I Feel The Nothing

I Feel The Nothing
© Surazeus
2024 05 31

I feel the nothing between everything 
shimmer with the something my mind perceives 
reflected in blank mirror of my soul 
wide as the ocean swirling in my mouth 
that molds new words no apple tree receives 
when my heart becomes the telephone ring. 

I feel the nothing inside everywhere 
explode from pages of confused snow flakes 
that vibrate concept of the perfect sound 
which swirls in galaxies of the white whole 
mimicked by stone gardens we smoothe with rakes 
despite our need to breathe cold winter air. 

I feel the nothing all around my head 
require I memorize dramatic lines 
which I recite with bold alacrity 
in Hamlet-channeling soliloquy 
while I wander with anguish among pines 
since everyone alive will soon be dead. 

I feel the nothing that surrounds the Earth 
express unspoken secrets of my heart 
with ardent angel wings of Liberty 
on which I fly to spark fertility 
since true romantic love will never hurt 
as we share tales beside the glowing hearth. 

I feel the nothing through eternity 
expand my structured sense of flowing time 
when I stand mute in theater of faith 
to represent absence as the god wraith 
who wakes inside my mind at the soft chime 
of silver bells that prove absurdity. 

I feel the nothing in the silent pause 
refract sweet harmony between each note 
that arches high as rainbows which connect 
worlds of the multiverse based on respect 
for strangers sitting with me on the boat 
on sacred quest to find the primal cause. 

I feel the nothing in each word I speak 
compose complete library of the world 
arranged on shelves of universal myth 
where angels carve runes on each monolith 
that hide prophecies of the cosmic herald 
who stands with cape on high Takoma peak. 

I feel the nothing in atomic swirls 
weave pulsing matrix of my mental state 
that slips through minute gap of emptiness 
in dance translating fear to happiness 
when I compose new play evading fate 
that binds with true love hearts of boys and girls. 

Rescue Medea From Despair

Rescue Medea From Despair
© Surazeus
2024 05 31

I ask the oak standing in my front yard 
to recite lost tale of the Argonauts 
so she generates endless lines of code 
that program how my brain perceives the world, 
then prints ancient tale of Valerius 
on pages she binds in book of my skin. 

After Jason and his buddies return 
from stealing golden fleece from Helius, 
I hear them laughing in the tavern hall 
how they abandoned Medea on lost isle 
so he can marry daughter of the king, 
which breaks cup of my heart I cast in rage. 

Sailing ship named Eunoia, Loyalty, 
swift to rescue Medea from despair, 
I find Aeaea, jagged isle of Circe, 
shrouded in smoke from high volcanic peak, 
and ride rough waves that leap and buck like bull 
of rage with sharp horns Mithras grasps to tame. 

Hurled to the rocky shore by howling wind, 
I crawl steep winding trail around high peak 
to find Medea huddling in dank cave, 
long hair tangled by hands of Zephyrus, 
and blue eyes gleaming with heart-wrenching shock 
of hope that Jason may return for her. 

When I see Zephyrus attempt to rape 
granddaughter of Helius with selfish lust, 
I wrestle him with courage of respect 
to cast him off cliff of justice with prayer 
for help from Venus to protect lost girl 
who accepts apple from my gentle hand. 

Standing tall on ledge outside the dank cave 
as sunlight glows warm on her pain-rent face, 
Medea sings heart-breaking spell of hope 
that Jason will return with gratitude 
to accept true love that burns within her heart, 
as tears stream down her cheeks from hopeless eyes. 

Holding hands of Medea as she weeps, 
I ask if she can take my love instead 
since I love her as much as she loves him, 
vowing I will always stay by her side 
and care for her needs with generous hands, 
for I offer her life instead of death. 

Deciding to evade her tragic fate, 
Medea smiles with joy of renewed hope 
when she sees true love shining in my eyes, 
so I lead her to ship of loyalty 
where she stabs my soft heart, then sails away, 
leaving me to stare at the long-dead stars. 

Genesis Day Cult

Genesis Day Cult
© Surazeus
2024 05 30

Exploring every city in the world, 
I search for the opposite of Doomsday 
because I celebrate bold joy of life 
when people work together to create 
communal garden of herbs and fruit trees 
where we feast around the bright fire at night. 

At hearth inside safe walls of paradise, 
we build with our hands to protect our lives, 
I found welcoming Genesis Day Cult 
to celebrate freedom through self-control 
where we do what we will, if we harm none, 
creating life from tragedy of hope. 

Though Nature is indifferent to our lives, 
expressing unstoppable force of change 
through relentless flow of its ocean waves 
that wipes out whole cities without concern, 
I love weird beauty of its timeless glow 
because I am conscious flare of its light. 

You are pure beauty of the universe 
who smiles at me with gleam of guileless love 
through cosmic mirror of your dreaming eyes 
for you are always sitting at my side, 
laughing or weeping with passion of life, 
and singing in harmony with our faith. 

I know our planet spinning in the void, 
woven by beams of atoms from the sun 
which transforms our bodies from chemicals, 
will disintegrate to dust at doomsday, 
yet with reverent hymns of amazing grace 
I lead rites in my Genesis Day Cult. 

Alone in sacred grove on Helicon, 
I worship ancient spirit of the Earth 
embodied by the woman I adore 
whose strong hands create paradise from chaos 
through inventive vision of loving eyes 
when she builds Heaven in the wilderness. 

When people become terrified of change 
through constant readjustment of ideas 
that form conceptual structure of world view 
which guides how we interact with each other, 
they form their doomsday cult out of despair 
with desperate hope to conserve the lost past. 

Yet when we analyze nature of things 
as structures composed of atomic beams, 
we choose to create rather than destroy 
because we live in mental harmony 
with ever-swirling music of world spheres 
based on code of our Genesis Day Cult. 

We Are Flares Of Chemicals

We Are Flares Of Chemicals
© Surazeus
2024 05 30

The olive sparrow at my window pane 
asks me to follow her to the lake shore, 
so I float outside window of my heart 
on fluttering billows of my white silk robe 
to mold swirling snowflakes in nameless soul 
who wakes from dream in the pink lotus bloom. 

The hungry jester in electric gloom 
assigns me to play new messiah role 
with duty to manage spin of our globe 
according to plot of fate on the chart 
which I navigate from tellurian core 
while angels and devils dance in the rain. 

Unfolding backward timeless page of fate 
to trace the boundless measure of this life, 
we offer gifts to goddess on the cloud 
who gives each pilgrim peach of honest faith, 
so she shows mercy at the judgment hour 
to those who repent of hurtful mistakes. 

Though humble demons born from rancid lakes 
construct on hill of bees the lonely tower, 
the blind princess requests help from the wraith 
who programs puzzle of the disavowed 
so we can overcome this global strife 
between prophets of gods confused by hate. 

Despite weird power of the lyric mode 
to capture flash of emotional gears 
which operate engine of the dreaming brain, 
you wonder if your personality 
could be as real as characters in books 
while you bathe with Narcissus in his pool. 

We run together down hall of our school 
to speak Wind Language of the moon-eyed rooks, 
adjusting thoughts through rationality, 
who flutter black wings in the mirrored rain 
that help children face their conceptual fears 
in tune with vibe of our computer code. 

When deer wander in our front yard at dawn, 
nibbling on soft leaves of young apple trees, 
we wonder if life has meaning at all, 
since we are flares of chemicals in souls 
that glow our brief hour of eternity, 
so we choose to express love till we die. 

Your face glows bright in mirror of my eye 
that reflects state of our modernity 
recorded as spells in the dead sea scrolls 
which hang now displayed on museum wall, 
occasionally rustled by the sea breeze 
because no god can use me as their pawn. 

Eyeless Light Of Liberty

Eyeless Light Of Liberty
© Surazeus
2024 05 29

Not in the fairy palace of my faith, 
nor in the grand cathedral of despair, 
nor in the grim national monument 
of patriotic pride, is ever found 
courageous spirit of the noble hero 
who redesigns the concept of our state. 

Weirdness of mystery in the twilight zone 
guides me with eyeless light of liberty 
through trackless forest of lost fairy land 
that weaves half-seen tunnels of fearless faith 
hidden in suburban maze of our homes 
where I wander far on my secret quest. 

Twirling gold rope of thought analysis, 
I snare wild Pegasus with reins of hope 
and ride his swift progression over clouds 
to search for stately pleasure dome of pride, 
built by the sacred river of my heart, 
that gleams within the modern city maze. 

Weaving thread of words in objective tales 
that chronicle the noble deeds of men 
who fight demonic energies of lust 
to maintain strict progression of desire 
through creative routines of self-control, 
I sing electric vision of the brain. 

Performing role commissioned by my heart 
within galactic sphere of honesty, 
I defeat the monster, crown myself king, 
repel rebellious coup of tyranny, 
then abdicate when wounded by my pride 
to wander waste land of false liberty. 

While grasping broken sword of Damocles 
on jagged rock beside the roaring sea, 
I bear skull of Orpheus in my hand 
and listen close to hear weird prophecies 
predicting rise of the American Empire 
that I build with bloody hands of the law. 

Self-guiding hero of my epic tale, 
written by the eyeless philosopher 
on autumn leaves that float away unread 
down the River Styx crowded with new boats, 
I arrive on Mount Zion with The Book 
as cosmic herald for the war-torn world. 

Standing inside frame of the Scary Door, 
with Scepter of Zambor in my left hand, 
I descend from whirling starship on wings 
to float before eyes of humanity 
and sing grand vision of our new world order 
with peace in United Nations of Earth. 

Television-Eyed Toad

Television-Eyed Toad
© Surazeus
2024 05 28

Though my face recedes in mirror of time 
when fantasy of my pride vanishes 
in glittered haze of puzzling memories, 
I hold fruit of grief in half-open hand, 
hesitant to taste sorrow still unearned, 
while Death carves on stone of fate my real name. 

Since vanity is closer than I think 
on broad cherubic wings of anguished hope 
that hover low with thunder sea-clouds keep, 
I dart my quick angelic eyes to catch 
degree of curses woven by the witch 
to cultivate higher celestial rank. 

Eager to analyze future events, 
still carefree in my restless dance past fate 
while chasing rainbows down the crowded street, 
I carry stones in pocket of my mind, 
straight as ruler that measures psychic bond 
displayed on stage by journalists and saints. 

At intersection of solace and fear, 
contrived by judgment of the holy fool 
who types endless stories that show no goal, 
I look beyond appearance of my bride 
to see White Snake of her soul she cannot hide, 
because I love beauty of her secret star. 

Every person I see on city street 
glows full of life refracted from the Earth 
in decadent beams of celestial worth 
reformulated through words we invent, 
since voice of singing trees is somehow faint, 
so I decide to follow my own route. 

Taking my family to the restaurant, 
I watch their faces glow with secret joy 
through revelation of the Eden Key 
as they eat fish and chips with soda cream, 
so I decide this sweet life is no dream 
composed by Death without mythic blueprint. 

