King Over The Waste Land © Surazeus 2024 11 06 Fractured mirror of my childhood world view, encased in ancient television tube, reflects shocked fragments of celestial shards that fall from crystal palace in the sky as angry snowflakes when liberty falls so tyranny builds empire from our bones. Though I knew Jehovah would seize control and crown himself king over the waste land, I chose to hope Minerva would prevail in knocking cruel tyrant off throne of power to ensure justice and freedom for all, but hate-driven rage is hard to defeat. Though Orpheus returns from caves of Hell, guiding Liberty from prison of hate with heart-enchanting melodies of love, Death mocks his vain hope by keeping her trapped to serve his weakness of corrosive fear, clinging to mirage of perpetual power. Slouched by dead oak near the foul River Styx, Orpheus aches from horror of despair that our fertile paradise of Elysium was invaded and conquered by Jehovah who smirks and steals fruit from the Tree of Life, then chops it down with ax of heartless greed. Trudging in gloomy forest of blind ghosts, Orpheus finds Minerva, Queen of Freedom, lying wounded from arrows of contempt, who whispers hoarsely, as she gasps for breath, that army of Jehovah has destroyed sacred Temple of Truth with lust and greed. Searching bomb-blasted city of dead gods, Orpheus bears Minerva in his arms, Goddess of Liberty wounded by greed, to Lake of Healing in Elysium where he tends her damaged spirit with care so she can heal, then defeat tyranny. Wandering signless roads sea to shining sea, Orpheus preaches to the curious crowds that Jehovah, that evil antichrist Beast, will walk on the Earth and deceive the nations with the glamorous lie that he will save them, and build grand paradise for them alone. Homeless in cities of America, Orpheus plays the lyre of Mercury while Cassandra sings prophecy of doom to warn them how the antichrist will come, but they laugh and drive them from paradise as Jehovah on gold throne enslaves us all.
Wednesday, November 6, 2024
King Over The Waste Land
Tuesday, November 5, 2024
Captain Of The Boat
Captain Of The Boat © Surazeus 2024 11 05 While I wander in grand museum halls I see my face in paintings on glass walls, noble kings on horses with bloody swords, ladies in lace gowns beside solemn lords, and river nymphs in shadows of fruit trees who gather jars of honey from sad bees. While I drive my swift convertible car on mountain highway to the shining star I reach my hand up high to touch the moon who meets me in secret wave-washed lagoon where statue of Apollo on the rock holds gold lyre that serves as perch for the hawk. While I lounge on white sand of lonely faith I translate ancient riddle of the wraith to clever story no one understands about the girl with eyes in both her hands who looks for wisdom in dank cave of Hell which she paints by city fountain to sell. While I consider why the sky is blue as psychic mirror that reflects my soul my lover reads my secret book of poems about mermaids mesmerized by hair combs, then gazes at me by fire-crackling hearth to watch my brain project the virtual Earth. While I calculate my new state of mind I solve puzzle of truth my heart designed which helps me navigate world maze of myths with conceptual tropes designed by dreamsmiths so I can find strange garden of the fool who will invent the first carpenter tool. While I construct our new world view from facts which provide context for official acts I place Parnassus Mountain at the core, how angels evolve from the dinosaur, so we can live together in world peace voting for king who guards the Golden Fleece. While I construe special meaning of life from how we overcome spiritual strife I compose scriptures from puzzles of truth based on character of messiah sleuth whose coming is foretold by cosmic herald whom we elect to recreate the world. While I wait in line at the church to vote for who will reign as captain of the boat I strum the lyre of Mercury and sing about protective cover of the wing our national Seraph extends to guard steady progress of our social vanguard.
