Vanish Into Dreamless Time © Surazeus 2022 02 10 Because we vanish into dreamless time when death erases our names from the world I want to step forward on spinning hope and dream the complex beauty of your soul this hour wind blows between our mirror minds to share our love before we disappear. So many people have lived on this Earth over one hundred million years of change, sprouting from bodies of aggressive hope, to live entire dramas of conscious love, yet every soul, rich with experience, long ago vanished into dreamless time. So I can only imagine their names, picture their faces in dream of my mind, compose narrative of their story line, and watch them relive progress of desire with sympathy for passion of their hearts that have since vanished into dreamless time. I feel conceptual vision of their minds glow awake again in my dreaming brain as I imagine feelings of their hearts that motivate their actions of desire to pursue happiness of peaceful joy before they vanish into dreamless time. Alone at midnight in my lightless home, while my wife and children dream in safe sleep, I sense every soul who has ever lived swarm around me in shimmer of desire, so I feel their loneliness in the wind, and weep they vanished into dreamless time. Small and fragile in vast canyon of love, flame of my spirit flickers in fierce wind of mute eternity, so I sing name of every person who has ever lived in single wordless melody of sorrow till I too vanish into dreamless time. Stark ache of loneliness from each lost soul pierces my heart with lightning strike of love so, self-aware consciousness of I Am, before I vanish into dreamless time, swells vast as the white whole of galaxies, thus I feel every conscious being alive. Though we will vanish into dreamless time, our names and stories erased from all minds, I sing eternal loneliness of love which connects my brain to billions of brains as we sing together in global choir to feel each other awake in the dark.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Thursday, February 10, 2022
Vanish Into Dreamless Time
My Vagabond Heart
My Vagabond Heart © Surazeus 2022 02 10 My vagabond heart refuses to wait for sorrow to transform this wretched world of random suffering from disease and war to sweet paradise where nothing goes wrong, so I escape dark maze of poetry gangs to walk in signless forests with mute owls. No conscious soul ever returns from death for, once the system of chemical functions, which generates the soul of consciousness, breaks down from disruption of the life spark, the animating soul of human thought dissipates into swirls of mindless dust. Pausing on the bridge over troubled waters, woven from rainbow sinews of despair, I gaze back at vast city maze of towers that shimmers gold in swirls of evening mist, and wonder about lives of faceless strangers doing their jobs like bees in honey hives. The giant airplane roaring among clouds, angelic wings of silver arrogance spread wide with stiff observance of blind laws, crashes into the bank in blaze of flames, erasing thousands of people from time, so brains with memories vanish to nothing. I wonder if any of those lost souls are strong enough to stand from smoking wreck and walk away from destruction of truth, people with whole lives of experience now appearing before me in their death as faceless mannequins of mindless gods. Climbing ancient stairs of dinosaur skulls, I walk through windy halls of Duino Castle to find the ghost of Orpheus by the hearth drinking wine with Seraphim in black suits, so I don leather cape Dracula gave me and carve names of the dead on granite walls. Breaking open door to the Secret Club, where laureate poets gather to gamble, the editor of the poetry journal shoots me in the back with critical praise, so I transform into the moon-eyed owl and fly in swirls with fierce Icarian wings. Falling nine days and nights from the Dream Tower, the wingless angel clutching cracked guitar falls from Heaven of the Poetry Elite to blast open cave of Hell for himself, so he sits by the fire of honest truth and sings in harmony with ocean waves.
Wednesday, February 9, 2022
My Pilgrimage Of Fate
My Pilgrimage Of Fate © Surazeus 2022 02 09 With fervent ennui borne of opaque hope, still unexpressed at the time of my death, I meditate in Pantheon of my skull to understand why death erases truth though children never study how to cope while they wander chanting in lightless school. The grand sparkling River of Joy that flows through hills of Heaven is watered by tears that bleed from eyes of angels without wings which cast enormous shadows from our fears long hidden in moon of my heart that glows bright as faces of souls by mountain springs. The House of Tomorrow on signless road, that captures moonlight for ten thousand years, waits for my wandering spirit to return with secret key for music of the spheres programmed by the blind prophet with dream code to translate wisdom from sad hearts that yearn. Because I choose weird words to be my own, expressing honest passion of the stream, I chant sad spells that highlight martial deeds to whisper ecstasy through fractured dream quicker than laughter of the drama zone when the mute girl scatters wide apple seeds. Though I look back on play of history that flows with fluid tides of aching hope I cannot see first flash of timeless love that spirals backward through atomic rope to spool galactic swirl of mystery without conceptual mirror in the cave. I am the woman lurking in the woods who travels lonely on this spinning globe to build new home in every river vale where refugees may dwell in cosmic lobe, safe in haven with multiplying broods who found religions based on mental scale. Still wandering on my pilgrimage of fate ten thousand miles from my lost mountain home, I measure sunlight with conceptual word that weaves our memories in psychic genome reflecting how my soul must navigate maze of myths to Theater of the Absurd. The woman with burning eyes writes my tale in Book of Souls to chronicle my quest across the waste land to Garden of Zawth where my bride Ishtar wants to build our nest in apple grove by Moon Lake of Crow Dale as marble temple to preserve our troth.