Foolish enough to find faith in the wind 
that shatters homes in cities and farm towns, 
I record chronicle in mystic runes 
describing rise and fall of tyrant kings 
who storm state castles with esurient gangs 
and kill to defend their claim to this land. 

Whatever legend Demodocus tells, 
relating noble deeds of the humble shepherd 
who slings stones at face of the giant lizard, 
will always awe the wild theater crowd 
hypnotized by television-eyed toad, 
so I must answer when my Goddess calls. 

Atoms Weaving Us

Atoms Weaving Us
© Surazeus
2024 05 27

Though alienated from Nature of Earth 
I leave rough cities of humanity 
to meditate on long route of my life 
connecting scenes of my experience 
so I attain resolution through truth 
when I become one with the mountainscape. 

Reclining with pensive woman I love 
in quiet bower draped with flowered vines, 
I feel soft murmur of the ancient sea 
swirl clouds across serenely brilliant stars 
so in sweet silence of cool evening glow 
I sense presence of some sad soul long dead. 

Even though my shadow abandons me 
in the darkest times of life we endure, 
I always feel breath of the evening breeze 
flow through my soul with floating witchery 
of eerie melodies from Fairy Land 
that spark strange passion in my silent heart. 

No haunting tune except my own soft voice 
among honey-dripping flowers of faith 
radiates from center of my universe 
with joyful rhythm of my secret thoughts 
that rings almost unheard across lush vales 
where houses glow among tall pensive oaks. 

Each object moving in this patterned world 
reflects immortal soul of Earth that hums 
with mindless passion to exist in form 
which gleams with sunbeams in my mirror eye 
to flash new neural visions in my brain 
so I perceive true nature of its globe. 

As conscious subject, signified with name 
expressed with love by mother of my soul, 
I feel hot urge of passion animate 
progressive journey on landscape of hope 
that moves my body with intensive calm 
as intellect that weaves my dreaming brain. 

Though no conscious supernatural god knows 
secrets of our hearts, except our own minds, 
that soul which seems to glow in every form 
is my own consciousness reflected back, 
yet all objects I perceive are composed 
of atoms weaving us in web of thought. 

Now that I comprehend with star-bright eye 
incomprehensible nature of life, 
constructed of atoms through chemicals 
that interact with numbered rings of time, 
I treasure woman nestled in my arms, 
for she embodies divine soul of light. 

Memorial Song Of You

Memorial Song Of You
© Surazeus
2024 05 27

Stuck within core of the merry-go-round, 
as giant eye dreaming inside black hole 
at center of our spinning galaxy, 
I dream-play entire process of your life 
as conscious entity who names itself 
immortal I that thinks it must be God. 

You are young stewardess on the airplane, 
flying from Doha to Dublin in clouds, 
who is thrown in the air and hits her head 
when Jupiter grabs its thin fuselage 
and shakes it with violent turbulence 
like the diner peppering his steak with spice. 

You are the housewife in the trailer home, 
cooking soup for your daughter and her son, 
who is thrown around inside metal box 
when Thunaraz hurls it across the road 
while riding tornado across three states 
till he falls asleep on the mountain peak. 

You are the little girl in tattered tent, 
playing games in a Gaza refugee camp, 
who is thrown across block of blasted homes 
when Jehovah hurls lightning bolt of bombs 
which shatters world view that your fathers built 
as castles of sand in the Holy Land. 

You are the nursing student at the college, 
jogging around the lake where Grendel sleeps, 
who is thrown to the ground by grasping hands 
when Tereus chases you in silent woods, 
then cuts out your tongue to censor your voice 
that calls for justice to the empty sky. 

You are the woman in the gang-run town, 
running for mayor to defeat the Wolf, 
who is thrown from the stage of public speech 
when Xolotl shoots bullets in your heart 
because you campaign to lock him in jail, 
assassinated by devil of cocaine. 

You are the mother pregnant with third child, 
driving your children to escape abuse, 
who is thrown off the cliff into the sea 
when Perkunas rams truck into your car 
because you want to live free from his greed, 
so you become wild mermaid of my heart. 

Though I imagine the pain you must feel, 
I hope my sympathy does not replace 
your own real suffering in agony 
with imagined suffering of my love, 
instead I want to honor unjust death 
with memorial song that remembers you. 

Wanderer Of The Woods

Wanderer Of The Woods
© Surazeus
2024 05 26

When weight of ages descends on my heart 
I sense small insignificance of the self 
that plays its role on stage of history 
till time unravels me from tapestry 
so my name and face are erased by Death 
who recycles my atoms in new beings. 

Clothed in wolf-skin vest, with bag and stone-axe, 
I stride along the sparkling river flow 
to hunt for cave, hollowed by wind and waves 
from towering cliff, as haven for rest 
where I may roast meat in faith-glowing hearth 
to feed my family with nourishing love. 

With resolute mastery of natural laws 
I build strict routine of constructive craft 
through self-rule of personal liberty 
to manage regular process of growth 
in cultural venue of the goat-nursed gods 
whose spirits in my heart guide how I live. 

When I was young, still eager to explore 
labyrinth of myths that form city maze 
of ambition, I strolled Clown Avenue 
in misty Seattle with burning heart 
to find the Holy Grail of soul rebirth, 
restless to discover role I could play. 

Near gray stone wall of the Greek-temple bank 
I saw the old man with long hair and beard 
whose narrow face, long nose, and silver eyes 
resembled gray wanderer of the woods, 
that ageless wizard of weird fairy tales 
named Odin, Merlin, Gandalf, and Zambor. 

Pausing amid the ever-hurrying crowd, 
I gazed at mirror image of my soul 
and wondered if that star-eyed seer could be 
the same Saturnus that John Keats once saw 
slumbering in shady sadness of his vale, 
quiet as the stone that flamed from the sky. 

Unsceptered though I roam this boundless Earth, 
ignoring fenced boundaries of nation-states 
where tyrants exploit mute factory slaves, 
I see face of that wizard in the mirror 
who gave to me, thirty-three years ago, 
raven-feather quill from his tattered wings. 

Though I seemed to wander long road of life 
without direction, lost in random scenes 
of disarrayed romance, I now realize 
spirit of Grannus, awake in my heart, 
has always guided me toward my grand goal 
to sing tale of human wisdom in Heaven. 

Reconnect My Heart

Reconnect My Heart
© Surazeus
2024 05 25

Not yet ossified with decay of age, 
though still on my endless quest for truth 
among the shining streams of Faery Land, 
I soldier on through forests of romance, 
bearing Emerald Tablet with Laws of Nature, 
and grail from which I drink the blood of demons. 

Though diamond towers of Elphame gleam bright, 
veiled by thick swirling mist of fantasy, 
on naked ridge of that far eastern hill, 
gilded sharp with golden beams of sunlight, 
where I expect to meet God face to face, 
I see only my own face in the pool. 

Heart humming in tune with the natural world 
imbued with pure glow of divinity 
which radiates bright from every human soul, 
I glide with graceful ecstasy of faith 
past smoking ruins of homes bombed by greed 
to celebrate strange beauty of our world. 

Though indifferent Fate sends religious Death 
to harvest precious souls from fields of faith, 
then separate wheat from chaff with cruel war, 
I weep for every fragile human soul 
destroyed by vicious hurricanes of greed 
in genocides from which great empires rise. 

The carefree girl, murdered by terrorists 
angry that her ancestors stole their land, 
and the sweet girl who loves to sing and dance, 
murdered by bullets of snipers who laugh 
with glee that vermin they exterminate 
cannot breed, are both victims of cruel war. 

Searching for Garden of Eden with faith 
by crossing the waste land of howling ghosts, 
I escape crowded streets of paradise 
and follow Adam to the wilderness 
where I attempt to reconnect my heart 
to divine spirit that animates Earth. 

But that lush garden on the river shore, 
where Eve ate sweet Fruit of Knowledge with hope 
to understand weird nature of our world, 
now burns with flames of arrogance which hide 
fear that strangers will invade paradise 
and kill Spirit of Earth inside our hearts. 

Amid beautiful scenes of fruited hills 
the monstrous tyrant, drowned in pool of truth, 
emerges from dark waters of despair, 
so we bury tyranny in rich soil 
for Tree of Life to transform his foul heart 
to sweet nutritious fruit we share with faith. 

Voice Of Every River

Voice Of Every River
© Surazeus
2024 05 25

The voice of every river in the world 
speaks to me in thoughts people never speak 
as loud roar pounding in my sea-shell ears 
which, at expression of my own faint voice, 
coalesce in whole emblem of my mind 
through which I feed upon infinity. 

Since sparkling neurons of my dreaming brain 
conjure virtual model of the whole Earth, 
this mysterious function of comprehension 
seems to weave into fabric, more divine 
than chemical Nature that sustains life, 
my brain composed of flashing molecules. 

Though the mind of humans, which seems divine, 
glows magnified more beautiful than Earth 
on which it dwells in matrix of bright forms, 
our brains are nothing more than chemicals 
condensed in neural cells which conjugate 
impressions into meaning we design. 

I find no meaning in this changing world 
composed of chemicals that nurture souls 
with complex organs evolving into gods, 
except the meaning my perceptive brain 
assembles into puzzle of world view 
from fragments of concepts my eyes conceive. 

No conscious gods with supernatural power 
exist outside idea-programmed brains, 
for every mythic legend that records 
life and deeds of powerful divine beings 
was preserved in weird stories people shared 
describing humans who lived ages past. 

I feel their ancient spirits in gold light 
that gleams with hope each timeless afternoon 
on green leaves hanging from tall dreamless trees 
who watch generations of human beings 
rise and fall through waves of history 
in endless seething tides of war and peace. 

Though Beauty of Nature that forms this Earth 
appears to glow with bright divinity 
in spirit, our fearful ancestors termed 
God, who created this organized Cosmos, 
I know this supernatural conscious mind 
I feel is but projection of my dreaming brain. 

Sitting quiet in haven of my home, 
observing humans move as streams of hope 
in streets connecting cities around Earth, 
like blood cells in global network of veins, 
I hear all their voices through river spell 
sing in worldwide choir of our divine mind. 

Butterfly Of The Moon

Butterfly Of The Moon
© Surazeus
2024 05 24

To live free from shackles of politics 
I sing about butterfly of the moon 
that kisses eye of peace with vampire teeth, 
yet still the Minister of Honesty 
will lock me in dank prison of free speech 
to dull sharp blade hidden in absurd spells. 

My bones love roots of flowers and fruit trees 
that transform rotten atoms of my brain 
to apples tyrants steal from hands of farmers 
who light candles in windows of the night 
so little owls can find lost book of jokes 
thrown into unmarked grave of the court jester. 

Even if King Midas steals Crown of Thorns 
and imprisons all journalists and painters, 
Taliesin will walk to the grocery store 
to purchase milk and bread with dragon teeth, 
then by the willow in the river park 
will sit and talk with ducks about the clouds. 

