stare goddess teaches love to robot brains
who follow sacred laws programmed by clown
which conjures primal cause of conscious awe.

I wonder why I am nobody else
but conscious epigram that no one knows
outside the sacred clique of wise elite
who wield the special stick of ones who speak.

I claim authority to chant the spell
which conjures liberty from cave of hell
because the true white flame inside my mind
flashes clear secret name of beaming stars.

From Her Broken Heart

From Her Broken Heart
© Surazeus
2018 05 22

The endless iterations of our dreams
that dramatize reincarnations of our souls
through every moment when two lovers meet
reveal how sunlight transforms into people
in singing bubbles of clear consciousness
that bulge from primordial ooze of lust.

The young girl kicks her legs on the swing
and ignores the young boy who holds an apple
while three horses gallop along the river
which accumulates from wild falling rain.

The old woman in the long black-lace dress
touches the window with her trembling hand
alone in the mansion with forty rooms
and remembers the names of all nine boys
who loved her in the summer of the world
though none ever asked her to marry him.

The young girl on the branch of the oak tree
gazes at clouds that flash over the lake
and ponders why the words tree, truth, and trust
all spring from the word three, three fingers up.

The old woman gazes at her frail hand,
thin as paper on which she once wrote letters
to people who died centuries ago,
and marvels at how rays of sunlight gleam
through the shimmering web of her old soul
which casts no shadow on the rippling lake.

The young girl turns pages of the large book,
reading long poem Spirit of Solitude
about Alastor exploring the world
to find the girl who could transform his soul.

The old woman cradles in her thin arms
the fragile porcelain doll with blue eyes
and long gold curls made from real human hair,
then sings old English ballad Lovely Joan,
she leaped on his horse and galloped away,
but stops and stares out the window all day.

The young girl walking by the field of wheat
watches the boy ride on the milk-white steed
and hopes he offers her his ring of gold
but blushes like red rose when he rides by.

The old woman turns on the television
and feels her body vanish in sunlight
that slants through the broken window of hope
when she becomes the noble character
of the simple girl who is crowned the queen
and must navigate labyrinth of desire.

The young girl walks the empty country road
then steps on the bank tangled with thick weeds
when the horseless carriage with large wood wheels
speeds by fast as the wind into the future.

The old woman remembers his blue eyes
and gold curls like the statue of Apollo
who stands beside her, frozen in white marble
no matter how many times she would kiss
lips that never speak her name she forgot
so she reaches out to hold his cold hand.

The young girl takes the glasses off his face
and tosses his book of poems in the flowers
then pushes him down and sits on his lap
and kisses his mouth as he grips her thighs.

The old woman lays white rose on the grave
where they buried the dead baby she bore,
breathing fresh wind that blows over the lake,
and thinks about the multitudes of mothers
who lost children, and feels grief amplified
in glare of indifferent sun on her face.

The young girl watches the young boy walk away
to join the army and fight for his country
where bombs blow his body to smithereens
so the fruit tree grows from her broken heart.

Library No One Visits

Library No One Visits
© Surazeus
2018 05 22

I draw a map of the world on the window
of the last stone cathedral in the world.

The waves of the ocean swirl around rocks
smoothed round by the stories of our dead souls.

Three times the little girl in a white dress
stands under the apple tree in the park.

Where can we go when the road is erased
and all the signs are drowned in the sad sea.

Tearing pages from forgotten phone books,
the little boy with no eyes laughs the rain.

I walked across Europe ten thousand years,
along every river that still flows free.

I see an old man painting a self portrait,
but when I get close the colors are words.

The hyacinth girl cries in the blue rain,
clutching roots of flowers in her numb hands.

Precise mechanisms of televisions
reveal masks we pretend we do not wear.

She comes over the hill with the ripe sun
and holds me in her arms wide as the sea.

Because the map of Europe I redrew
shrinks around the bodies of naked lovers.

Although you lick the stamp with my blank face
a white horse lies down beside you and cries.