Tuesday, February 8, 2022
Bridge Over Troubled Waters
Bridge Over Troubled Waters © Surazeus 2022 02 08 Stumbling on the bridge over troubled waters, lost in the never-changing sunset glow through eerie blue mist of the twilight zone, I search for faces of my long-lost friends behind mirror masks of the nameless ghosts who walk forever toward where I am not. Clutching old guitar in my red right hand, which I stole from statue of the dead god, I search through shadows of wind-swirling trees for hungry monsters of the howling wind, but all I see in mirror of the pool is face of the stranger who is not me. Bellowing with buzz of passionate brame, that motivates my leap across abyss, I translate misery of my blinding grame with disheveled angst of silent-rain bliss in heart-aching melody of false faith from puzzling wisdom of messiah sleuth. Having drowned my soul in the Seven Seas to drink elixir brewed from frothing waves, I follow river flow to mountain caves where Lucifer forges gold castle keys, then sing in misty bog with the holy toad who teaches me how to map the world road. After stealing pears from the Golden Bough, that blossom with faces of chirping ghouls, I slalom around statues of dead gods in rat race for the American Dream, but fall on my face in meadow of skulls before the cow that jumps over the moon. Carving Draconian laws on Silmaril, that shimmers in frail hand of Earendil, I lead my people across the Waste Land on endless quest to find the Promised Land where we build empire on skulls of dead god who scams believers in the Justice Squad. Measuring mean position to the extreme through vibration of the mind pendulum, I swell with amplitude of dignity through shocking splendor of magnificence, by driving juggernaut of false beliefs to crush cathedrals of the vampire god. Assembling puzzle of my new world view from every weird religious myth on Earth, I laugh with delight at vision of truth that shimmers as all tale films ever dreamed which form memory banks of the global brain when God wakes conscious in the world wide web.
Calligraphy Of Blood
Calligraphy Of Blood © Surazeus 2022 02 08 Encoded through calligraphy of blood, my memories explode from conceptual seeds to bloom as melons from foul rotting muck, and spread bright angel wings of crystal eyes, then soar swift as hawk of my hungry heart through fertile camouflage of happy faith. When hordes of zombies rise from tomb of Christ to swarm in gangs invading paradise I pull Excalibur from Stone of Scone to fight the vampire king in castle tower, who beats Rapunzel with hard fist of rage, to save her from cold prison of his lust. Holding her hand with desperate hope of trust, I lead Rapunzel through the howling crowd to flee the castle court of golden mirrors, escaping tyranny in blasting rain through maze of masks to wilderness of wind so we can hide in cavern of illusions. Safe in mountain haven of our true love, Rapunzel weeps in shadow of despair as I clean her wounds with tears of sad hope, then give her Holy Grail with apple cider, so she drinks deep compassion of my heart that heals her broken heart with tender words. When dawn glitters through leaves of tall trees we walk together on the river shore, laughing with pleasure of our secret love as we rejoice in victory of our courage that we endured oppression of the king who kidnapped my bride on our wedding day. Face glowing with joy in the gold sunlight, Rapunzel gazes at me with sweet peace, then smiles with aching beauty of desire as we eat pears and make love among flowers to savor pleasure of togetherness, safe from greedy lust of the castle king. Sharp arrow pierces me with shock of pain, so I fight horde of soldiers with my sword, hacking them to death as they stab my soul, but as I tremble on my knees in rage when the king grabs Rapunzel in his arms I lunge forward and stab him in the heart. Cradling my wounded body in her arms, Rapunzel calls my name with blinding tears, begging me to stay by her side forever, so I smile and caress her rose-red cheek sad that she will be alone in this world, then vanish in calligraphy of blood.