I see thousands of clones of my true self 
walking somewhere quickly on city streets 
who never look at me with my own eyes, 
so I blow Trumpet of Gideon at dawn 
while I plough the field to grow golden corn 
as bombs destroy homes where nameless ghosts live. 

Deep in dark witch cave in lush Cerkno Hills, 
I drill holes in femur bone of the bear, 
then stride down trail among Fraxinus trees 
to stand on stone in swift Juruda River 
and play heart-haunting melody of hope 
that thrills my heart with beauty of this world. 

Alone on gray mountain roof of the world, 
I drink milk from cow of the shining stars 
while dancing slow in ring of jeweled stones, 
then eat strawberries from the silver plate 
embossed with scene of Clovis on his horse 
who bears magic wand from the hazel tree. 

Though I am whiteness of the temple wall 
where no words of warning written in blood 
warn humble folk of the apocalypse, 
I fill tank of my silver car with gas, 
then drive on narrow winding mountain road 
to monastery filled with ancient scrolls. 

To remember every mass genocide 
I sing about butterfly of the moon 
with technology that destroys the Earth 
when I sell my soul to the ocean wave 
which washes ruins of empires to the sea 
where I float in wordless infinity. 

Dwarfed By Mount Takoma

Dwarfed By Mount Takoma
© Surazeus
2024 05 24

If that strange gold glow after evening rain 
saturates my mind with visionary thoughts, 
excited awake by cracks of thunder, time 
may pause, intent as tall unmoving trees 
that wait with expectation that I choose 
to do nothing, mute owl in the oak tree. 

Though my body pulses with thick content 
of atoms packed in small frame of my soul, 
my mind broods over bottomless abyss 
to hear voice of the Earth in flow of light 
surging with each plodding beat of my heart 
to bear my body-bound soul beyond time. 

Yet time constrains slow motion of my mind 
in bright sea waves of endless words, that swirl 
with sensual flash of memories, which record 
countless moments of my life in the past, 
reflected in leaves that hang in gold air 
in vast suburban landscape of our world. 

Though I now lounge in haven of my home, 
gazing out large windows at quiet street 
where families stroll in peaceful paradise, 
I ponder hour forty-four years ago 
when I climbed up steep winding mountain trail 
past shadowy pines where no demons lurk. 

Heart pounding with assertion of calm will, 
far from large noisy crowds of my schoolmates, 
I emerged alone on broad meadow slope, 
rugged with jagged rocks and twisted pines 
in deep valley of gushing waterfalls, 
dwarfed by Mount Takoma, my Helicon. 

Enormous mountain that looms over me, 
fourteen-thousand feet above the blue sea, 
last flaming smoke five hundred years ago, 
broods with solemn majesty of great power 
more serene than Olympus where fierce gods, 
my ancestors feared, toyed with mortal lives. 

No earth-born brood of Uranus and Gaia, 
not fierce Jehovah, nor ferocious Jove, 
strides gigantic on icy silver peak 
to meddle in wars between nation-states 
through social ideologies, employed 
by presidents to justify their rule. 

No conscious spirit but me, wingless angel 
evolved from mice when dinosaurs ruled Earth, 
stands fragile before benign mountain god 
that gleams indifferent to my happiness, 
so I choose to celebrate my keen life 
with hymns brief as breath of my carefree voice. 

Bodies Copy Themselves

Bodies Copy Themselves
© Surazeus
2024 05 24

Because truth bursts from weird shadow of time 
my heart, attached to beauty of this world, 
desires to replicate each unique form 
so beautiful bodies copy themselves 
with pleasure of resemblance that confirms 
perfect love through urgency to create. 

Lulled into ecstasy of static hope 
by stark negation of restrictive shame, 
I leap past bounds of lineated rules 
with bold authority of honest fear 
to copy strange resemblance of my being 
in child whose eyes reflect authentic hope. 

Lured by attraction of beautiful truth 
that glows from heart of everything I see, 
I journey over waste land of despair 
to find hidden garden of changeless bliss, 
embodied by horse near the apple tree 
beside the river flowing to the sea. 

Based on definition of excellence 
that presents ideal forms of changing things 
as changeless concepts in realm of ideas, 
I seek recompense from cruel arrogance 
who tries to possess beauty of my soul 
that decays from illusion of desire. 

Becoming beauty of this flowing world 
through strict attention of focused desire, 
I draw shapes that mirror forms I perceive 
to duplicate with spell of humming words 
structures of atoms in puzzle of light 
that gleams from first flash at the dawn of time. 

Composing stories with names of lost souls, 
I resurrect characters of the dead 
so they float beside me in gentle breeze 
that rustles leaves of trees on hill of hope 
where I can assemble puzzle of light 
to replicate beautiful world I dream. 

Willing to enter ever-changing doors 
that lead me to museum of lost art, 
I hold knowledge of beauty in my heart 
to appropriate spirit of desire 
that can only be sung by the blind choir 
which dissolves back to the particular. 

Attached to beauty of the changing world 
that cycles through birth in growth to decay, 
I treasure life of each organic being 
that copies itself in children of hope 
who fight over whose Heaven is more real 
that we construct on ruins of desire. 

Stone In The Grass

Stone In The Grass
© Surazeus
2024 05 24

The light that radiates concept of the mind 
knows truths about the soul it never tells, 
so when I look at the stone in the grass 
it looks back at me with eyes of dead stars, 
yet I see the mountain it wants to be 
as it sees the god I will never be. 

We tell each other what the light should say 
then stare into the space of everywhere, 
so I listen to the stone in the grass 
but it tells me nothing I want to know, 
yet I invent my name to signify 
I am not the god I would want to be. 

I modify strange nature of the light 
by reshaping material of the tree 
so strange laughter of the stone in the grass 
records story of the tree I cut down, 
yet I build the house that shelters our souls 
from spirit of the tree that is not god. 

The light that screams in fracture of the mind 
knows truths about the world it wants to tell, 
so I stand mute with the stone in the grass 
that tries to see the real me I still hide, 
yet cows in the meadow of playful wind 
gossip about people who would play god. 

The light that reflects the face of ungod 
designs the face I wear till I am born, 
so I will carve on the stone in the grass 
the face I will wear long after I die, 
yet when you see mask of my changing face 
you say I am one aspect of our god. 

We give each other light with grateful hands 
after we almost die in war of books, 
so I will become the stone in the grass 
that David slings to bring down tyranny, 
yet we remain ghosts in our bombed-out homes, 
singing prayers to god who was never real. 

If we become the light that never tells 
we might begin to understand true love, 
so I feel seen by the stone in the grass 
who is my soul mate I will always love, 
yet she brings water from the wishing well 
when she perceives the god that I could be. 

We stand together in hope of the sky 
where we feel what the light wants to reveal, 
so we carve names on the stone in the grass 
which remains long after everyone dies, 
yet my descendants sing my secret name 
and worship me as god I never was. 

Wordless Laws Of Fate

Wordless Laws Of Fate
© Surazeus
2024 05 23

Though darkness of our world surrounds my heart 
with vast bat wings of arrogant despair, 
I choose to sing with breath of lonely stars 
because I cannot know the whole of truth 
that formulates why of the universe 
so I blaze new trail in our wilderness. 

Stuck in dark pocket of my hungry heart, 
sunlight that longs to generate new life 
pierces through cracks in mirror of my mind 
so I can see where I am meant to be 
though I wander nowhere in field of grass, 
hoping to share songs with the river of eyes. 

Substantial as graceful ache of my heart, 
my spirit beaming from dream of my brain 
breaks into puzzles of sunlight on grass 
so I try to hear voices in the wind, 
but the universe refuses to tell 
how I should obey wordless laws of fate. 

Enormous nothing that transforms my heart 
from seed to forest on high mountain slopes 
reveals strange beauty of the universe 
concealed in features of her peaceful face 
when I see the nameless woman I love 
sleeping in shadow of my doting mind. 

Bewildered by fierce passion of my heart, 
I try to speak thoughts of the ocean waves 
so every stranger in the world can feel 
light of dawn cracking despair into shards 
that still reflect dark memories of despair 
we bury with seeds in field of rebirth. 

Awake each morning in grave of my heart, 
I count raindrops that bring me words of gods 
so I know how to encode what I perceive 
in religious doctrine of firm belief 
that frames window of ideology 
which guides my journey to the Promised Land. 

I dig up the old language from my heart 
so we can communicate with the dead 
who haunt stories preserved in ancient books 
as ghosts who rise as smoke from burning words 
when our eyes read spells of writhing runes 
that help us build Eden in the waste land. 

When wild animal spirits of my heart 
seek refuge in vast forest of my tales 
I paint their spirits on cold temple wall 
with lyre Orpheus gave me by the sea, 
so when you call on the telephone 
I can explain why every soul will die. 

Eye Of The Liberty Wraith

Eye Of The Liberty Wraith
© Surazeus
2024 05 23

When blast of wisdom cracks my old world view, 
sparked by hungry fear of aggressive hope, 
in endless battle between light and dark 
as God of Life engages God of Death, 
through endless evolution of our souls, 
I seek salvation from the Liberty Wraith. 

So I stand on watch tower of far-sight, 
that Ishtar built on Pyramid of Amen, 
and gaze through crystal ball of prophecy 
out One Eye of God so I can see all 
that happens in world labyrinth of myth 
managed by heart of the Liberty Wraith. 

When Ishtar ruled on pyramid of Ur 
she sent wise daughters with loyal husbands, 
Sarah and Abraham west to Israel, 
Saraswati and Brahman east to India, 
to run child-generation institutes 
designed with love by the Liberty Wraith. 

Guarded by Jehovah with Sword of Justice 
who stands on Pyramid of the God Eye, 
while she dances in the Most Holy Place 
to sing prophecy of future events, 
enthroned on the Ark of the Covenant, 
Shekinah reigns as the Liberty Wraith. 

Entranced by beauty of her star-black eyes 
while Uzza plays haunting tune on bone flute, 
Gabriel on Mount Zion in cave of dreams 
chants magic spells that call from heart of Earth 
immortal spirits of Justice and Truth 
who rise from eye of the Liberty Wraith. 

Wielding Sword of Justice with bloody hand, 
fierce Sariel rides winged horse of faith 
to fight invaders from waste land of fear 
who invade Garden of Eden with greed 
to steal fruit of health from the Tree of Life 
guarded by strength of the Liberty Wraith. 

When brothers battle to control the land, 
and fight over whose children will inherit 
garden of fruit trees on the river shore, 
they kill each other with bullets of hate 
and bomb paradise to ruins of hell, 
in war of faith for the Liberty Wraith. 

With words of wisdom I build new world view, 
inspired by seeds of fruit trees that will bloom 
from soil soaked by blood of our martyrdom, 
for children of enemies intermarry 
to worship new god born from flames of war, 
conceived in Eye of the Liberty Wraith. 

Key Epiphany Of Truth

Key Epiphany Of Truth
© Surazeus
2024 05 23

I remember glow of the Beautiful 
I saw while I stood in liminal space 
of that weird ambiguous state of hope 
between doubt and faith in process of growth 
beyond the fractured sense of self I lost 
when I spoke the Word in soft evening glow. 