Hopeful Spirit Grieves
Hopeful Spirit Grieves © Surazeus 2024 11 05 With contemplative strolls on dismal days among tall oak trees dropping withered leaves my heart expands on wings of ardent ways when I hear how the hopeful spirit grieves for ways of living lost to passing years, yet enchanting songs are watered by tears. Just as I reach the door that feels my pain, carved with runes of spells secret witches cast, I pause in sudden misting of moon rain to search for some strange treasure of the past, though lights of houses glow in evening gloom with frantic silence of impending doom. Awake in bright-lit horror of time bliss, my lithe heart leaping as the curious hawk, I recall all the people I still miss though masks of their faces under the rock rise slowly high on gauze-shadowy wings, conjured by soft whisper of magic rings. Each crooked house along the avenue, half-hidden among fluttering leaves of elms, glows with ghostly candles of unknown Who, whose tremulous voice sings enchanting psalms that float with casual sorrow of mute snows in misty meadows of indifferent crows. When I open pageless book of dream codes to analyze my ever-changing map of truths about who names connective roads, I realize religious faith is the trap that keeps me wandering in the maze of myths enclosing Hell with god-charged monoliths. Elected by people clinging to fear, I promise them that I will legislate social programs which enlist the sincere in line with criterion of global fate, till angry thieves shoot bullets at my head because I give everyone milk and bread. So when cathedral bells of sorrow chime we gather by old river of the dead and write their names on water of lost time which traps their spirits in our dreaming head to nourish hope for the future we share as one world family dwelling everywhere. With hymn books open on the misty shore we sing contentiously in global choir, then I wander across the ghostly moor lonely as the cloud of divine desire, writing songs of my heart on leaves of faith that swirl away in breath of the star-wraith.
Our Vibrant Democracy
Our Vibrant Democracy © Surazeus 2024 11 05 The red-shouldered hawk on the white fence post searches thick hedges for lizards and rats to purge the Garden of Eden of vermin that chew roots of the Tree of Life with greed, while farmers till soil in fields by the river and women bake bread and stir stews in cauldrons. Children wearing masks of demons and ghouls race through the village in games of chase, then dance around the tall tower of stone that gleams on moonlight on the flowered hill till the old bearded wizard with oak wand emerges to give them sweet honey cakes. Two sons of the old dying castle king face each other with gangs of loyalists and fight over who will now rule the land, while farmers, craftsmen, and shepherds escape to hide in the valley of floating mist where the fairy queen gives them food to eat. The teacher describing history of mankind explains how our ancestors sailed wood ships to escape the cruel tyranny of kings by founding our vibrant democracy where everyone is equal in the law to live free as they will, if they harm none. When one man rules the nation far too long the people demanding progressive change rise in revolution against the tyrant, so we control that energy of change by holding elections every four years where we vote for the program of our choice. Our choice every election seems to be between white nationalist theocracy where rich elite control the working poor, and multiracial globalist democracy where every group shares the wealth equally, so we vote to choose which new world we want. Humans arrange themselves in hierarchies to operate the food-production machine with capitalist investment to fund farms and socialist programs to distribute food and goods to every state citizen who gather at grand festivals to sing. When spirit of the devil incarnates in the man who tries to crown himself king, we follow our Goddess of Liberty with the Book of Law and the Torch of Freedom to vote for our right to control our bodies which sustains our vibrant democracy.
Monday, November 4, 2024
Landscape Of Our Dream
Landscape Of Our Dream © Surazeus 2024 11 04 Through infinite fracture of our time tongue resolve suggests profile of the god mind out of proportion to the human brain based on bold gesture of togetherness which snugly composes the whole of thought in eyes that search the landscape of our dream. Repurpose picture processing our hopes defines new mission impossible to parse with sketch of shadows twisted by blind trees to outline this body we think we are contrived by whispered secret of the star that bleeds spirits on landscape of our dream. Confused by nothing Nobody declares, she tries to sell laughter outside the church but no one understands the words she says so she wears face of the mysterious fox who appears in mist of romantic hope as fleeting flash from landscape of our dream. Pillar of light that wears fake face of God appears in hall of mirrors without doors where children teach their parents how to pray by hiding sorrows in the water box when abused women escape prison homes to scatter tears on landscape of our dream. Sublime acceptance of fortunate death suffuses atmosphere of swirling air when we share secrets in the Pantheon to catch the demon of crippling despair that seeks soldiers stuck in the bullet haze which splatters blood on landscape of our dream. Sad smiling clock bolted in the oak trunk tries to explain key to eternal life by showing me the tragic comedies my father wrote with blood on plates of gold for me to recite in the crowded church after I map the landscape of our dream. Self-awareness of the critical stance makes the bored bard reluctant to accept yet another prize from the world elite who read his riddles with attentive care to show they understand his secret code on signs across the landscape of our dream. Perched on stone lion head outside the hall where fairies and goblins create new books, bespectacled owl of philosophy ignores eccentric formulas that state conceptual function of time is the wave that flows across the landscape of our dream.