Monday, February 7, 2022
Perceive The Why
Perceive The Why © Surazeus 2022 02 07 When the ghost wants to haunt the doorless house after she plays chess with death on the beach I paint new angel mask for her to wear so we can talk about philosophy that teaches us how to perceive the why which can never describe reality. Each Sunday we drive to the grocery store to purchase the basic necessities which support our quest for the Holy Grail stolen by the hitchhiker in the snow who studies riddles to perceive the why which mirrors illusions of the god mind. The ghost who was never someone describes how Death extracts rainbow soul from the heart that coils itself around the shaking globe though children in the playground chant sad hymns while chasing shadows to perceive the why which calculates how brains process weird truth. Though rock of salvation crumbles to sand at relentless laughter of godless seas I walk among white houses of my ghosts who read ancient myths in some holy book that fails to show how to perceive the why which flickers on the television screen. When the ghost fails to haunt the lonely house that walks through the American frontier I kneel in garden of the singing skull, where the last prophet finds tablets of tales, then translate riddles to perceive the why which designs how flowers breathe out the wind. So many houses on old signless streets entomb mute spirits of the baptized saints killed by the crownless virus of despair though they had prayed to their god in the clouds for new salvation to perceive the why which repeats love songs on the radio. My mind is not quite right as moonless rain, so I walk in the graveyard where mute ghosts whisper secrets long ago carved on stones which devils use to play fun baseball games hoping we forget to perceive the why which records our stories on tangled tape. When the ghost invites me to paint her face concealed by shimmer of eternity I hold her hand with confident desire we can generate new life with our love that inspires my song to perceive the why which can always describe reality.
Asleep Over Paradise Lost
Asleep Over Paradise Lost © Surazeus 2022 02 07 I fall asleep over Paradise Lost, and dream I fall wingless from castle tower, then search maze of theaters for the ghost of Ophelia who clutches the last flower, so I hold her hand by the jeweled gate to curse the singing skull of starless fate. Bold soldiers of the empire with clean guns march singing with white flag of the Red Cross while silver airplanes soar past blood-red suns in brutal world war over who plays boss, but Eve leads me to garden of dead trees where blind Orpheus clutches language keys. Yet deep in labyrinth of the bleeding book I find Achilles and Odysseus sitting together by the babbling brook with computerized skull of Orpheus which calculates global economy to calibrate faith through astronomy. Alone on mountain of cold sparkling snow I climb on rugged knees of Mother Time who teaches me how to shoot with the bow, though I prefer to play the lyre and rhyme conceptual logic of parallel thoughts encoded in myths that guide astronauts. Phoenician sailor on the purple sea docks in Seattle after morning rain, then offers sharp Sword of Dido to me he stole from granddaughter of Charlemagne, because great empires rise from flames of war, masked with new names that hide their psychic core. Whether I choose Pegasus or Aethon as noble mount to ride in grand parade, I will play role as son of Apollon to marry blind daughter of the Mermaid, since Hidden Dragon is king of the world who rules unannounced by the cosmic herald. The ghost of Pallas in the White House writes laws of the jungle on its marble wall that support principles of civil rights only angels could claim before the Fall, so when Lilith finds Adam kissing Eve she screams in rage and demands they both leave. Though I wake at ringing of the church bell, long after God and Lucifer have died, I remember life in Heaven and Hell, once real cities that have been codified as timeless concepts in some ancient myth forgotten since fall of the monolith.
Skating On Hard Ice
Skating On Hard Ice © Surazeus 2022 02 07 Though you have fallen skating on hard ice, Beverly Zhu Yi, with your moon-black eyes, you rise again on Phoenix wings of hope to soar on light with graceful flight of joy, transcending limits of this fragile frame through which we reach to touch immortal stars.
Sunday, February 6, 2022
Sorrow Of The Eyeless Horse
Sorrow Of The Eyeless Horse © Surazeus 2022 02 06 The sandhill crane with golden wings transcends dusky obsession of the parasite who wanders lonely on the signless moor still searching for love outside of their head, but language dribbles from their mouth as blood so they become the neon alpine newt. Caressing spanish moss on southern oak, the cat-faced woman in the marshy swamp creeps along edge of the empty highway where no cars with blaring radios glide on beams of rainbow light to paradise where silver heron preserves my lost soul. Black alligator gliding in green swamp sings ancient hymn to Tiamat as praise for Deathless Mother walking on the beach who whispers secrets in my hollow heart as she gives me ripe mango for my tribe who dance around bonfires with scary masks. The car mechanic wearing Swamp Thing mask carries his bride down steps of the white church while guests throw rice in fertility rite which sprout into nameless ghosts of lost love to haunt their cottage on the gravel road where the marsh owl contemplates the moon face. The gold-eyed osprey of my aching heart, who mocks my vain search for the Holy Grail, soars over maze of myths in global city to find wingless angel with book of tales weeping by fountain of the flying horse who decides he will run for president. The hidden dragon of the global seer, who wears mask of Orpheus as he plays jaunty tunes with guitar on crowded streets, escapes assassins of the drug-gang king, running through the maze of cause and effect till he wears crown of the crucified god. The singing killdeer of the crowded court, where blind-folded Justice with sword of truth fights against tyrant of the frightened gang, presents new revelation to mankind composed by swamp turtle on ruby throne that features sorrow of the eyeless horse. The Deathless Mother with long tangled hair, woven with bones, snake eggs, and cypress roots, molds swamp muck into body for my brain to radiate conscious spirit of my mind so I sing spells with the growling grass frog who sits on mushroom blooming from my heart.