When I tattoo my heart with the Black Flame 
to bind my soul with monstrous honesty 
through writhing passion of the cold abyss, 
I hope blind Death will pass me by in jest 
dark hour I wait beneath the apple tree 
to hear heart-enchanting song of the serpent. 

When patient toad with gold hypnotic eyes, 
who chants immortal song of ocean waves 
while crouched like devilish tyrant of glee 
on purple mushroom of the dreamless cave, 
glares deep in wordless forest of my heart, 
I will decide then to obey or not. 

With Christ, Gilgamesh, Adam, and Achilles 
I discover short mortal state of life 
inherent in organic frame of cells 
fueled by interactions of chemicals 
that constitutes this body of frail flesh 
which nurtures spirit of my conscious mind. 

Though many prophets in history of man 
have preached immortal nature of our soul 
as spark of divine light trapped in frame of flesh, 
I reject this desperate belief as cruel lie 
that fools our minds to think we will survive 
dissolution of this body we are. 

When I was twenty-five years old I went 
forth from Seattle across the waste land 
to find true secret of the Holy Grail, 
and journeyed twenty years east on the road 
in quest that lead me to the Promised Land 
where I sang epic of philosophers. 

Now in safe haven of my garden home, 
in Athens town of Appalachian Hills, 
named for ancient city Athena ruled, 
I map globe atlas of world history 
while caring for our children with my wife 
who pours juice in my cup for me to drink. 

While on Takoma Mountain in lush grove, 
holy as Parnassus and Helicon, 
I witnessed key epiphany of truth 
when wise Astara, Muse of Liberty, 
gave me blank book and raven-feather quill, 
then filled my brain with visions of the world. 

Private Duty I Choose

Private Duty I Choose
© Surazeus
2024 05 22

Every great hero in old epic tales, 
who finds himself faced with conflicting rules, 
to chase his individual desire 
or fulfill communal duty with courage, 
earns respect of our hearts when he performs 
noble deeds that protect his tribe from harm. 

Whether killing noble son of the king 
after skulking in his tent with blind rage, 
or sailing home from tempting queens and storms 
to reclaim his kingdom and wife from thieves, 
or founding city that will rule the world, 
the hero obeys high power of fate. 

Descending into the dark underworld, 
the hero reviews tragic tales of fools 
whose disobedience lured their feckless steps 
off righteous path to wander stuck in hell 
so he can ascend mountain of bold faith 
to reach paradise in garden of fruit. 

When monster of hunger and greed attacks 
people of his tribe who obey his word, 
the hero kills invader in the hall, 
then hunts and fights cruel demon in dark cave 
to slay the dragon hoarding precious gold, 
willing to die to keep his people free. 

Though born safe inside walls of paradise 
with duty to tend fruit trees of faith, 
if he disobeys mandate of his king, 
the hero repents and accepts his fate 
to build new garden in the wilderness 
where his sons fight over who rules their land. 

Putting aside his personal desire, 
the noble hero praised in epic tales 
dedicates his heart to grand social role 
where he assumes heavy mantle of power, 
willing to sacrifice his private life 
to guard his tribe with bloody sword of peace. 

When the normal man chooses to conduct 
his duty to perform strict role of hope 
through confirming progress of self-control, 
that nurtures routine of creative love 
which generates and fosters human life, 
he transforms into hero of his state. 

Pursuing individual way of life, 
that nurtures children growing from my heart 
so they can live well long after I die, 
is private duty I choose to conduct 
when I obey laws of nature with faith 
because I will to create, not destroy. 

Marian Statue Of Sylvia

Marian Statue Of Sylvia
© Surazeus
2024 05 22

When blue planetary light of her mind 
throws my wingless soul from eye of the moon 
to wander treeless hills of chilly grass, 
I try to find cracked headstone with my name, 
but I am still alive in swirls of mist, 
inhabiting this place with Sylvia. 

Because I see her faceless silhouette, 
lit by the moon that has her secret face, 
drifting nowhere in her spiritous mist, 
I wonder why endlessly bonging bells 
call her name to rise from grave of words 
since she prefers warm comfort of despair. 

As if the mute moon drags us from the sea 
we wander toward each other in dim gloom 
yet never meet beneath the tall yew tree 
where she remains in blue gown of desire, 
unloosing owls on wings of dawning flame 
that dare to lead me to her apple grove. 

From gleaming ripple of fathomless pool 
my tongue-stitched body rises from cold bath, 
and through dim blur of moon-flickering beams 
I see pale moon-round face of Sylvia, 
extending sea-dark eyes of flashing fear, 
envelop me with swirls of tender hope. 

Heart pierced by arrows of arrogant fame, 
I lie wounded in her marble-smooth arms, 
cradled by Our Lady of Piety 
whose hands can gesture demons from dark caves 
with compassionate grace of the puppeteer 
though Excalibur clatters from my hand. 

Map I designed with clear surveyor eyes, 
to measure lost meadows of paradise 
that I engraved with crossroads of my soul, 
unscrolls from safe cabinet of my heart 
to present the true way of my psychic quest 
across the waste land of cathedral ruins. 

Though Sylvia has vanished in the mist, 
twelve moons before my body was conceived 
from lightning strike that lit the star-black sea, 
I follow enchanting tone of her voice 
to misty meadow of the Gothic yew 
where she sings forever as Mother Moon. 

Because her ghost of heart-breaking despair 
glows with light of the moon in shrouding mist 
each pilgrim searching for the Promised Land 
can find the secret way we choose to go 
to apple grove on peak of Helicon 
where Marian statue of Sylvia smiles. 

Fished From The Wishing Well

Fished From The Wishing Well
© Surazeus
2024 05 21

If truth could be fished from the wishing well 
before bombs of empire destroy our homes 
and shatter world view of democracy, 
I would dispel fog of poisonous lies 
to cast the greedy devil back to hell 
so we can prosper with stories we tell. 

If love could be fished from the wishing well, 
though we wander in ruins of lost dreams 
searching for tattered photos of our lives, 
I would shelter our hearts from bitter hate 
to recalculate our journey through fate 
so we can rebuild in the Promised Land. 

If faith could be fished from the wishing well, 
lost in the endless maze of social myths 
despite attention of the careless moon, 
I would drill down in deep caverns of doubt 
to release secret code of fertile thought 
so we can restore Eden with our tears. 

If hope could be fished from the wishing well, 
triggered by passion of exploding brains 
far beyond pearly gates of tyranny, 
I would design puzzle of numb despair 
to translate language of ethereal air 
so we can breathe spirit of dreaming stars. 

If peace could be fished from the wishing well, 
trapped by legal code of the burning bush 
high on smoking mountain of the blind ghost, 
I would prophesy process of world war 
to meditate on ziggurat of skulls 
so we can restore rude religious rites. 

If health could be fished from the wishing well 
for souls endowed with inalienable rights, 
enforced by our Goddess of Liberty, 
I would invent cure for every disease 
to resurrect souls in children we bear 
so we can live in memories they share. 

If trust could be fished from the wishing well, 
revealed through visions of apocalypse, 
complete with angels on wings of desire, 
I would expose his venal treachery 
to smash his pride with Stone of Sisyphus 
so we can unite all nations of Earth. 

If death could be fished from the wishing well 
in spirals from first flash of the big bang 
through stars that generate planets with souls, 
I would evolve as god from sea of life 
to create paradise with crafting hands 
so we can tend fruit in the Tree of Truth. 

Glamor Of The Hope Trap

Glamor Of The Hope Trap
© Surazeus
2024 05 21

Sick from ennui of hot afternoon light 
gleaming green on oak trees and power lines 
frozen in fake photo of passing time, 
the old seer lies numb beside potted plants, 
aching to sing with melancholy hope 
while messages ding unread on his phone. 

Patting splintered hull of overturned boat 
in which he once sailed to island of bones, 
he stirs with desire to leave happy home 
and find lost castle of the crownless prince 
that falls into ruin on wind-swept cape 
where no one waits for him in drenching rain. 

Attempts to calculate process of fate, 
that scatters our souls on multiple planes 
across dimensions of our social game, 
disorient focus of his psychic trance, 
so he maps our multiverse in raindrop 
that radiates soul through electric photon. 

Elusive Heaven humanity sought 
cannot be found except by humble pawns 
alone in the waste land who sing sad psalm 
with magic spell no savior can pronounce 
till our new cosmic herald wakes from sleep 
to analyze state of the holocene. 

Nausea gnaws his heart at clever deceit 
of tyrants who run world money machines 
but he cannot escape their empire scheme, 
so he joins noble knights in demon hunts 
to fight holy crusade with royal troop, 
riding Pegasus to conquer the moon. 

Madness of rage drives him to howl and shoot 
to ensure salvation through magic runes 
with vain hope of fame from glory of doom 
while he figures out what everyone wants 
who are fooled by glamor of the hope trap 
which he set as part of his master plan. 

Reborn as lithe spiritual acrobat, 
he joins convoy of pilgrim minivans 
who search for paradise in hologram 
so he can solve riddles that make no sense 
till sweet wine overflows his golden cup 
while he stares into god-eye of the sun. 

With Mother Amen in pyramid hut 
he foresees the future empire of guns, 
so he encodes in glyphs tragic outcome 
when oppressed tribes must kill in self-defense, 
lead by Wise Guardian King archetype 
when he finds in his heart the fateful sign. 

Ghost Mental Ward

Ghost Mental Ward
© Surazeus
2024 05 20

Waking up in the blue shadow of thought 
inside the white-walled room of dreamlessness, 
I pretend I am more than some robot 
programmed to replicate pure happiness 
that gleams in beam of moonlight on the chair 
where I sit and teleport everywhere. 

Soft whisper of the spring-warm evening rain, 
expressing thoughts that I would never share, 
caresses concept of the window pane 
with mapless reference to the Everywhere 
that lures me beyond the hospital door 
where I disarrange all our social lore. 

Each flash of wireless words in waves of weird 
deregulates strange legal attitude 
providing clear suggestions for the feared 
who dance with strict abandon in the nude 
despite quick tempo of the fiddle tune 
that tricks me to see your face in the moon. 

To claim asylum in ghost mental ward, 
where faces carved in stone may sunly shine, 
I pretend plastic pen is mighty sword 
by which I conquer hate with minus sign 
subtracting rage with compassionate words 
that distract attention of haughty birds. 

Waking up in the blue twilight of faith 
outside stone walls of cold cathedral tomb, 
I compose my soul as chemical wraith 
with genetic threads in maternal womb 
through incarnation of immortal soul 
reborn from objective of the white whole. 

Bound with passion of the daily routine 
that measures progress of evolving forms, 
I bring basket of fruit to the May Queen 
whose gentle laughter causes global storms, 
so I retreat to haven of blank books 
because the world is run by clever crooks. 

Prone on steel anvil of spirit rebirth, 
I writhe from therapy of lighting strikes 
which swells my brain with visions of the Earth 
where young lovers explore the world on bikes, 
till I wake calm in emptiness of rage, 
ready to perform my role on the stage. 