House Woven From Light
House Woven From Light © Surazeus 2024 11 04 Loneliness of the house woven from light spurs young girl to wander the village paths while giving eerie shadows of her heart to strangers who give her words in return, so she reinvents herself as the crow that sprinkles evening raindrops on her hair. Regret for something that never occurs stops her slow journey on the grassy hill where bees describe how anguish of love feels to be free of names tagged by cruel desire, so she reinvents herself as the horse that wants to show her where apple trees grow. Disgust for dirty water of the pool instills in her respect for flashing rain that drenches trees with sparkles of sunlight who whisper secrets she would like to know, so she reinvents herself as the cow that ponders mystery of important grass. Surprise at how the silver moon explodes from wings of crows that whirl across the sky startles her awake from soft river song each time she closes her eyes in shy fear, so she reinvents herself as the tree that knows why laughter cures the broken heart. Sorrow of sudden negligence refined urges the lonely girl to touch the horse whose libertarian swiftness of progress embodies joyful beauty of the wind, so she reinvents herself as the stone that knows where the wild river wants to go. Hunger for beauty beaming from the face of the stranger who gives her cup of juice numbs her passion to race time with the horse though he waits patiently beside the pool, so she reinvents herself as the frog that knows how long stars glow before they die. Sadness in stone cairn of the nameless ghost inspires the girl, who makes herself crow wings, to ask the sky why angry people kill other people who refuse to obey, so she reinvents herself as the owl that shows her how to understand herself. Awe for weird transformation of her soul shocks the young girl with eyes black as the sun with knowledge she perceives in spoken words about how seeds fertilize eggs with life, so she reinvents herself as the sun that weaves our world from song of loving light.
Questions Worth Answering
Questions Worth Answering © Surazeus 2024 11 04 In the process of becoming Unself I hear brand new songs of the unborn stars so I sell fruit of laughter on the street to strangers who visit city of dust where hungry people who are almost gods throw their dreams into the mourning sea. Life asks me no questions worth answering because I twist the grammar of false facts with stubborn cleverness of the bored fool he thinks he is wiser than the fruit trees that give up trying to teach him how to choose which pathway to take in garden of lies. Hidden inside language of relationships, which traps emotions in jokes I should think, my faith in goodness of humanity cracks fragile egg of conventional rules so serpent of my heart rises on wings of resurrection purchased by false hope. Effect of sentimental silence sparks questions about shocking experience erosive with contempt of honest fear though I glimpse my future on the star map that signals new romantic tragedy I must endure while sitting by the lake. The more I plainly speak about the truth the more distortions of variable facts dismeasure architecture of despair with fluid nonchalance of unread thoughts so we misunderstand how we could connect our bodies and minds to generate life. With grim concern for princess of the lake, baptized by the demon in the black suit, I vow to protect all women from harm by saving myself from obsessive hope through artful performance as the white knight rusted into robot of factory work. Underground language of silence retrieves my disoriented Unself from wild dance to carry baskets of fruit on the road to the market stall where housekeepers browse dreams I harvested from tree of life to keep our fragile souls from shattering. Adjusting order of particulars that sprout from sunlight of arrogant pride, I dig my fingers in soil of the Earth, composed of bones from dinosaurs and gods, and families slaughtered in the genocide, then step into the booth to vote for truth.
Sunday, November 3, 2024
Profits From Holiday Sales
Profits From Holiday Sales © Surazeus 2024 11 03 Softly thumps melody of river stones in harmony with sorrows of my heart which I deny to anyone who pries by imitating bees till clouds explode with tears of children maimed by falling bombs whose suffering dares not haunt the concert hall. Hidden behind the paper mask of pride, which the orphaned child paints with their tears, pulse aching hopes for shadows of false love that float as mist in meadows where sad crows analyze profits from holiday sales comparing sales of guns to magic wands. Wretched beauty purchased with loyalty distorts proportions of the traitless face pure as moon mirror hanging on the door which opens to the world between all worlds where nameless gods swim in echoless pools while Narcissus serves them cocktails and cheese. Laughter trapped in pageless book of dream codes radiates atomic vibes of psychic angst too honest for heart of the hammer-god who builds skyscrapers from rage-melted swords where kings disguised as corporate presidents conceal feudal slavery with capitalism. Distinctive feature, marking as unique darkness visible with arrogant respect, remains undetected by clever spies who sell classified secrets of star bombs to tyrants ruling oligarchic states eager to keep people under control. No declarations of disputed facts could fracture criterion of global fate except through our peculiar attributes too twisted into logical concepts to maintain balance of progressive drive which proves justice and liberty for all. Cracked foundation of our world nation-state exposes critical flaws in design approved to ensure equal rights for all, regardless of private identity which divides us into opposing camps till we break down walls to build one whole church. Reversed epiphany of awed insight inspires my cautious heart with bold purpose to legislate as universal law right of each person to control their body so we live as we will, if we harm none, in global party of the faceless god.