Rivers In My Heart
Rivers In My Heart © Surazeus 2022 02 06 Because I carry rivers in my heart, and weep for every person who has died so their new bodies may sprout from the Earth, I ebb and flow with the ocean of life in harmony with our mothers who name our bodies as we flow into this world. Because I sing with rivers in my mouth, naming every person who ever lived as water contained in body of flesh, I muse about electric flash of soul that spirals in bright neurons of my brain as waves that break against the ocean shore. Seized by the ancient spirit of this Earth that bubbles in fountains from my soft skin, I walk along the winding water stream that leads me from the mountain to the sea so I can measure universe of things that glimmer as I hum in evening glow. My eyes perceive whole shape of seething things that quiver as water in shell of flesh when sunlight slants through prism of my soul on psychic beams of conscious solitude when echoes recoil back from cosmic sign conflating fractured shards of dreamless eyes. Because I pulse with rivers in my heart, while gazing through veil of being to perceive conceptual essence of atomic swirls, I call to castaways on ocean shore who rise from shadow of the sunlit sand to walk with urgent ebb of hungry hope. Through endless cycles of returning tides that swirl around my body on hot sand my spirit evolves from glistening slime, fish to lizard to mouse to cat to ape to wingless angel dancing wild in wind, bodies flowing through bodies of our mothers. Prismatic colors of my flashing brain sparkle in eternal darkness of time as temporary flame of conscious mind that flows through my body in surging stream of water falling from Heaven to Earth which explodes into apples I consume. The Deathless Mother of the ocean mind calls my eternal name in gusts of wind as bodies evolve from immortal genes to nurture conscious sense of my I Am, so I sing my hour on stage of desire, then vanish back into womb of the world.
Nothing Of The Night
Nothing Of The Night © Surazeus 2022 02 06 At silver break of sudden day I hear birds singing in apple trees by the lake, so I follow call of desire to find shadow of lost hope lounging in west grass, so we eat walnuts in bright rays of dawn and sing about strange nothing of the night. Snow fairies whirling in cold azure air wake us from afternoon slumber of faith so we leap laughing on the sparkling hill with joyful rapture of beautiful time that weaves our bodies from soft river breeze till we descend to nothing of the night. With stealthy attitude of honest fear we creep together in shadows of trees to snatch ripe apples before serpents strike then run with gasping breath down to the lake where we lounge giggling on the sparkling grass, embracing mute in nothing of the night. Sometimes I wake from shadow of the sun alone in glowing silence of the lake, so I call out your name with anguished voice of desperate fear till you answer my cry with flaming passion of the silver moon that shrouds our souls with nothing of the night. Your hair disheveled by the wanton wind, your eyes bright glowing with tears of the lake, you run into my arms from distant shade to press our heaving breasts in tight embrace so we become wild heartbeats of our love that lights our minds through nothing of the night. If we must die with turning of the globe on which we hunt for fruits and nuts to eat we always hold hands tight with fearful hope as side by side through solitary way we explore lush river vale of our dreams with hope to escape nothing of the night. We turn our faces to the glowing sky where timeless sphere of light in silver clouds observes our journey on vast windy plain to kneel by crystal rill in open glade and drink immortal waters of the world that energize our nothing of the night. One hundred thousand years of timeless peace we journey life by life across the land, defeating demons in caverns of rage, to generate new children from our souls who leave our bones behind to journey on, forever seeking nothing of the night.
Saturday, February 5, 2022
Pale Light Of Winter
Pale Light Of Winter © Surazeus 2022 02 05 Pale light of winter in my mirror eye that guides me through maze of the Otherworld on signless road of truth, extracting why of wordless wisdom the demon unfurled from tangled roots of apple trees, reveals how we travel faster through time on wheels. Though Theseus never wanders without hope between cities crowded with story slaves who chase rainbows, still learning how to cope with dance of his wife in jeweled sea caves, he breaks through barriers to reach his goal, to power world empire with prayer, not coal. Alone by highway of the time machine, between the prairie and the mountain range, clutching his broken guitar with grim mien, Theseus explores process of psychic change in ballads mocking greedy corporate kings who commodify stolen angel wings. Sitting on lush shore of the gushing stream in demon-shadow of the misty vale near Mount Takoma, I design weird scheme for social heroes in grand cosmic scale of noble deeds, recorded by the bard who nurtures revolt against the old guard. Fighting tyranny of the Minotaur, who runs factories and banks in every town, Theseus writes magic spells in the grimoire he evokes to forge the new goddess crown worn by First Mother of the crystal lake, then records prophecies of the blind snake. Hoping to evade curse of Oedipus, by searching for Star Witch in her Dream Cave, Theseus names his first son Americus so he can translate song of her brain wave that flashes through wires between telephones, based on black flag with the skull and crossbones. Potent ardency of the eyeless girl who plants apple seeds in Garden of Death with gentle hands, despite the fractured pearl of stark infinity, propagates breath through conscious passion for blooming of fruits which emanates demons from tangled roots. Perceptive jesting of the cavern troll, who dares defy harsh tyranny of God, inspires Theseus to perform the role Melpomene wrote to expose his fraud, though he wanders lost in vast maze of myth to learn poetic art of the Dream Smith.