In the city where no one has a name
the girl invites me to ride in her carriage.

The twelve-year-old girl with long curly hair
walks me through the museum of blank masks.

All of this will never end anywhere
since the unseen hand opens the last book.

We are loved though no one can love us back
now that we have everything we can give.

The young man who steals paintings with his eyes
follows footsteps of Baudelaire through Paris.

He drops torn fragments of poems on the street
like Hansel dropping bread crumbs in the woods.

Ten thousand robots follow trail of words
through the maze where the skulls of prophets sing.

You climb these lines of verse down the night
to make shadows dance on cave wall of Plato.

You stand on the high Brooklyn Bridge with Hart
and sing with vibration of divine wind.

You dive in River of Forgetfulness
and swim backward from the Land of the Dead.

You follow Alastor to the Black Sea
where blustering storm overturns your boat.

You carry dead Adonais in your arms
and write his true name on the flowing water.

We watch every movie every composed
on the television no one can see.

The spotted owl on the oak branch contrives
to realign stars that favor true love.

The blind man wearing broad-rim leather hat
sings backward every novel ever written.

The prophet no one can hear explains why
the sky is silk as wings of butterflies.

I copy all my memories on disk
and store it in library no one visits.

She writes my name on the last fallen leaf
then kisses me when it crumbles to dust.

Brings The Distant Light

Brings The Distant Light
© Surazeus
2018 05 22

Across the windy wilderness I stride
to bear the glowing Light of Liberty
into the waste land of despair and greed
where poor people struggle in poverty.

The Angel of the Lord comes down to me
from glass halls of heaven on wings of fire
to fill me with love for humanity
on mission to save mankind from desire.

Far westward in the wilderness I go,
leaving behind decadent Babylon,
to preach the gospel in desert or snow
like Pheidippides ran from Marathon.

I stand on hilltop in the blowing wind
to bear the Word of God to heathen tribes
with Light of Truth to give sight to the blind
and teach them letters so they can be scribes.

I struggle through the waste land of despair,
feet sinking in the swamp of mocking lies,
then when I lose the Bible turn to prayer,
calling out for help to the empty skies.

I wander alone in mute wilderness,
searching in vain for the fountain of life,
then curse my pride with laughing bitterness
because I bear with human strength hard strife.

My preacher costume in torn tatters falls
so I stand naked on the sun-hot hill,
clutching at dust where no bright angel calls,
then humbly kneel to drink from trickling rill.

While slouching by the river in dark gloom
I ponder why I feel the call to preach
as if I could save humans from our doom
since all I can do well is love and teach.

I shiver in long dark night of the soul
and tumble in the emptiness of truth
till I become one mind with the White Whole
and transform into the truth-seeking sleuth.

When dawn sun gleams bright over silent hills
and shines warm on me with indifferent light
I employ my meager survival skills
to walk forward on way I hope is right.

When the gentle tribe finds me wandering lost
they take me to their home and give me food
then I look back on wilderness I crossed
and listen to their songs that lift my mood.

I listen to them chanting under stars
and in the flash of vision from their eyes
I see the journey their ancestors took,
searching for lush vale under timeless skies.

They welcome me into their roving clan
and teach me words they speak with laughing play,
so I join their exploring caravan
to learn the landscape of their ancient way.

While catching large fish by the sparkling stream,
I tell them sacred story of my heart
how my father died to save man with dream,
then show them the whole world on my road chart.

Young woman named Hopping Bird asks me why
I walked so far away from my own home
so I explain, I bring the distant light
of truth, then sigh because now I but roam.

While I sit by warm fire in gold moonlight
Hopping Bird paints my face with one white stripe
then gives me new name, Brings the Distant Light,
so I kiss and make love with my new bride.

Seven children spring from our mutual love
who follow me as I explore the land,
so I show them the Great Spirit above
who holds the whole world in his loving hand.

I came here long ago to preach the truth
about the Son of God who saved mankind,
but your ma taught me love in my lost youth
so now she is the Angel of my mind.