Mask Of God Insanity
Mask Of God Insanity © Surazeus 2024 11 03 Along sad sidewalk of the afternoon I skip with joy to hear the sparrow moon sing eerie psalms of transcendental faith in cosmic vision of the tree-brained wraith who puts words of river stones in my eyes so I can live my own life in disguise. Clockwise through spiral of infinity, while wearing mask of god insanity, I swim across vast sea of everywhere to visit daughter of the mountain bear who gives me apple of knowledge to eat because my truth has become obsolete. With celestial gears of my secret code I translate fragments of the shattered road to build trustworthy bridge of honest love based on perfect ideals of stars above which weave our bodies from atoms of light so in dreams I have the power of flight. Deep breath of cataclysmic solitude expands my mind beyond vain certitude when I pilot airplane of divine hope to soar with surprise of the telescope high above meadows of Elysium through holy vision of delirium. Advanced design of the swift motorbike compels my journey to be more Christlike when I arrive in each small country town to out-preach salvation of the mad clown by singing solemn hymns on the church stage based on spells written with blood on the page. Climbing the stairway to Heaven with pride, I enter Olympus with cocksure stride to give Book of Visions to the Star Queen who approves my marriage with Melusine as reward for concealing prophecies that foretell rise of world democracies. Yet vision of the world that we all share has shattered into scriptural vaporware so every person has their own world view which differently decides what could be true though what is real always stands test of time so vulgar lies fade before the sublime. Still wearing mask of god insanity, as prophet of Astarianity, I repaint idols in the maze of myths that venerate careers of brave wordsmiths so we all bathe in Lake of Memory that restores our vital soul energy.
New Amusement Park
New Amusement Park © Surazeus 2024 11 03 Atomic clocks in the bottoms of wells measure music demonic fiddlers play while tree elves compose healing recipes on flower-petal pages in glass books while I sleep in enchanted fairyland, clutching keys to my ruined castle tower. Converting butterflies to motor car, lit with magic lamp of marvelous charms, I drive long highway of stamped postage stamps on endless crazy journey through the world to map four corners of our pear-shaped globe, then sell happiness in the empty church. Beneath the rowan tree of lonely faith one-eyed Cailleach holds in calf-skin hands her heartless body throbbing with rainstorms to cast cold winter winds of suffering with cackling laughter at frail humankind who locks the clanking gates of paradise. Ambling through elm trees in city park, where tower-dwellers go to find the light that shimmers bright at center of the world, I drop bread crumbs along the Trail of Tears to guide wild gang of refugees from war through maze of myths to new amusement park. I wander maze of glittery clothing stores in continent-sprawling city of ghosts, who buy useless gifts for the holiday, hoping to map my journey through the world, but key to happiness is somewhere else so I keep walking Road of Everywhere. Silent winter light on floor of gray stone reveals secret face of the cosmic herald who holds high Lamp of Freedom with one hand and points to Land of Sorrow with the other, yet no one goes anywhere while he sings heart-aching melodies of sacred psalms. Demonic fiddler with the broken clock, he inserts in trunk of the rowan tree, asks Cailleach if she will marry him, so she bakes apple pies with cinnamon for wild children in the Garden of Eden who dance around lost stone of Sisyphus. Cracked screen of the television contains aggressive heartbeat of courageous fear when Cailleach fights the cruel castle king and frees the Holy Land from tyranny so we gather on the Pyramid of Eyes and sing in the rain that cleanses our hearts.