While Angels Howl
While Angels Howl © Surazeus 2022 02 05 Aloft on fragile wings of schadenfreude I query angels of the pious clouds for how to play seditious games of truth which measure infrangible words of light based on obsequious love for prestige despite my gasconade on the world stage. Steadfast on treeless hill of arrogance I meditate with guidance of brute wind through moral pulchritude of honest hope while tyrants in the castle gormandize conceptual visions bleeding from our eyes still inimical to the fustian seer. Shielded by process of the rigmarole I battle blind angels with flaming swords who abjure loyalty to the mad king commensurate with shocked experience earned by draconian laws of amity restored by treaty with the jovial god. Feigned wisdom of the regnant patriot I dare present with moxie of the fool contaminates cool fountain of the queen who lounges by the pool of skeletons to read gossip in the morning gazette while angels howl in hurricanes of love. Awake with divine consciousness of fear I navigate valley of death at noon to map safe way around slough of despond where children of lost angels chase rainbows till they stop by the never-open door to prove they are trapped in the maze of myths. Annoyed by riddles of the portolan I wander weeping on beach of wrecked ships to find thalassic angel without arms who clutches treasure map of paradise stained red by tears of sorrow I conceal as crippled child of the funambulist. Inspired by graceful beauty of Ceres I stab moist Earth with razor angel wings through fractured mirror of cerulean eyes to analyze effects of primal cause revealed through art of cereology which prophesies reign of the chanticleer. Masked blank by ever-changing face of fate I play celestial role of wingless angel fallen by the tower where Rapunzel sings with logomachy of the merry fae still aching to return to Avalon after my gasconade on the world stage.
Friday, February 4, 2022
Arrogant Pride Of Nature
Arrogant Pride Of Nature © Surazeus 2022 02 04 Strange beauty of rolling thunder displays arrogant pride of nature, from fraught faith compelled by hunger to haunt lonely souls by murderous lakes, reluctant to know why trees weep in shadow of hope, yet we still seek each other on the signless road. Soft passion of lovers, who almost kiss beside still waters in meadow of skulls, animates our bodies with eager hope to evade death, even when cheerful gloom, exposed by moonlight, escapes dreadful flight of eyeless owls across the stark red sky. Strict anguish of mothers, whose children die at breathless whisper of trees, far beyond crumbling walls of faith, strikes heart of dark truth sinking in bottomless lake, though mute seeds sprout roots that devour foundations of love too deep underground for the moon to know. Pale for weariness of climbing nowhere, too blind to gaze at suffering of lost souls on naked Earth, cold moon with joyless eye finds constant faith entombed in my dark heart birthing stars from fear, yet still I believe time will fragment my body into dreams. Fiery flight of immortal stars, who sing of horror cramped in caverns of blind souls, blazes new way of passionate desire through deepest nothing of dishonored faith, yet we are wanderers with empty hands who seek safe nest of hope in hostile waste. Outgrown sorrow we once consigned to light of crumbling mountains, never more contained by snapping laws of nature, emanates tombless shadows from timeless radiance to fracture azure skies where statues weep over truth transfused in veins of foul blood. Frail bones of naked desolation prop temples of dead gods on undulant slopes where laughing flowers consume shriveled brains of wingless angels lost in paradise, yet with dull time I slouch on treeless mound to replay memory of the running horse. Imperfect future of this brighter sphere, that spins in murky depths of sunlit lake, expands beyond conceptual bounds that I measure with words, unspoken still at death of weeping wind, though existential threat trembles with every wild beat of my heart.