These riddling spells forged into mask of I 
conceal true nature of my being from God 
who dreams in spiral abyss of my eye, 
yet mirrors primal psyche of the toad 
which programs how my brain perceives the world 
when at last I become the cosmic herald. 

Vision Of Global Democracy

Vision Of Global Democracy
© Surazeus
2024 05 20

From London to Manhattan on steel wings 
he flies across the ocean to escape 
shadow of Death that haunts clean sunlit lawns, 
then huddles in taxi that Charon drives 
while clutching portrait of Circe, his wife, 
whose eyes strike his heart with arrow of love. 

Though Orpheus plucks at life with old lyre 
he cannot lead the mad seer back from death 
whose ghost forever drives his coffin car 
up hill of skulls where Dionysus laughs 
at portent of sea waves on golden sand 
where only fools build castles out of fame. 

Since time is always open-eyed with truth 
about futile quest of humanity 
to maintain imperial security 
through honesty of tanks and ships and planes, 
we animate our bones with fabled news 
to march against contempt of tyranny. 

With voice of ocean waves crashing soft shores 
we clamor loud through sermons of grand pride 
insisting on our bold superior strength 
to stand opposed with principles of faith 
against aggressive hordes of greedy gangs 
who invade fertile land our fathers stole. 

No penitents now visit shrines of saints 
who passively resisted tyranny, 
for they hide in their isolated homes 
clutching rifles of rage with frightened hands 
to shoot the faceless shadow of despair 
in vain attempt to secure paradise. 

The shining city on the hill of faith 
that cannot be hid by smokescreen of greed, 
humming with vibrant creativity, 
protects migrants and refugees from war 
who gather from cities around the world 
with vision of global democracy. 

Somewhere in crowded maze of city streets 
nameless messiah sleuth investigates 
crime of treason against Justice and Truth 
committed by the thief in business suit 
while angels of American cry out 
for the cosmic herald to guide their way. 

As eyeless ghost of the mad seer glows bright 
in torch of freedom Liberty holds high, 
his vision projects rainbow of his will 
in fear-dispelling beacon of our hearts 
that lights the way our scattered tribe can go 
on the righteous path of democracy. 

Bloom From Cosmic Dust

Bloom From Cosmic Dust
© Surazeus
2024 05 19

More weary than time-vanished castle walls, 
thoughtful as ravens on telephone lines, 
I stare out window of suburban house 
at tall unmoving oaks that wait for me 
to play dramatic role assigned by fate 
though I choose to never participate. 

Though particles of light curl into balls 
that condense the big bang in jewel mines, 
I feel tense nonchalance beside my spouse 
who wears light-gleaming robe of Liberty 
while I sail the wild sea in fragile boat 
back to misty isle of the prudent goat. 

Less happy than dream-fractured temple rooms, 
cunning as jesters in theater shows, 
I weave resourceful vision of the past 
with diligent attention to how fools 
scam each other with cryptic currency 
in desperate attempt to fake potency. 

Since chemicals of brains nurture state tombs 
that feature genuine wisdom of the rose, 
I conjure fable for the world broadcast 
presenting how mankind invented tools 
which should encourage psychic agency 
to make new tales that fill soul vacancy. 

After shameless adjacency of trust, 
staged by beloved friends of wingless planes, 
I stir fierce courage deep in cordial pond 
to rise as hairy monster of my mind 
through battle to control the narrative 
based firm on the global imperative. 

Yet families strolling shady streets of faith 
on Sunday afternoons of secure pride 
wave to my shadow behind mirror glass 
when I declare global emergency 
by exploiting disaster of warfare 
to claim gold crown forged by the mother bear. 

Before our bodies bloom from cosmic dust 
to program world view in conceptual brains, 
I crawl from abyss where our souls were spawned 
to forest grove where dead god lies enshrined 
so I can understand how I should live 
in commercial game of create and give. 

Therefore I rise as television wraith 
from magic wand that Fame prefers to hide 
so I can calculate atomic mass 
required to value social currency, 
then shift dream-gears of my electric car 
so I can bring Phoebus his lost guitar. 

Calling His True Name

Calling His True Name
© Surazeus
2024 05 19

With ordered steps he walks the righteous road 
past straight miles of rigid telephone poles 
to find fruit trees billowing in sea breeze 
beyond unseen boundary of the nation-state 
where Alph the serpentine-curled river flows 
in strict time with gear-ticking clock of fate. 

Beside round cement pool of self-control 
he stands like twisted pine on wind-bashed cliff 
and strums vibrant strings of celestial spheres 
that twang in tune with grunge engines in cars 
while singing tale about young Charlemagne 
playful with Aslan in Elysian hills. 

From swirling fog that shrouds vast city maze 
lithe daughter of Luthien Tinuviel 
appears in eerie glow of gold street lamp 
with emerald eyes of Aisling piercing gloom, 
long white gown flowing as silver rain clouds 
in spirals from Stygian well of her heart. 

Around his rigid telephone-pole spine 
Astara slowly twirls on wing-light feet 
with supple grace of chainless elegance 
while he attends to lyre of Mercury 
with taut restraint of regulating touch 
that reins aggressive passion of his song. 

When flow of psychic energy, that fuels 
performance of his regulated song, 
trickles slow after fountain-gush of joy, 
he ceases strumming lyre of Mercury 
and hushes puckish descant of his voice 
that fades in cavernous silence of time. 

The stately pleasure dome of Xanadu, 
his voice projected bright from nothingness, 
may vanish from construction of his spell, 
but steel-framed towers of reflecting glass 
glow bright with eerie twilight of desire 
as gleaming cars on rainbow highways stream. 

Curling around fruit tree of his lost faith, 
he climbs to tree house he built from plywood 
in abandoned field of old rusty cars, 
and lies flat under bright indifferent stars, 
cuddling curved hips and breasts of his guitar 
who kisses him with steel-string lips of hope. 

Asleep beneath full moon on river plain, 
he dreams the star-eyed lion of his heart 
bears him with Garuda wings of desire 
halfway around our pear-shaped spinning globe 
to jungle island where he sees his soulmate 
on Borobudur calling his true name. 

Eruption Of The Mountain

Eruption Of The Mountain
© Surazeus
2024 05 18

Wild roaring wind that shakes the stoic pines 
cares nothing for dramatic lives of men 
who contest over who will rule the land, 
extracting minerals of conceptual wealth 
from bountiful bosom of Mother Earth, 
then leaves our sorrows scattered on wet streets. 

When secret ministry of frost transforms 
my meditative heart with secret code 
from fierce ambitious youth to solemn age, 
my eyes relive how children of my soul 
grow from babes in cradles to wise adults 
who follow eager hope down misty roads. 

My heart that pulses with ambitious faith, 
driving me down roads of creative play 
across deserts and mountains many years, 
now aches with numb contentment of desire 
from high achievement of my secret aim 
to sing in tune with Spirit of the Earth. 

Strolling stone-bounded shore of Lethe Stream 
among tall humming pines of eyeless ghosts, 
I linger in wide meadow where no birds 
sing routine songs of romantic desire, 
and gaze at gray clouds rolling from the sea 
that veil my vision of celestial realms. 

Beside the gushing river of lost dreams 
the old gray-bearded wizard of my soul, 
whose spirit wanders still in mountain vales, 
waves twisted oak wand with his gnarly hands 
that dispels clouds to reveal awful sight 
of his ancient mountain frosted with snow. 

As if enormous dragon with long neck 
stomps boldly forth from cave of chthonic rage, 
the whole world shakes with sudden rumbling roar 
when that ancient frosted mountain erupts 
with thunderous explosion of gray clouds 
that billow thick into the silver sky. 

We recreate the stories of our lives 
from scattered memories of our random hopes 
when we retrieve fragments of vivid fears 
to assemble puzzle of paradise 
as safe haven that could preserve our souls 
though we fade into twilight of our dreams. 

Though eruption of that mountain of fire 
seemed to portend apocalypse of greed, 
forty-four years of progress has transformed 
spirit of our nation from innocence 
to imperial pride of democracy 
that scatters ash of freedom on the world. 

Bitter Sword Of Fame

Bitter Sword Of Fame
© Surazeus
2024 05 18

I cannot tell you who the real me is 
for I encode my life experience 
behind the psychotropic mask of god 
so thickly you cannot see past my words 
that shield my heart from bitter sword of Fame 
who feeds with vampire lust on souls of fools. 

Each spell I chant as sweet melodious song 
in spotlight of attentive hope for faith 
conceals true nature of my private soul 
with glowing shield of psychic energy 
that protects me from the desperate hope 
of people lost in bleak waste land of fear. 

Bold heroes eulogized in ancient tales, 
who lead their tribe of refugees from war 
into the lawless wilderness of faith, 
organized fearful souls lost in despair 
in strong community of loyal warriors 
focused on survival of the whole group. 

To mythologize my personal life 
I flay social definitions of self 
that strips my spirit bare of special facts 
till I am empty of specific features 
so all that remains of my inner core 
is universal archetype of me. 

Tearing away my unique state of being, 
so the somebody that I used to be 
is scattered on the ground in puzzle shards, 
I become the nobody I will be, 
assembled from everybody who lives, 
invisible to the cruel eyes of Fame. 

Contained in singular frame of my flesh, 
impersonal symbol of Everyman, 
I move as point on line of boundless plane 
in tight retention of expressive time, 
trapped by experience of defined events 
in calculating progress of blind fate. 

As faceless speaker with name I invent 
I describe this weird landscape where I am, 
then I remember tragic incident 
that sparks insight to nature of this world, 
so I devise clever riddle of thought 
that alters how I perceive why I feel. 

As universal symbol of mankind, 
combining billions of souls in one mind, 
I reach out my hand to offer you fruit 
which I stole from serpent in Tree of Life, 
then we share stories of how we survive 
so our children live well after we die. 

Bright Elf Shaman

Bright Elf Shaman
© Surazeus
2024 05 17

Evading calm terror of tasteless words 
fished from foul pond of alligator bones, 
I walk country road of telephone poles 
that string my soul along with aching hope 
stolen from alphabet wings of sad birds 
because the evening sky is silver bright. 

Something she said in the kitchen last year 
as she was pressing dough of apple pies 
still haunts me with its subtle purity 
filling a cracked glass with almost-sour milk 
despite regretful thoughts I never speak 
about wanting to live in prairie grass. 

Each time the white telephone on the wall 
alarms her calm demeanor with bad news, 
my grandmother smiles to hide bleak despair 
that the blind man in the forest of bones 
chases the sparrow to the Promised Land 
till the pair of scissors falls from her hand. 

We always knew the horse with seven eyes 
could win the long race at the county fair 
but no one expected he would escape 
and search for his mother in windy hills 
though I wait for thirty years in the door 
to watch the sunset ignore unpaid bills. 

Leaving crowded cities of the east coast, 
my ancestors who escaped Babylon 
wrote no diaries about their journey west, 
yet still I hear sad creak of turning wheels 
in timeless wind across the new-named hills 
where I pretend I live in Avalon. 