Not The Way To Heaven
Not The Way To Heaven © Surazeus 2024 11 03 While trudging nowhere on the way to Heaven, I stop into the old brick downtown church where the frail naked man covered with wounds asks with gravelly voice for a cigarette, so we smoke a while in the silver dawn, contemplating mysteries of life and death. When I stand and zip up my tattered coat, he waves nonchalantly with snarky grin, and bids me safe travels on road of life, so I salute him with casual diffidence, then try to escape adverse circumstance that traps me in cycle of poverty. Against adversity of ancient rules, that force me to stay on strict career paths predefined for me by society, I trudge with numb indifference of hope, inspired by how our world savior survived through nonviolent resistance to evil. Soft evening breeze of desert ambience swirls my hair gently around my blurred eyes as I trudge the highway where devils dance from El Paso to San Antonio, while helicopters chase brave immigrants who try to invade the Garden of Eden. Leaning against elegant pine of faith somewhere on the highway in Arizona on the way from Flagstaff to Albuquerque, I watch the eagle glide in the blue sky and ask her if she knows the way to Heaven, but she knows the way to Elysium. Regressing backward on the way to Heaven, without the wings of Icarus to fly straight, I wake by the highway in Oregon somewhere between Portland and San Francisco, talking to the mountain ghost of lost faith who points the way home to the Promised Land. Staring at my face in the pool of tears near the Sawtooth Mountains in Idaho, I ask the angel with ten thousand eyes why I remember my ancestral lives more than one million years into the future, so she gives me glass of cider to drink. While we are walking hand in hand at dawn, my wife, whose crystal skeleton glows blue with sorrow of humanity, explains to me, though this is not the way to Heaven, this is the way to the Valley of Trees where we can build our own new paradise.
Saturday, November 2, 2024
Forget-Sorrow Flower
Forget-Sorrow Flower © Surazeus 2024 11 02 The letter of love on delicate paper you wrote to me, that I received last night, I fold into the Forget-Sorrow Flower, shaped like the elegant moon-glowing swan, and glide it on the Lake of Memory to carry my longing for you away. Soft shimmer of moonlight on apple blossoms suffuses my heart with passionate hope I fold into the Forget-Sorrow Flower, but she sadly spreads wings of innocence and flies into the cold shadow of death, so I light fire to warm my lonely heart. Sweet chirp of the goldfinch who knows my name leads me through shady grove of apple trees to sky-silver pool of indifferent love where you kneel in mud to carefully lift free the old turtle stuck in tangled roots, then we smile as it eats herbs from your hand. When you offer me platter of fruit cakes, spiced with ginger, nutmeg, and cinnamon, that flash my eyes with visions of green leaves flickering sunlight and shadow of desire, I float in pleasure of your firm embrace as soft kiss of our souls connect our hearts. Strange portrait you painted, under oak bower of grape vines interlaced with eglantine, that depicts me in flowing feathered gown blown by the lake breeze in bright summer sun, flaps in gloom of numbing loneliness when I ask the goldfinch where you are now. When you ride away on stallion of war, sword you forged from meteor stone of the sky gleaming silver in your patriotic hand, I turn away and pretend not to care that arrows or sharp swords of bitter hate may strike your heart so you never come home. The portrait you painted of me alone on florid hill of our togetherness I fold into the Forget-Sorrow Flower wet with tears of my heartless thunderstorm that blots out the moon where I see your face watching over me with love-glowing eyes. While I wander lost in dreams of cracked skulls that call my name, you retrieve your love letter I fold into the Forget-Sorrow Flower, then kiss me so I wake in your warm arms, so I cry with joy you are still alive, afraid I am lost in dream I invent.
Winged Epiphanies Of Joy
Winged Epiphanies Of Joy © Surazeus 2024 11 02 Words of the wind seem to erase my soul while I lie wounded on hard river rocks, yet up on angel wings I now will rise with breath of clouds inspiring me to laugh, for need of comforting repels my heart with contradiction carved from arrogance. Secretly sick at heart with ignored love, I gleefully watch syntax of frail hope deride my sense of self with ruthless angst so spirit of my mind continues on, invested in strange truth bought by applause when I become the window I would break. Imagined book that disregards my gaze wants me to believe in honest contempt of audience members for lies I recite, averse to cultivating followers who endure winged epiphanies of joy I present as doctrine of fallen gods. Betrayal cheap with performative pride distracts attention of the cheering crowd who will react how I program them to, since they are puppets in disdainful hands that make them believe in truths I invent to keep them from rebelling against me. Uncharitable progress of special art with blood and mud and oil smeared on white walls defines dysfunctional relationship that binds my heart to projects I design to support social system of contempt which I undermine by using words wrong. With the right amount of contempt for facts, based on conceptual deceit of dream code, we fool each other to vote for the clown who burns the church with us all locked inside till torrents of rain from angry Sky God confounds insurgents against jeweled crowns. Sign of the times in flashing neon lights beams beacon of freedom across the land, so people wrapped in coats with dripping hats hurry though indifferent rain of respect to give books of riddles to half-dead gods so they have something to read as they die. Arranged in latest fashion of fake thoughts, my solemn stories of urbanized scenes display power games between wealthy clans, so when I investigate their vile crimes they hire the Lizard Rake to shoot me dead, my face streaked with blood in laughing rain.
