I Am The Wrong Sort © Surazeus 2024 01 19 All the fall leaves are dancing in the street with wild abandon of the carefree youth who run circles toward home long after school where they learn how to photosynthesize spirit of the mindless sun into fruit that nourishes our frail bodies with light. Because I love you with ache of my heart I give you loaf of wheat I baked in Hell so you can feast on nutrients of Earth that flow from gloom of the bottomless well which fills our bodies with atoms of light sparked by the unmoved mover to soul flight. Soft whispers of fallen leaves arrogate wisdom of the horse to speak the blood oath when I stand mute beside the faceless pool with honest intent to cannibalize dream vision that haunts anguish of the flute which nourishes our hungry minds with light. I cannot plot my fate on the star chart that was drawn on opposite side of Earth so I load stolen apples in the cart to sell for pennies at Market of Mirth where princess of loyalty goes to float in hollow emptiness of my heart boat. Since the world is too big to navigate in my futile quest to find the god wraith I decide to invent another tool I use to fine-tune engines of blind spies hidden in the weird book Lucifer wrote as he strode windy plain in long black coat. So I keep watch in tower of the fort I build with bleeding hands of hungry hope if Arthurians in vast mirrored court elect the greedy fool who hangs the rope from cross of Jesus on the hill of skulls to slay and roast the souls of angry bulls. When lost refugees from war congregate in bright auditorium to learn math they mock with glee the tyrannical fool who claims he won election with bald lies as he writhes tangled in the oak tree root because all his boastful fibs are now moot. The Savior decides I am the wrong sort, so I climb the rugged Parnassian slope where Aphrodite decides to abort child she got from Mars when he wore disguise as her husband, the noble astronaut, then wanders shocked in streets of Camelot.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Friday, January 19, 2024
I Am The Wrong Sort
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