Mothers In Caucasian Vales
Mothers In Caucasian Vales © Surazeus 2022 02 04 Straight through glowing light of eternal day the wingless angel falls from mindless fear into startled consciousness of the way leading her to blue lake that glitters clear, so she kneels and cups her hesitant hands then drinks cold spirit of the timeless lands. This primal memory of ancestral soul that sparkles still in neurons of my brain guides how I perform my conceptual role gathering fruit of the Earth to sustain immortal soul of genes through corporal tales designed by mothers in Caucasian vales. Five thousand generations of my mind as mothers teaching daughters how to sing, based on characters their actions defined, now animate bold progress of my wing, awake in current body of my soul when I explore Earth on my morning stroll. Immortal spirit of First Mother glows as conscious vision of my current state, so clear memory of all my mothers flows through moral values that define my fate since I choose by free will how to perform creative gestures that conflate the norm. Awake in sunlit grove of apple trees, I linger entranced by the flashing course of mountain stream that blows refreshing breeze through my hair as I watch the graceful horse graze in meadow where gold butterflies float in swirls around the oak-wood, wave-rocked boat. For forty thousand years my mothers roam from Scythia to Scotland to Oregon, forever westward from our mist-veiled home, but I cannot return to Avalon that vanished from this world centuries ago so I hang out tonight with the moon crow. The ancient desire to explore the world animates my restless quest beyond here, so I wake in this life as the mute herald who records flow of life on this dream sphere to translate visions from ethereal breath before I fall into abyss of death. No matter where I have lived on this Earth, in every fertile vale where rivers sing, I cherish every home beyond its worth symbolized by gem in my wedding ring that binds our hearts in sacred rites of love since we walk hand in hand from the sea cave.
Thursday, February 3, 2022
Lost Valley Of Avalon
Lost Valley Of Avalon © Surazeus 2022 02 03 Falling forever back into myself, though I try to run away from my hope, I redesign paradigm of my fate with puzzle pieces discarded by fear to become the me I try not to be even as I grow beyond who I was. Hiding books on the glass library shelf that reveal principles of each tale trope, I rearrange the world I navigate with mask discarded by the puppeteer who pretends not to steal my tower key while I investigate the primal cause. Skating on thin ice of my ancient soul with elegant clumsiness of false grace, I search for woman whose face mirrors mine with features that reflect my opposite so we complement the stranger we love who lives on the other side of the world. Composing speeches to perform my role in timeless Theater of the God Face, I reveal new road to Heaven with sign encoded through riddles in Holy Writ based on visions I dream in the sea cave where Ishtar shows me how to play her herald. Leaping bottomless abyss of my heart deep in labyrinth of our forgotten myths, I manage Garden of Hesperides so I can give ripe fruit from tree of life to refugees who escape slavery enforced by devil on the pyramid. Tracing cause and effect on the star chart that maps tangled fate of our separate paths, I listen to lecture of Socrates who praises practical ways of his wife while he drinks from the grail with bravery to consult oracle of the Dream Grid. Returning home from theme park Wonderland with sacred scriptures I write with my blood, I weep in empty cathedral of ghosts to see face of my spouse I fear to lose, but she stands frozen in idol of stone, worshipped as blind goddess of Babylon. Standing outside gate to the Promised Land with broken lyre Mercury dropped in mud, I translate prophesies of analysts to hide identity of my song Muse who wanders weeping in the twilight zone far beyond lost valley of Avalon.
Last Day Of The World
Last Day Of The World © Surazeus 2022 02 03 I have gotten used to the feeling that every day is the last day of the world when I stand on the front lawn of this house where I have lived the last couple of years and stare at gray skies over wet hilltowns where nameless strangers go about their lives. Though millions of people die every year, from disasters, plagues, overwork, and wars, millions more are born from eager desire our bodies express to generate life in seething tides of incarnating genes as froth born from waves of our mother sea. The Deathless Mother of the fertile sea generates our bodies from chemicals sparked by beams of light from the spider sun whose billion eyes in neurons of my brain dream evolution of our universe when atoms transform into me I am. This temporary spirit that I am wakes in flashing consciousness of Now Here as self-aware soul through eternity that names itself before it fades away, so nowhere in infinity of space I become God before I disappear. Before I disappear in Mind of God as brief example of conceptual thought I breathe ethereal spirit of the rain, then sing heart-aching melody of love expressing joy that I am still alive since I can never sing after I die. From perspective of the vast universe this person I am on lawn in small town, who sings in silence of the rain-gray day, is nothing more than fragile flame of life on one small globe in countless galaxies that spiral from first flash of the big bang. I feel the White Whole of the universe glowing bright inside my minuscule brain so though I savor pleasure of this life, aching with sorrow as I sing with joy, I treasure every hour of conscious dream before I vanish into nothingness. Awake again on last day of the world, as Earth keeps spinning in the boundless void, I write words of my song in magic spell that preserves in Book of Lost Memories temporary awareness of my brain, then fall silent through all eternity.