Journey Of My Soul
Journey Of My Soul © Surazeus 2024 11 02 If I can figure journey of my soul through solemn discourse of moonlight on water, I may hear voices of the dead explain how best to live this brief confusing life by flapping both wings I call Chance and Choice to lift weight of my mind above the world. If I have to play the lunatic knave against tyranny of beautiful lies, I shall with boisterous courage of the fool oppose aggressive tactics of brute thugs who attempt to control how people live by enforcing laws that benefit them. If startled ecstasy of shocked insight propels my journey past the Promised Land, I am determined to map the waste land so those who follow way of psychic growth know where to go after escaping Heaven to find secret spring of the star-eyed horse. If the damned have finished howling their hearts with vigorous dance of the fallen-apart, I wind my heart in mummy cloth of time to ponder natural beauty of the mind too marvelous for prison of the clock that teaches everyone how to weep once. If we could wake from dream of cannon fire that now shakes every quarter of the world, I will insist I exercise my right to vote for how my fate shall write my end, yet I hear laughter in the hall of pride that cracks mirrors which dare reveal the truth. If ghosts on dark eerie night of All Souls drink inebriated breath of my heart, I will build new Heaven from godless bones on ruins of cathedrals and state banks to prove our hands can farm food from the Earth for wealth we create from shadow of death. If I must evade demons of despair who slip through crack of light to haunt our lives, I dress in costume of the noble king, which is the opposite of what I am, so they cannot find me on signless road where I roam to escape every lost home. If I find refugees from civil war wandering without end on the trail of tears, I build the immense miraculous home that can house with its generosity every homeless person lost in the world who give each other new names of the heart.
Library Of Loud Lies
Library Of Loud Lies © Surazeus 2024 11 02 The best way to know if your state of mind is real as the fake television show, is paint your secret name on the road sign so Death will be confused by Water Song and pass your lonely house by every year till you live more than ninety thousand years. We always talk about the reason why ghosts of angels sprout from ablative seeds to formulate spiritual breath of trees who ask us why we cage the singing bird with arrogant assumption we are free to choose how we are born, and live, and die. I find no happy paradise of love somewhere over the rainbow of my hope teeming with spirits from multiple worlds, though I try to conjure them from books that I stole from Library of Loud Lies constructed from the bones of long-dead gods. I want to go back to living in trees where I can chat with birds about true love, as if my words could conjure from desire real situation in the feasting hall where vision of the future I reveal could motivate people to live through love. Sweet laughter of inimitable joy confounds my mind with arrogant disdain I try to extricate with magic spell from wounded apple of my naive heart till voices wake me from dark reverie and ask me for key to the castle door. Humming holy hymns to the lonely god, who waits on the swing by the mirror pool, I bake apple pies from the wounded hearts of maimed orphans who survive holy wars, but someone steals the sugar of true faith so they wander lost on the signless road. Arriving at Library of Loud Lies, which Lucifer charged his demons to build as core temple of Pandemonium, maimed orphans of the latest holy war ask Serapis for jobs copying books with myths of gods who despise humankind. We gather on skull-littered river shore to baptize our souls in Alethe River that flows by the throne of mad Jupiter to gain salvation from empire mind-frame so I star in the television show where I play Prophet of Zarathia.