Till I was forty-two I could not read 
history written in star-map of my name 
so when I found the ancient Holy Grail 
I saw glowing in jeweled runes of truth 
true secret name of my immortal soul 
which I wear now as laurel wreath of faith. 

These names that reveal state of my soul are 
Surazeus from Asura and Zeus, 
Astarius from First Mother Ishtar, 
Jesuvius from Jehovah and Jove, 
and Gothinus from Odin Wanderer, 
for I am the bard in the sea-mountain cave. 

As Albert Simon I am bright elf shaman 
who tends the sacred flame of Zoroaster 
in the watch tower on the pyramid 
to guard lush apple trees of paradise 
where children play along the sparkling stream 
that flows down from the mountain to the sea. 

Mad Poets Of Wisdom

Mad Poets Of Wisdom
© Surazeus
2024 05 17

We are all growing old in far-off lands, 
we hot-head rebels of important streets 
who journey urban waste lands of our nation 
in restless cars of existential dread, 
at last to shuffle shag carpets of wealth 
in waning days of our democracy. 

I wander forlorn in no songless groves 
of empty Parnassus or Helicon, 
and far from Mount Takoma I now dwell, 
still energized by visions of weird futures 
my Muse showed me in her haunted woods, 
heart aching to hike rugged hills again. 

Yet fierce ambition of my curious mind 
to sing epics with lyre of Mercury 
still fuels hot furnace of my hungry heart 
that first sparked me alive with lightning flash 
so, like nameless monster Frankenstein quickened, 
I wander waste land of the modern world. 

Buzzing with passion in dark basement room 
where I first learned to orate with guitar, 
I lounged with ghosts of mad poets of wisdom, 
Baudelaire, Wordsworth, Shelley, Byron, Keats, 
Ginsberg, Lowell, Schwartz, Eliot, and Rilke, 
Fellowship of the Raven-Feather Quill. 

Lost refugee from old New England towns, 
descended from Pilgrims and Puritans 
who traveled west in lonely wagon trains 
from Chesapeake Bay to the Salish Sea 
on the Oregon Trail to Wonderland, 
I chant spells on misty hillside in moonlight. 

Alone on shore of the Oregon coast, 
buffeted by relentless winds of change, 
I meet Anne Bradstreet, Mother of my Muse, 
who points my way back east on signless road 
so I wander singing tales thirty years 
till I settle in Appalachian hills. 

If I traveled back to my Motherland, 
England through Germany to Scythia, 
I know I would not find idyllic past 
glowing in memories my ancestors dreamed 
which program how my brain perceives this world, 
so I am content in my oakwood home. 

Our strong democracy will never vanish, 
though greedy tyrant, grasping at false crown 
that fettered head of the crucified king, 
attempts to idolize himself messiah, 
for Liberty holds high bright torch of justice 
and writes tales of freedom in Book of Truth. 

Hungry Monsters Writhing

Hungry Monsters Writhing
© Surazeus
2024 05 17

When he takes off his glasses he can see 
smears of blurry colors that might just be 
hungry monsters writhing trapped inside things, 
if he was not sure angels have no wings, 
so he reaches out hope in trembling hand 
to understand weird shadows of the land. 

With desperate gasp of raspy breath he tries 
to clean lenses of his glasses from skies 
smudged with bitter mud of ugly contempt 
so he can perceive truth to better attempt 
escape from splintered bat of brute disgust 
when he hunches behind brick wall in dust. 

Bellowing bull roar of his father shakes 
rotten wood stairs of his stupid mistakes, 
so he squeezes stinging eyes shut to hide 
devilish glare of rage from battered pride, 
then jumps at memory of the hard bat blow 
that charges gutted scream of moonless glow. 

Looming from shadow of slammed-open door, 
his father with viking face of horned gore 
growls command that he stand up on both feet, 
but his frail body, buzzed with wild heartbeat, 
lurches forward in self-defensive stance, 
startled by rapid flicker of his glance. 

Fingers smudged with tears gooping from his brain, 
he grips arms of his father with taut strain, 
like Jacob wrestling fierce angel of death, 
then, sucking deep tornado howl of breath, 
he winds tight coil of hot rage in his soul 
and slams his father hard at the wood pole. 

Tangled in shadow of electric lines 
that twists his frail body with voiceless minds, 
he swells with berserker rage of grim hope 
that he might grip reckless despair to cope 
with terror urging him to counterstrike 
oppressive abuser with martial spike. 

Slipping free from aggressive stranglehold 
of his father through gambit unforetold, 
he clutches bull-thick throat with clamping grip 
tight as crab claws netted on wave-wracked ship, 
then slams his father face down on sidewalk, 
who gurgles wordless blood in vicious shock. 

Standing tense over limp corpse of his sire, 
bruised and bloodied in freezing oil-slick mire, 
he gasps for breath till his frantic heart calms, 
wipes blood on his jeans from battle-smeared palms, 
then strides toward the unknown down signless road 
to find safe haven of the stoic toad. 

Chemical Soul Of Thought

Chemical Soul Of Thought
© Surazeus
2024 05 16

We change our fate through the choices we make 
which narrows possibilities of chance, 
so today I will bake pineapple cake, 
then invite the soul I love for a dance, 
because this is the life I choose to play 
with decisive action blazing my way. 

Each moment in the constant stream of time 
I swim through swirl of atoms in the void 
till I become chemical soul of thought 
in star that nurtures planet of my hope 
where I evolve into organic beings 
who convert pain to pleasure through desire. 

Awakened from strange dream by tinkling chime, 
I ponder cause and effect hope deployed 
through magic spells in jewels angels sought 
midway through my journey on mountain slope 
where my demonic muse spreads divine wings 
so I can sing in the heavenly choir. 

Among eight billion people on the Earth 
I choose to love you alone of them all 
so we unite our hearts in soul rebirth 
to gain eternal life through protocol 
which generates bodies as soul machines 
designed by immortal god of our genes. 

Through the choices we make we change our fate 
which broadens probabilities of luck 
because the person who becomes our mate 
lends us a helping hand when we get stuck, 
then together we walk the signless road 
as we develop our private love code. 

Though sometimes on my way I hesitate 
midway through journey of this life to see, 
beyond fog of hope, my ultimate fate, 
I decide that my passion sets me free 
to choose within parameters of fact 
constructive rather than destructive act. 

This universe of molecular light 
is structure of atoms that congregate 
to compose conscious beings in mental flight 
who measure how particles aggregate 
so our actions will create or destroy 
objects through subjective process of joy. 

I choose to be with you till we both die 
for you are the one person in this world 
most important to me under the sky, 
so I perform my role as cosmic herald 
to create life with harmony of faith 
till I vanish as dream-conceptual wraith. 

Urbanize Eden

Urbanize Eden
© Surazeus
2024 05 15

While trudging weed-choked yard inside barbed fence 
in search for safe haven where I can dwell 
free from harassment of bankers and thieves, 
I realize mankind has never left 
lost Garden of Eden, though we escaped 
tyranny of the old man with the sword. 

I pause near jagged heap of cement slabs, 
ribbed with rusty iron bars bent by greed, 
that rises round as the lost barrow mound 
where Beowulf lies buried with his sword, 
and watch huge freight ships glide past fragile bridge 
where pious ghosts wait for return of Jesus. 

Small mouse inside wood television box, 
chewing frazzled wires of fractured glass tube, 
must see me as Jupiter in the sky 
with thunderbolt of justice in guitar 
that I stole from temple of Mercury, 
so I sit on large tractor tire to rest. 

Tuning strings in harmony with the spheres 
of psychic energy, which animate 
our globe to spin in starless void of hope, 
I hum to analyze strange melody 
that vibrates verbal concepts of my dream 
when I improvise tale of the sly fool. 

When darkness clamps cold over city towers 
I watch long metal cars climb hill of skulls, 
lightbeams scratching slim red wound of the moon 
in soft romantic hearts of lonely souls 
who sit at round tables in bright-lit rooms 
to eat soup of sorrow with patient smiles. 

If I could find their tombstones in tall grass 
I might read names of my ancestors carved 
with rigid faith on cracked commandment stones, 
frosted with diamond edge of changeless time, 
but they lie scattered in countless graveyards 
from Chesapeake Bay to the Salish Sea. 

Instead of slabbing my hope-rotten corpse 
in neglected graveyard of empty church, 
where only angels sing hymns to blind clouds, 
incinerate my body with star flame 
so atoms of my body may disperse 
and fertilize gardens sea to shining sea. 

Though Adam and Eve walked outside the gate 
where Lilith controls apple tree of life, 
they colonized all river shores of Earth 
with gardens that expand far beyond walls 
to urbanize Eden with city blocks 
where I live homeless in the river park. 

Who You Really Are

Who You Really Are
© Surazeus
2024 05 15

I know you are not who you seem to be 
so I will misrecognize who you are 
and pretend you are who you want to be 
each time I misidentify your being 
as universal concept of yourself 
masked by the special ideal you could be. 

When you finally see contours of your face 
reflected in window glass of the car, 
that glides on signless road of anywhere 
past ten thousand homes where you never live, 
you will recognize the one most strange house 
where you hide yourself from the Everyone. 

Because I know well you will never read 
this strange riddle I write only for you, 
I will tell you everything you should know 
about how people perceive you to be, 
though that will never alter how you see 
the inner self you want the world to see. 

When you are reading this about yourself 
you will not recognize whom I present, 
for you are entirely someone else, 
completely different in most every way 
from this person I depict with these words, 
so you can pretend you are anyone. 

When you play the predesigned character 
you choose to perform in the video game, 
you become the person you want to be, 
completely different from the one you are, 
so when you fight your doppelganger self 
you always forget who you really are. 

When you world-leap across the multiverse 
to inhabit every self you could be, 
you find that you always perform the same 
no matter nature of the circumstance, 
so you detect personality quirks 
common to every self you choose to play. 

You play actor, puppet, and puppeteer 
in theatrical game of social life 
based on ambiguous myth of long-dead gods 
that shatters you into billions of yous 
who wear reflective mirror of your face 
since each claims you are the only real You. 

You stand before clear mirror of the world 
and ask yourself why you are not yet dead, 
then you turn around and face the world 
so you can talk to You in everyone, 
for you see You in every you you see 
till you become the Nobody of death. 

Our Journey Toward Life

Our Journey Toward Life
© Surazeus
2024 05 14

Weird vision swelling in my word-bound heart, 
sparked by dim memory from some year long past, 
expands beyond stark light of timeless hour 
that forms foundation of my mental state 
which binds my restless soul in static form 
fueled by strict coil of chemical swirls. 

Intense emotion of ten million lives, 
that highlights timeless moments of despair 
when each ancestor woven in my mind 
sat huddled in dark shadow of cold fear, 
cloaks my wild beating heart with hopeless faith 
in stoic patience to endure the storm. 