In The House Of Hope
In The House Of Hope © Surazeus 2022 02 03 The woman collapsed in the house of hope, who wears old jeans under her flowery dress, conceals her sorrow in the eglantine that blooms from the bleeding wound in her heart, then rises to the sky with dignity to keep cooking in the church of dead gods. The wind that blows around her small white house softly creaking by river on the plain whispers secrets she does not want to hear in harmony with boiling of beef stew, so she stares blankly at the willow tree who whirls her thin arms in anxiety. The door that slams when she steps from the house waits for her to return to its sad warmth while she stands in wet grass on river shore to watch how water flows relentlessly in spiraling whorls through eternity so long she feels her name vanish in wind. Though she hears nothing but wind in the grass the woman by the river on the plain sees armies of men with guns, tanks, and planes in her motherland far across the sea kill each other in explosive world war over whose god is the right one to serve. While slicing apples to bake in the pie, sharp blade of the knife gleaming in sunlight, the woman in the house of moaning wind sees face of the nameless soldier in snow who lies on his back under empty skies while red blood gushes from his mouth and eyes. The ghost of the warrior with gleaming sword who rides black horse in cold arrogant wind flashes past kitchen window on the lawn, so she steps outside in hair-swirling wind and aims cutting knife at void of his eyes, but he calls her name as he disappears. Through swirling shadow of the warrior ghost the mailman drives up to her picket gate and hands her letter from the government which announces that her husband is dead, killed in the Forest of Broceliande, still clutching the Holy Grail to his breast. The woman wandering in the house of hope folds letter of death by his photograph, eats supper of beef stew and apple pie, then plays piano as stark evening light erases landscape of the changeless world while his child blossoms awake in her womb.
Wednesday, February 2, 2022
Miracle Of Sudden Grace
Miracle Of Sudden Grace © Surazeus 2022 02 02 Slouching by the window in the armchair to watch drops of rain sparkle on dark glass, he waits for miracle of sudden grace that never happens in the evening trance, yet floats through sudden-strange eternity at sensuous flapping of black raven wings. Bright eye of enchanting ecstasy glows open wide as nullity of the void that pulses deep in thudding drum of thought so long that he becomes expansive sight of boundless essence flowing from deep well through his bottomless heart to become why. Objective nothing of the valid gush, that spirals up as shiver in his spine, completes weird absence of value with pride through flawed deficiency he must accept beyond undoing of his conceptual soul at sharp reversal of flushed vacancy. Yet still he feels expanding flush of fear more bold than silent wings of eager flight when he falls backward from the swirling cloud substantial as wordless vibe he defines based on strict emptiness of power he wields while gazing at his face in rain-wet glass. Fervent devotion of the hostile flame explodes with soundless gleam in fractured glass when she drives their car into the driveway that strikes beams of headlights into his heart which interrupts fervor of vehemence concealed by sentiment of falling rain. The nameless face of every human soul ever confined by fear against their will glows before his eyes in dark window glass till he feels anguish of their suffering course through his body as electric blood since he never dances like the wild goat. So he sips coffee in the porcelain cup, acutely aware of the soft lamp glow that casts his shadow across the whole world while he studies paintings in the art book that depict the mother holding her child who becomes the tyrant wearing his crown. Standing up as his wife opens the door, he sighs that no miracle will occur, but when he turns to welcome her back home he remembers she died ten years ago, gassed to death in the concentration camp, so he smears blood on the dark window glass.
Image Of The Twin
Image Of The Twin © Surazeus 2022 02 02 Two of everything that exists on Earth reflect conceptual image of the twin that twirls round in tumbling turbidity with torpid truculence of aching love so I see my soul radiant in your face when we kiss to transform one spiral mind. The sparkling river that forever runs, winding through lush garden of apple trees, guides my journey beyond the Promised Land to find out where the glowing sun is born through which I discover the Earth is round as the emerald that glitters in my hand. Timeless antiquity of her bright soul generates Tellurian spirit of love through each phase of evolution we bloom from luminary reflection of self with constant flowing of rebirth to death based on her omens of tempestual calm. Awake beyond performance of the myth, which allocates special factors of truth, I walk bleak desert road to Neverland with last apple of the world in my hand so I can plant by the river of skulls new Garden of Eden with sprawling schools. Each time vast city we build from one hut enslaves its population in routine, that sustains the company over people, we follow prophet of the desert well outside safe imprisoning walls of Heaven to found new colony on stolen land. Strange ache of sorrow sinking in my heart might never motivate ambitious plan to redesign state of society so every person honors equal rights since silver angels in the godless sky drop bombs on cathedrals of ancient lies. Yet still eyeless ghost of the weeping clown wanders windy halls of dark Duino Castle to play chess with Death above the wild sea while children of Icarus build new towns along the languid Mississippi River where Hermes plays banjo around the fire. Two lovers embrace in soft moonlight glow to replicate immortal souls of genes in children springing from dreams of our brains who dance with angels on the global stage till she falls nine days and nights to the sea in vain fight against nature to fly free.