Treat other people with loving respect
as you want them to treat you in return
so every act from love will be correct
and always open your wise heart to learn.

Together with my loving family
we walk forth across the bountiful lands,
living divine love in humility
while tending lush gardens with crafty hands.

God Evolving Awake

God Evolving Awake
© Surazeus
2018 05 21

I have looked for God for ten million years,
exploring beyond garden of my childhood
to experience all the lands of the world,
but all I can find are mountains and seas
teeming with conscious creatures who devour
each other in hungry war for control.

I gaze at the sun blazing in the sky
and see giant spider mother who spins
rays of light in beams of bright molecules
to weave organic forms on spinning sphere,
breathing life into my body and brain,
then devouring me in blank sleep of light.

I eat the mushroom sprouting from the sun
and dream entire process of evolution
our bodies metamorphed from single cell
through each form our fetus investigates,
fish to lizard to mouse to ape to man,
as we evolve into Idea of God.

Every event in their struggle to live
my ancestors experienced in their brains,
from their conception and growth to adulthood
through conception of the next child in line,
is wired into my brain as archetypes
based on specific memories they dreamed.

So each time I am faced with some hard problem
my brain analyzes dramatic scenarios
with various processes of cause and effect
based on experiences of countless ancestors
till my brain programs strict logical steps
I can perform to gain result I want.

While dreaming every step in evolution,
how we develop new technology
by manipulating material with our hands,
I gaze into the blazing light of death
and see my face in the abyss of time
composed from faces of all my ancestors.

While searching for God I find my own soul
glowing from billions of atomic sparks
my mother generated into my body
so I explore the landscape of this world,
measuring its beauty with words I sing
to augment my consciousness of the light.

I uninstall old program in my brain
to erase the world view that I received
from authorities who know what is true,
then design new world-view ontology
which incorporates elements of truth
from every philosophy in the world.

The universe is a structure of atoms
so force of our actions will cause effects
of integration through flow of construction
or disintegration from blow of destruction
in constant reformation of new structures
so we are born and live and die forever.

I stand beside the forest pond at dawn
and watch sunlight flicker bright on the water
where I see reflection of my own face
and laugh with joy when I perceive the light
of divine consciousness within my eye
because we are God evolving awake.

What Story Will You Perform

What Story Will You Perform
© Surazeus
2018 05 21

While I am walking down the busy street,
heading in to work to earn a paycheck,
the oldest woman in the world grabs me
and gazes in my soul with eyes of fire,
then asks me with voice of thunder in clouds,
"What story will you perform through your life?"

I walk the ancient gallery of masks
through endless maze of personalities
designed and maintained by the Faceless God
who emerges from shadows of my fear
and takes for Her collection my real face
so I must perform tale I write myself.

I pause on the street amid swirl of people
and gaze at the sky blazing with red fire
as weird amazement shivers through my flesh
that I am here alive at this strange now
in all the history of the universe,
conscious that I could die ten thousand ways.

Since I could die any moment, I stop
and turn aside from my predestined path
to sit in the grass of the city park
and sing visions that flash before my eyes
that detail the struggle of human souls
to escape death by incarnating children.

I gaze at every woman walking by,
astonished at the beauty of their souls,
then laugh with wry amusement at my heart
that aches to reproduce eternal soul
which sparkles in springing coils of my genes
from tense biological urge of desire.

I must allow the woman to choose me
who wants to bear children sparked by my soul
so I conjure money with crafting hands
to prove potency of my social power
building her safe home and providing food
so we can raise successful children well.

I see grand vision of human achievement
flashing on the screen of the boundless sky
so I weave sentences in flashing verse
that conjures visions in your reading eyes
so you see vision of the universe
swirling atoms into our conscious souls.

While writing poems under vast Tree of Wisdom,
I feel weird presence of eternal soul
who beams concentrated light through my brain
so I transform into immortal God
till my frail body crumbles back to dust
and sparkling atoms disperse into air.