Friday, November 1, 2024
Choice Of Our Free Will
Choice Of Our Free Will © Surazeus 2024 11 01 As I drive over the long Bridge of Hope toward the rising sun of our new world order I remember what the cruel tyrant king shouted in rage till he fell from the tower after we took away his bloody sword and left him imprisoned in his despair. "In order to function with ordered rites mortal humans who struggle against fear need the bold dependable lie to live as guiding light that gets them through each day, for the lie that helps them believe in love forms foundation for the stable world order." While the morning sun gleams over far hills, streaming rays of light through the trees of fruit, I laugh at irony of his false truth, for now I understand the strong appeal belief in the afterlife of the soul holds for some people terrified of death. When we contemplate the vast span of time since the first flash of the big bang flared forth into galaxies of stars that nurture worlds, we tremble with awe at Eternity, and wonder why our bright lives are so brief, why we feel immortal as we decay. Pythagoras reasoned the conscious soul could not have come from nothing of the void, therefore our souls must beam down from the stars to animate changing bodies of flesh with power of immortal energy, then beam back up to source stars when we die. Yet I know consciousness of self I am is generated by my dreaming brain as chemical function of its network, this vision-making machine of neurons that conjures virtual model of the world, programmed to mate and make life till we die. I refuse to accept in face of death this convenient lie of the afterlife, though it keeps most people from going mad, for I am happy in the simple knowledge that this brief flicker of my conscious life is all I get to savor truth of love. I want to build new more stable world order on honest truth that everyone will die for any society based on some lie will always collapse into tyranny, so I preach justice and freedom for all to exercise the choice of our free will.
House Of Everywhere
House Of Everywhere © Surazeus 2024 11 01 Though I hold the shocking truth in my hands, I will take the bus to the shopping mall and eat hamburger with fries and root beer, then browse the latest music compact discs to find the prophet with voice of the people who can guide our way in weird maze of myths. Around the world I fly on turtle wings to find secret valley of paradise hidden somewhere in the wild mountain range, far from sprawling metropolitan cities where bankers rule corporations as kings, to find the prophet begging for spare change. While strolling down the busy city street past shining windows of elegant stores, I see ghost of Nostradamus appear in nuclear-white flash of the time-jump door who grabs my hand and runs into the rain to escape horde of assassins with swords. Leaping planets across the multiverse, we time-slip across hundred thousand worlds where every future in parallel states shows me starting revolution of truth, till I manage to escape every version and land in this world where I am Nobody. Hanging out at the Pegasus Cafe in downtown Athens on Apollo Street, I chat with Nostradamus about truth while we sip ginger mochas and eat cake, then he explains I am safe in this time as he smiles and leaps through portal of fate. Looking around at the gathering crowd, I stand up on stage by portrait of Keats and read poems from my new self-published book, then bow to the scattered polite applause, relieved I am not going to end the world by fighting for my right to rule as king. Pulling mask of the prophet off my face, I walk outside in the late evening sun and stroll to the World Library of Souls where doors to each parallel universe are hidden between the covers of books that preserve ghosts of long-forgotten gods. Parking my car in the cluttered garage, and putting my wings in the cardboard box, I walk inside my House of Everywhere to gather countless fragments of my soul floating in words with glass butterfly wings, and weave them into the mask of my face.
Skipping Rope In Heaven
Skipping Rope In Heaven © Surazeus 2024 11 01 Without laughter of children in the house the television sings old vaudeville tunes, and sweet illusions of home magazines display unattainable scenes of Heaven, so she listens to sad growl of machines who argue politics with the white raven. While baking cake in the kitchen at noon, she looks outside to see her daughter play skipping rope while she sings about the moon, but, when she calls her to come in and eat, only her ghost remains beside the tree, only her soft voice whispering in the wind. Wearing red fur-lined parka and blue jeans, and white sneakers that squeak on rain-wet rocks, she hikes the Long Trail among curious trees toward the summit of Glastenbury Mountain that shimmers half-gold in the misty haze, back and forth in bright mirror-flashing daze. Ice chunks float in the silver Batten Kill, indifferent to songs on the radio that echo faintly among lonely elms who ask white-breasted nuthatch if she knows where the little girl has disappeared to, if she remembers the sound of her voice. Riding in the car that speeds down the road with hypnotic swirl of the time machine, she asks the happy demon if he knows names of the horses grazing in lush fields, if he is the evil black knight who wields sword of death on aggressive battlefields. Gazing at large painting on marble wall, the Battle of Alexander at Issus, she asks the happy demon why good men must fight to kill cruel tyrants of the world, though Darius may have been very nice since he held banquets in grand mirrored halls. Gunshot that echoes among lonely elms startles the white-breasted nuthatch from sleep, so she flies along icy Batten Kill where Ophelia, wearing tattered dress, floats face upward toward the empty sky, clutching parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. Wiping dust from glass of the picture frame that displays last photograph of her daughter posing in her blue Cinderella dress for Halloween, heart long numb from despair, Catherine whispers to her ghost lingering near if she is happy skipping rope in Heaven.
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