Tuesday, February 1, 2022
Ghost Of The Sun
Ghost Of The Sun © Surazeus 2022 02 01 When I forget I am not yet alive I stand in doorway to nowhere and cry. I talk to the fountain about the cave where wingless angels gather to ask why. I walk narrow alley to the beyond as children play after death in the pond. Because our planet is ghost of the sun we rearrange puzzles of truth in myths. I vanish at flash of the magic gun that crowns my shadow king of monoliths. The rain that falls on my face does not care whether I live or die in the star flare. When I remember to wear my blank face I run in meadow with horses and laugh. Stabilized process of the memory trace preserves your spirit in my psychograph. Though we sit together we never talk, yet translate sad song of the timeless clock. Uncanny words rain on the lonely hill to wash away footsteps of my lost faith. The apple on the dusty windowsill spreads raven wings to fly as eyeless wraith. Light glitters in empty void of my heart awake as atom measured by the chart. Alone I hear the lightning flash of time that spirals from stone in the flowing stream. Though no one loves me except the mute mime I love every soul on the human team. Atoms of every world flow from one source to calculate vibrant spell of the Force. Vague face of sorrow in the careless mist observes my weeping on the signless road. Inspired by passion of the hedonist, I float on mushroom as the buddha toad. Whole history of the Earth glows in my brain through crystal star eyes of the singing rain. Meditating on yellow rose of love, the white butterfly channels soul of God. Reaching my hands to empty sky above, I pray for chance to join the Justice Squad. Undone by horror of the faceless mind, I catalog every daemon I find. When I remember I am not yet dead I conceal my soul in words of the book. Alone on mountain of honey-soaked bread, I weep in tomb of the immortal cook. Escaping idol of the self I was, I calculate flow of the primal cause.
Who I Have Become Today
Who I Have Become Today © Surazeus 2022 02 01 If I could evade death another day to walk in shadow of your light, I will decide how far down signless road of hope I can leap through strange swirls of rain to find hidden cave where you are the reborn soul who knows my secret name, so I love you. I write new letter to you every day to express vision of life we could live together by the apple tree of love, yet before I can mail them to your heart they turn into ravens and fly away, taking my love for you into the sky. Each time I walk through grove of apple trees to visit your home by the sparkling lake I pause in shadow of desire, alone with aching sorrow of wind, mute as snow that translates sunlight into fear of death, then run away before our play begins. Every day I wake from dream of the flower I feel like someone else I could not be so I steal my name from grave of the dead to play their role in theater of faith till I vanish in shadow of myself and become someone else after I die. I am never the same person I was the day before I wake in awe of time because the sun keeps spinning in the sky, so I sit by the sparkling lake of dreams and wonder who I have become today, then live their life as if I cannot die. Yet when I pause in door of some strange house to look at the face I must wear today, who smiles at me from mirror of desire, I see the stranger I must name, then face strangers who walk past me in crowded streets, so I become each person I perceive. I am so many other people I forget the original self I am which emanates from faceless stone of truth on which I carve the first name of my soul I gave myself ten thousand years ago since I keep waking up as someone else. Though I evade death with every rebirth as stranger who evolves from my first self I speak the ancient name of wind and rain to redefine that self I want to play, then laugh when I realize I am still me, for I will love you, whoever you are.
Still Waters Of Lost Faith
Still Waters Of Lost Faith © Surazeus 2022 02 01 The situation cannot be ignored in which the wingless angel forgets why our deathless mother invents secret name that guides our journey in waste land of hope to sit beside still waters of lost faith and feast at table heaped with rotten fruit. Without the broken tablet of fake words that crumbles like stale bread in trembling hands the wingless angel cannot find true way that leads through labyrinth of the howling queen to weep beside still waters of lost faith and talk to mute god in the empty sky. The deathless mother on the pyramid who watches lightning strikes define the truth weeps with anguish as she wanders alone in maze of market streets with moaning wind to groan beside still waters of lost faith and name the corpses rotting in dry dust. The wingless angel with one tear-wet eye climbs shining pyramid of divine truth to find goddess of immortality but stands in temple of the faceless god to laugh beside still waters of lost faith as only person to survive the plague. I wake from dream of ancient Babylon with aching heart to climb the pyramid where Ishtar sings creation of the world, amazed my soul is still alive on Earth to sing beside still waters of lost faith through countless generations of rebirth. Though we build systems of commercial work producing food for everyone to eat, natural disasters of storms, plagues, and wars obliterate our empires from the Earth, to wait beside still waters of lost faith till we flourish again with loving hope. Though plagues and storms destroy gardens of fruit I shepherd homeless refugees of war who build new gardens where children play free till new empires rise from ruins of death to thrive beside still waters of lost faith till indifferent nature grinds us to dust. I wake in dream of revived Avalon with aching heart to climb the castle tower and watch people in crowded market place sell beautiful things they make with their hands, to dance beside still waters of lost faith while Earth keeps spinning in the void of death.