New Capital Socialist Empire

New Capital Socialist Empire
© Surazeus
2018 05 21

Sitting on the bench in front of the building
where he attends Christian academy,
Richard gazes across the broad front lawn
past the highway where cars glide some place else
and listens to wind in the forest pines
whisper proverbs for secret of success.

The pages of the Bible on his lap
rustle unread in the afternoon breeze
while he waits for his parents to arrive,
then imagines himself as the church pastor
preaching before attentive congregation
but his words swirl away like leaves in wind.

"What can I present about the Ways of God
that no other preacher has ever said
since we approach almost two thousand years
since Jesus walked the Earth as mortal man,
so he may not ever come back again
and maybe we misunderstood his message."

Immense heartache of meaningless despair
empties his mind like gushing waterfall,
so he floats dizzy in the hollow sky
deep inside the vast abyss of his heart,
then Richard breathes air to flash his eyes,
still sitting on the bench outside his school.

"To reckon process of cause and effect
I arrange concepts in rational row
which calculates steps of the changing form
and thus reason the progress of each action
that Jesus was mortal man who sired sons
who have reigned as kings for two thousand years."

"If Jesus was not God who made the world
and will not come to resurrect our souls
then I will become nothing when I die
and I would waste my life preaching the gospel,
nothing more than lies of preachers and parents,
so what would I do with my life instead?"

"I have spend my whole life reading in books
and watching on movies and television
stories about people from every era
struggling to live in the face of death,
so I will study art of narrative
that presents characters in human drama."

"Since Jesus was son of the tribal king,
whom he called God to present social power,
he claimed authority to rule as king
when he said, I and the Father are One,
then went on first campaign to claim the crown
and take it from the puppet of the Romans."

"If I see Jesus as one mortal man
I can better explain his role in history,
preaching that a good king rules hearts of men
instead of enslaving men to work land,
then married Mary Magdalene to sire
dynasty that has ruled two thousand years."

"Jesus was incarnation of his father,
descended from David, King of Israel,
as his son was incarnation of his soul,
in dynastic doctrine of God the Father,
then God the Son, and God the Holy Sperm,
thus claiming divine right to rule the world."

"The sons of Jesus for two thousand years,
Pharamundus, Meroveus, Constantinus,
Arthurus, Karolus Magnus, Guilhelmus,
have ruled the kingdoms and empires of Europe
by wielding the magic Scepter of Zambor
and wearing the gold Triple Crown of Christ."

"The divine spirit of the noble king,
first generated by David and Jesus,
returns again in bodies of their sons
reborn from the womb of the Holy Grail
to reign over each new kingdom and empire
based on Heaven, the first commune of Jesus."

"In this age of technological advance
we see God is metaphor for the Good King,
so I will preach new gospel of the Leader,
how every mortal man plays role of Christ
to manage business of his family company
in our new capital socialist empire."

Watching sun blaze gold beams through swirling clouds,
which resembles paintings of Jesus Christus
descending with angels to restore the Earth,
Richard feels divine Voice of Prophecy
swell in his heart from vision of his mind,
then stands to follow Golden Path of Truth.

Child Of Ocean Waves

Child Of Ocean Waves
© Surazeus
2018 05 20

From lightning flashing in the naked sky
and flowers blooming from my bleeding eye
I see the demon of the blazing sun
reflected in the face of every one
who walks the city streets each day and night
and tries to charge me for breathing the light.

I wear the gold mask of Shelley and Keats
then wander singing through signless town streets
to steal the vibrant souls from faithful fools
who always obey God and follow rules
that thieves invent to keep them in control
as long as each one plays their assigned role.

They think I am the demon of the sky
but I am human with my dreaming eye
that weaves sunlight in model of the sphere
which nourishes our happiness and fear
till death annihilates our hungry souls
and swallows us into bottomless holes.

On sparkling beach I stand in white moonlight
and sing heart-aching tunes to soothe my fright
then in the voice of howling ocean waves
I hear laughter of girls from secret caves
who reincarnate my soul in watching child
doomed to wander beautiful world exiled.