This hour that passes with tedious cadence 
spreads firm foundation of enduring hope 
as base of courage that supports my cause 
derived from memories of my previous lives 
when my ancestors countless times before 
endured this same paralyzing despair. 

Their memories, preserved as mythical tropes 
in genetic code that programs my brain, 
provide clear guidance through envisioned play 
for how I might endure crisis I face, 
so through habitual rite of gestured force 
I overcome hard obstacles of fear. 

So many people living on this Earth 
descend from same first mother of my soul 
whose fierce intent of passion to survive 
links all our minds with universal view 
we share in code of language we express 
that forms moral assumptions she designed. 

As if we read minds of strangers we meet 
we share unspoken world view she composed 
based on experience of suffering with hope 
that she endured with firm desire to win 
by adjusting energy of despair 
to motivate her drive creating life. 

With every gesture of her bodied soul 
that she programmed in how our brains perform 
she designed our shared human character 
that forms our universal ideal soul 
so we project our best perfected self 
as image of God that guides how we act. 

From memories of how our ancestors lived, 
learning ritual acts in daily routines 
that ensure we survive and generate 
new life in children who grow beyond us, 
we invent concept of our perfect God 
as template that guides our journey toward life. 

Ghost Embodied By You

Ghost Embodied By You
© Surazeus
2024 05 14

The sweet enchantment that corrupts my mind 
with anguish for strange beauty of the world, 
when someone sings with fragile voice of hope 
about elusive mystery of the sea 
and soul-enhancing fragrance of bright flowers, 
I try to dispel through wry irony. 

By telling you of everything I know, 
and feel about how I perform my role, 
I hide everything that is really true 
through misdirection of my rambling tale 
in desperate bid to divert your sly view 
so you will never see me as I am. 

The scenes you see in faded photographs 
obstruct fraught currents of long-done events 
so no one ever sees what happened then 
which blinds us to why what occurs today 
hijacks our frail sense of security, 
and leaves us stranded on a wind-thrashed sea. 

Banalities of popular romance, 
us lost now in the middle of our journey 
in jagged mountains veiled by godless clouds, 
our reversal on wave-swirled sands of time, 
and deadly cost of hope we pay for fear, 
are signs that lead us forever nowhere. 

Ambiguous syntax of the broken gate, 
that proves we suffer more than people do, 
highlights our passion to contrive our fate 
with spells for nothing that can be undone 
as if we are but raindrops in the sun, 
which leaves us puzzled with another clue. 

So when I wake in dreamy marble hall, 
where idol of my mother by cracked wall 
rattles with wordless songs of mute desire, 
I hide my face with mask of Lucifer 
to fool the Devil in the bathing pool 
with illusion of my true character. 

Mechanical projection of my soul, 
fueled by aggressive poverty of doom, 
lures me to trudge in swirls of stinging rain 
till I find secret theater with orange door 
where I can watch whole history of the world 
re-enacted for our dramatic age. 

Though endless silence of long burned-out stars 
is answer to all strange questions of life, 
I laugh at illusion of our old faith 
that Earth emanates Spirit of the Mind 
as beautiful ghost embodied by you 
who gazes at me now with human eyes. 

It My Mind Perceives

It My Mind Perceives
© Surazeus
2024 05 14

Through prism of blank words my mind perceives 
momentary gleam of weird conscious state 
that contemplates conceptual building frames 
containing timeless reference of the sign 
within totality monster of faith 
ephemeral as mist on the houseless plain. 

Recession of objects my mind perceives 
into wordless absence of conceptual thoughts 
evacuates doorless house of that sign 
which guides my journey towards its nonchalance 
with constant swirl of disappearing wheels 
each time we drive our wagon on the road. 

Unstable signified my mind perceives 
to disengage the scriptor I perform 
decides to represent coherent plot 
blind storyteller in frail chair relates 
about swift chase of lovers in dark woods 
who hide from horror in the doorless house. 

Trapped by taut sentences my mind perceives 
without strict boundaries of moral laws, 
we paint watercolor pictures of things 
in places lit with glow of memory 
resembling church steeples above lush trees 
with mysterious romance we want to share. 

Penetrated by it my mind perceives 
outside definable realm, as we know, 
we find narrative continuity 
in fractured fragments of riddles we solve 
without access to dictionary code 
devised by the jester to win our hearts. 

Involved in whole fabric my mind perceives, 
which constitutes matrix of unknown tales, 
I choose to do what might have changed my fate 
since I will never know with certainty 
what might have happened otherwise, despite 
spring water gleaming as gems in the pool. 

Circled by dream fragments my mind perceives 
as crumbs from bread dropped by the forest girl, 
I index pieces of my puzzling life 
which grim intent to narratize as myth 
random events of undramatic scenes 
where I stumble over forgotten lines. 

Shadowed by glow of it my mind perceives, 
faceless behind sun-glinted window glass, 
I try to review embarrassing scenes 
where I expose weakness of my mortal soul 
in stories I compose to evade death 
who waits patiently for me by the sea. 

Eyes Of Ideal Math

Eyes Of Ideal Math
© Surazeus
2024 05 13

I watch the cat with eyes of ideal math 
to see if it will ever get abstract, 
and though the cat remains in present form 
I see eternal Catness in its grace, 
so this cat embodies Eternal Cat 
who chases mice around the throne of God. 

Foolish enough to find joy in the wind, 
which animates bodies of special forms 
with aggressive passion of lust for life, 
I move with clumsy grace of the blithe fool 
through nameless people of the teeming crowd 
that flows across the bridge of Wonderland. 

We will not fall into river of tears 
unless we veer from rigid path of faith 
that bridge of forgetfulness will not fall, 
so we find partners in the swirling mist 
and dance to thunderous beat of our hearts 
that wash our bodies into sea of death. 

Unconcerned about grim judgmental looks 
of nameless people walking somewhere else, 
I paint strange beauty of eternal grace 
on rectangular canvas of my eyes 
that shudders with each blast of river wind 
eager to catch me up with angel wings. 

Potential action of emotive notes 
indicate with journalist nonchalance 
that leader of the free world never comes 
close enough to calm lion in the zoo 
to capture spirit of her stoic grace 
as ballerina of the global stage. 

With radiant signals of the wifi wing 
I choose which hymn of naked faith to sing 
though towers of power collapse to dust 
at sudden strike of airplanes from the sky 
when Jupiter hurls thunderbolt of grief 
to redesign the world view of our minds. 

Through happenstance of my experience 
with casual prophecy of naked fear 
I find weird beauty of our human soul 
displayed in skeletons of steel and glass 
illumined by stark light of nevermore 
that glitters in the mirror mask of god. 

Though serpent in the apple tree of truth 
remains coiled taut in painting on the urn, 
that gleams in dim museum light of faith, 
I reach out my hand to caress her fruit 
so I can taste divine wisdom of love 
that cracks at human touch of selfish words. 

Outside World View

Outside World View
© Surazeus
2024 05 13

I am happy in my little safe house, 
hiding from the wolves like the clever mouse 
that gathers nutritious grains from farm fields 
I store for the winter on rusty shields 
lost by warriors who fall in noble wars 
while their hungry wives fade from lonely doors. 

When the greedy pig who crowns himself king 
flees divine justice of the tattered wing, 
the wily fox emerges from his den 
to write new laws of liberty with pen, 
forged by lightning crow from the fires of hell, 
that lies forgotten by rune-flashing well. 

When sheep and chickens, working for their pay, 
with cows and horses, slaving every day, 
gather before the abandoned white house, 
they hear strange prophecy from the blind mouse 
who proclaims second coming of the lord 
who will right all wrongs with the long-lost sword. 

Yet on high mountain of the burning bush 
the lightning crow emerges with a whoosh 
to introduce contenders for the throne 
who fight to control the Sisyphus Stone 
in campaign for president of the world 
as game show hosted by the cosmic herald. 

The ancient lion with long flowing mane, 
descended from druids of Avalon, 
chases greedy pig into his gold cage, 
where he claims right to rule with bitter rage, 
then lounges tense on Stone of Scone to wait 
for stars to realign hour of our fate. 

On thirteen-level pyramid of power, 
where Rapunzel sings in the vision tower, 
bold people of America collate 
refugees from war-torn lands in one state 
where Ishtar holds high torch of liberty 
to guide procedures of democracy. 

Just as the pig attempts to steal the crown, 
whose haughty pride exposes him as clown 
when he declares himself messiah king, 
the Hidden Dragon, bearing wisdom ring, 
will rise from skull of Orpheus to quell 
his tyranny with soul-inspiring spell. 

Though the arc of justice seems far too long, 
we hold faith that truth will right every wrong, 
but the sun will rise and set in the sky 
outside world view we make from asking why, 
and rivers ever flow down to the sea 
regardless if man lives enslaved or free. 

Beam Of The Lightless Star

Beam Of The Lightless Star
© Surazeus
2024 05 13

When the beam of the lightless star of death 
illuminates my face with subtle glow 
of ancient wordless wisdom about life, 
I realize with grin of awful truth 
that I am no more than chemical flame 
flaring for its hour through eternity. 

When the beam of the lightless star of hope 
fractures factual mirror of story masks 
into epical heroes of old myths, 
I wear mask of the Tireless Traveler 
who maps terrain of life I navigate 
so others may avoid Slough of Despond. 

When the beam of the lightless star of faith 
forms rain that falls into my open eyes 
long after I die on some signless road, 
I translate pointless melody to song 
that depicts the color of everything 
though I refuse to paint portrait of I. 

When the beam of the lightless star of fear 
soothes arrogant despair cracking my heart 
with anguish for each person killed in war, 
I savor surprise at beauty of Earth 
that swells my soul with passion for this life 
as I share love with my mate at my side. 

When the beam of the lightless star of rage 
explodes from apple seeds of hungry joy 
into global metropolis of greed, 
I give apples free to people I meet 
whose eyes give me visions while I record 
strange spiritual agony of our time. 

When the beam of the lightless star of lust 
constructs new bridge across abyss of death 
connecting my mind to real world of forms, 
I find no bridge will ever take me home, 
so I turn back and leave the Promised Land 
till I am at the gates of somewhere else. 

When the beam of the lightless star of life 
infuses mask of Janus with new truth 
that functioning brains conjure conscious minds, 
I walk past crowded stores on holidays 
and travel signless road to Wonderland 
where ghosts of my ancestors wait for me. 

When the beam of the lightless star of love 
reveals the mad king and his crownless clown 
dancing with joy in the indifferent storm, 
I bring them water from river of tears 
that no one drinks at the end of the show 
when I leave the theater before dawn. 

Keeping My Soul Safe

Keeping My Soul Safe
© Surazeus
2024 05 12

Keeping my soul safe in the apple tree, 
with tight electric coils of mushroom brains, 
I drive car on long highway of success 
fueled by ambition of fake happiness, 
then walk with haunting music among grains 
that teach my mortal heart how to live free. 

Keeping my soul safe in the telephone, 
designed with modulations of field rows 
plowed by Cadmus who sows huge dragon teeth 
to train fierce warriors with religious faith, 
I build world empire based on wheat and cows, 
which I govern through the Sisyphus Stone. 

