Hall Of Your Skulls © Surazeus 2024 11 30 When I wake in cold barren hall of stone, I find my body is soil of the land tangled thick with herbs, vines, bushes, and trees, then drink from quick-flowing stream of my spine, my eyes as turtles, and my hands as birds, wrecked disarrangement of the gardener. When I stand up trembling in hall of glass, I breathe cracked granite cliff of mountain wind, bones rumbling in earthquake of my hot breath, heavy with boulders tossed by ocean waves which batter my body with arrogance, impossible disbursement of thick words. When I crawl heaps of books in hall of wood, I flutter wings of expanding desire, reshifting landscapes of cluttered-street towns that crumble from relentless hurricanes of wretched laughter at absurdity contrived by angels trying to build worlds. When I expand my soul in hall of masks, I replicate endless copies of self sewn from vibrating threads of psychic spells taut with intention to contaminate pure silt-shifting lake that swallows my dreams, yet reflects souls of people I invent. When I expel gloom from hall of contempt, I stretch old mangled body of dry hills along rugged coast of the sparkling sea where drowning mermaids sing forgotten names to resurrect confederacy of fools interned in valley of our laughing skulls. When I drift numb in hall of innocence, I become pregnant with billions of souls who crawl in tunnels of my milk-thick breasts then dance with ecstasy of aching hearts in gleaming moonlight of my watching eye till their bodies sink back into my pores. When I carve names in hall of marble walls, I wear mask of each human who has lived to experience each life ten million years who chase the sun to the end of the world as their bodies merge in children of hope and multiply again into one me. When I fall asleep in hall of your skulls, I dream creation of the universe when the first flash flares forth from the big bang to weave our lonely planet from star light so you and I can meet this fateful hour to sing together with love in our tower.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Saturday, November 30, 2024
Hall Of Your Skulls
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Orpheus wanders forever in museum hall, wearing the faces of every soul who has ever lived to experience their entire life and death.
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