The child of ocean waves bursts from my head
and dances on my skull when I am dead
so all the tales of people never told
might fit the standard archetypal mold
which shapes the characters we choose to play
when she writes script that each person might say.

She stands on Pyramid of Watching Eye
and answers questions when people ask why
while holding flame of freedom that shall light
true way to liberty of second sight
when lost souls gather in her feasting hall
and write names of the dead on bleeding wall.

Lamentation Of Ophelia

Lamentation Of Ophelia
© Surazeus
2018 05 20

How bright my eyes once glowed with love for life,
admiring beauty of the natural world,
how sun gleams bright to illuminate spirit
of joy that emanates from every creature
who populates this spinning ball of dirt,
expressed in flowers sprouting from cool rain.

Now anguish of despair tears at my heart
and sucks all light of beauty from this world
so sullen misery of horror at death
bleaches nature gray and stains my soul black,
lightless disgust swallowing light in gloom,
expressed in weeds cracking gray cement walks.

My mother, driving home from work one night,
was smashed against the brick wall of a building
by a drunk man who was racing too fast,
and she died screaming in horrible pain
as roaring flames devoured her tender soul,
and someone caught it all on video.

This wrenching agony of visceral pain
sears my body and brain with flames of rage
to hurt this man who killed my loving mother,
because his selfish disregard for rules
of decent behavior destroyed her life,
and how I wish to dissolve into nothing.

I want to melt away into this puddle,
that shimmers on the sidewalk after rain
indifferent to this agony I suffer,
so all my pain would dissolve to relief
of numb unconcern to embolize torture
that jolts my mind with horror at her death.

I once enjoyed the process of my life,
savoring sweetness of my daily routine,
but now sharp lethargy of aching horror
paralyzes my heart with rancid torpor
that renders me unable to extract
sufficient energy to play my role.

How stale and foolish now appear my actions
that I performed with cheerful stimulus
of avid eagerness for appetite
inspired by passion welling from my heart,
so now I want to hide inside my room
and never face again the hungry world.

This vast world devours our bodies and souls
in constant transformation of our forms
when atoms that constitute thinking minds
disintegrate at crushing blow of death
which strikes with sudden violence of force
to smash the fragile shell of hope we prop.

How strange to realize that our world view,
our minds generate from perceived concepts,
is nothing more than illusion of light
our brains create in model of the world
like map of intent we follow through action
which keeps us moving through this hostile world.

Now that the world view, I always believed
reflected accurately this changing world,
shatters at the blow of her violent death
I walk naked in the dark of this globe
through ever-shifting maze of truth and lies
so I must seek the truth of light or die.

Yet in the sucking darkness of despair
that pierces throbbing anguish of my heart
with ever pulsing beat of passionate lust
I find strange light, not outside in the world,
but deep inside the burning of my soul
for all this pain of suffering sparks weird glow.

Long staring in the abyss of my heart
I find new fountain of light bubbling clear
to fill the empty hollow of my soul
with serene contemplation of my death
for though I will die like my mother died
yet light of pain still flashes through my mind.

Though frail body of my mother was destroyed
in horrible accident of careless greed
yet she created my body and mind
from the loving passion of her bright hope,
so she lives still in body of my soul,
dreaming in the awareness of my heart.

To give her gentle soul eternal life
and reincarnate her again in flesh
I will generate new child from my womb
to concentrate the passion of her heart
in living person who will see this world
with the same eyes that she bequeathed to me.

Now that desire to rejuvenate soul
of my mother in grandchild of her genes
motivates my heart to seek out new life,
my eyes glow bright again with love for life,
and I perceive in the light of the sun
eternal love that illuminates joy.

This spirit of love in the human heart
though beaten by the brutal force of death
will sprout again and blossom from grim doom
for light will always glow from hostile friction
and flash rejuvenating light of love
to light our eyes with willful love for life.