Keeping my soul safe in the sailing ship, 
built by the shipwright Argus with both hands 
from bones of dinosaurs found in dream cave, 
I translate magic spells of ocean waves 
to patriotic songs of warring lands 
who invent state truth using censorship. 

Keeping my soul safe in the dollar bill, 
printed by Pluto in cavern of hope, 
I strum gold strings on lyre of Mercury 
and sing national anthem of Liberty 
while lost boys in the army learn to cope 
in campaign to crown new King of the Hill. 

Keeping my soul safe in the story book, 
preserved in library of the blind ghost, 
I record deeds of gods who never lived 
in myths that tell how humans are conceived 
while singing in banquet hall for the host 
who praises sacred feast of the priest cook. 

Keeping my soul safe in the raven quill, 
I write epic tale of philosophers 
that programs new mental world-view code 
flashing in diamond eyes of the god toad 
who enthralls minds of army officers 
to obey commands of sky god Enlil. 

Keeping my soul safe in the idol form 
based on marble statue of Jupiter, 
which stands unmoving in museum hall, 
I return from Heaven as Parzival 
who steals Crown of Jesus from Lucifer 
to bind energy of the lightning storm. 

Keeping my soul safe in the rolling stone, 
that smashes statue of the tyrant king 
with curse of bureaucratic paperwork, 
I perform my role as government clerk 
mapping history of the world in the ring 
I wear as we stroll in the twilight zone. 

Angel-Headed Hipster

Angel-Headed Hipster
© Surazeus
2024 05 12

Deconstructing myths of our world religions, 
I see how the worst minds of every tribe 
who ever lived in every generation 
play power games to control human minds 
trapped in swirling vortex of social change 
that burns trace of their souls in characters. 

Strict force of their controlling energy 
sparks fierce rebellion for the cause of freedom 
from the best minds of every generation, 
forged by soul-twisting heat of poverty, 
who rise through revolution of despair 
to overthrow cruel Titans of state power. 

Bold warriors dramatized in ancient epics, 
who gained power by killing everyone 
who dared oppose their will to forge their fate, 
were mortal men who crowned themselves as gods, 
commanding bards in crowded feasting halls 
to proclaim them heroes whom men should worship. 

Because the best killers in every age 
command historians to praise their good deeds, 
sad stories of the losers are forgotten 
as roads are paved to cover up their graves, 
and banks are erected on ruined temples 
where no Jesus could drive the bankers out. 

Yet still will Allen Ginsberg as Huck Finn 
rebel against vast military state, 
clowning around on literary stage 
to mock the wealthy and the powerful, 
then praise the starving hysterical seer 
who howls against Money Moloch of fame. 

Terrified of mad Sea Mother of Night, 
who writhes in agony of painful rage 
against soul-wrenching chemicals of hope, 
the satyr clown who wears clay Buddha mask 
flees west across the waste land of despair 
to sing of beauty by the western sea. 

Snatching sling of rebellion David lost, 
the angel-headed hipster of nowhere Zen 
howls and hurls nuclear stone of Sisyphus 
at soul-trapping head of Ozymandias 
to shatter golden calf with spear of truth 
while the whole cosmos vibrates at his feet. 

With every cycle in the rise of empires, 
when another Goliath grasps for power, 
another David, as the Hidden Dragon, 
will rise from crowd of humble citizens 
to grasp the Jovian thunderbolt of truth 
and manage progress of productive peace. 

Spells On Crumbling Leaves

Spells On Crumbling Leaves
© Surazeus
2024 05 11

Through startling epiphany of weird truth 
I arrange collage of lost memories 
that juxtapose disparate materials 
with explicit syntactical relations 
between elements in puzzle of faith 
through my consistent authorial voice. 

Coding social information in scenes 
that present psychic ambition of love, 
I sing electric beauty of the soul 
that beams out from first flash of the big bang 
through tense organic bodies of our brains 
so we express voice of atoms in songs. 

Unspoken marginal presence of I 
embraces pulsing energy of light 
projecting virtual model of the world 
through visionary chanting of my eye 
when I dance lithe with strictly-controlled grace 
in journey to Otherworld of the mind. 

Back from the Otherworld of ancient dreams 
preserving timeless concepts of ideas, 
I chant in riddles of conceptual tropes 
objectively existing information 
freely available for communal use 
realized through individual competence. 

Through hieroglyphs of visual images 
I translate surreal visions of harsh life 
with complex similes of farming ways 
intense arrogance of aggressive war 
swirled by vortex of political power 
that I assert through world view I design. 

Encoding psychic tropes with ideograms 
that program how our brains perceive the world, 
mad prophet born from sea-womb of the whale 
stands firm before the pearly gates of Heaven 
to preach salvation through the will to power 
dictators employ to crown themselves kings. 

Based on genealogy of my soul, 
that embodies immortal soul of genes 
reborn from men now worshipped as great gods, 
I act without acting in game of life 
by sitting quietly in my quaint home 
and writing spells that reprogram my mind. 

When pulsing atoms that compose my soul, 
conjured by chemicals fueling my body, 
disperse to swirls of dust at hour of death, 
this I that consciously defines itself 
will vanish in blank nothingness of faith, 
leaving only these spells on crumbling leaves. 

Live My Ludicrous Life

Live My Ludicrous Life
© Surazeus
2024 05 11

If I were to live my ludicrous life 
backward from the starting point of my death 
I would regress from hard ambitious quest 
to write with diamond-point quill of regret 
story of human life in book of glass 
through abstract concepts always incomplete. 

Elisions of contracted scenes I play 
omit abstract ideas death designs 
that bind extracted syllables of fear 
with process of selfless love that could merge 
vital questions about strict moral laws 
that guide my journey to the Promised Land. 

Ophelia brings armfuls of fresh flowers 
to village kitchen on the river shore 
where she draws pictures of each stalk and bloom 
in book of witchcraft bound with leather flaps 
while children arrange silverware and plates 
on tables where warriors and their wives feast. 

Gold Lion and Black Dragon in her house 
contain strong psychic energy of faith 
as they contest for who reigns in her heart 
while she walks spiral staircase to the stars 
in black lace dress that swirls rainclouds of hope 
when she calculates consequence of love. 

Her sunlit face of compassion for life 
casts glowing shadow on stone temple wall 
when she ascends to stage of public play 
to preside over solemn rites of death 
by chanting brilliant hymn of soul rebirth 
that fills our bodies with tongues of starfire. 

Robed in white silk gown of bright flashing gems, 
Ophelia raises both arms to the moon 
and sings the shepherd psalm that David wrote 
to channel spirit of Shekinah clear 
across six thousand years of sacred rites 
that rejuvenate spirit of our nation. 

While I strum star-wound harp of honest fear 
in sacred garden of the apple tree, 
Ophelia transcribes hymns of holy faith 
to celebrate our national liberty 
that cleanses blood of war from hands of boys 
who kill terrorists before they kill us. 

Awake in secure state of global peace, 
won through aggressive force of brutal war, 
we feast and sing on God-Eye Pyramid 
as Love and Death reign on the Judgment Throne 
till our world empire vanishes to dust 
from relentless spin of indifferent time. 

Mountain Of Jehovah

Mountain Of Jehovah
© Surazeus
2024 05 10

Through disappearance of the ideal self 
in fragile words of tangled sentences, 
as grapes of vines draped on sheltering bower, 
the non-subjective person I perform 
expresses objective knowledge of truth 
available for our communal use. 

We go down to the ship of sturdy wood, 
set keel to breakers foaming on gold sand, 
and forth on godless sea of glowing depths 
we sail swart ship that Circe built for us 
toward peopled cities below mountain peaks 
where gods no longer play games with our lives. 

We meet Tiresias in high mountain grove 
who stirs mushroom wine in cauldron of bronze 
beneath black monolith carved with star runes, 
then, as we kneel in communion of faith, 
he gives us each wafer of rye to eat 
and sip of wine from holy grail of love. 

Startled by my thoughts of cute dancing girls, 
I look around vale of the waterfall 
and see abandoned shallop on dark shore, 
so I embark on sunlit mirror lake 
and sail past slimy caverns of blind ghosts 
who call my name across the universe. 

Fierce gusts of wild precipitating force 
sweeps my frail ship across the serpent sea 
where ancient monsters who once roamed its deep 
reveal through visions glowing in my mind 
the primal homeland of my scattered tribe 
where my first mother taught me how to sing. 

Leaving little boat that bore me past Hell 
tied to tall willow tree in rocky cove, 
I climb along narrow stairway to heaven 
winding around sharp icy jagged peak 
that towers up between me and my stars 
till I arrive at cavern of illusions. 

Meditating on huge round emerald stone, 
immortal dinosaur goddess of truth 
pierces my soul with gold draconic eyes 
so I dream history of her ancient race 
that ruled the Earth two hundred million years 
in global empire of temples built with jewels. 

When dinosaur goddess gives me gold wand 
with diamond that preserves first flash of time, 
I transform from ape into wingless angel, 
then I descend from Mountain of Jehovah 
to find humanity worshipping idols, 
so I grin and give them computer tablets. 

Abstract Rites Of Lemuria

Abstract Rites Of Lemuria
© Surazeus
2024 05 09

Walking through my house at midnight, I throw 
black beans over my shoulder to distract 
religious fanatics with ancient myths 
who hunger for pure wisdom of the mind 
before they abduct idols of dead gods 
and display them in museums of power. 

I seek not knowledge of the universe 
but knowledge of this body I inhabit, 
and I seek not control over my fate 
but self-control over how I perform 
my role restricted by atomic laws 
to surf on sweeping waves of history. 

To build mathematical paradigms, 
constructed from wheels of fortunate fate 
based on binary opposites of truth, 
I formulate tables of destiny 
which calculate just when the cosmic herald 
proclaims coming of our messiah sleuth. 

Though I search in barren geometries 
to measure cycles that history repeats 
through harmony in unity of being, 
I lament I cannot design fake wings 
to fly with Icarus beyond bright clouds 
where David plays his golden harp in Heaven. 

If I could play the wild old wicked man 
who dances on vast wave-lashed shore of time, 
I might find how to abstract from whole forms 
conceptual patterns of material ideas 
while I wander lush hills of Windermere, 
narcotized by visions of daffodils. 

To measure hours of folly with the clock 
I carve spells of Odin on wave-smoothed rock 
when I imagine abstracts of all forms 
compounded straight by swirling chemicals 
which constitute frame of Nature with light 
that flashes clear from mirror of my words. 

Abstracting ideas from concrete forms, 
I arrange in categories of words 
prolific variants of rich multitudes 
embodied by people teeming in crowds 
who dance on ziggurat where Ishtar reigns, 
then colonize the world with farming towns. 

Completed paintings seek to represent 
organic structures of atomic swirls 
which emulate with performative urge 
concepts their spells signify with portraits 
trapping demonic spirits through strict rite 
that we perform on this ghost-haunted night.