Return To My First Home

Return To My First Home
© Surazeus
2024 12 03

If we share the kitchen faucet to clean 
grime of politics from our fear-soured hearts, 
jagged sorrow of the barbarous horse 
returns can of tomato soup the clown 
stole from the oldest woman in the world 
who reveals name of the Library Girl. 

Yet pictures we paint with colors of hope, 
smeared from ennui of stale cigarette smoke, 
complicate matters we want to ignore 
concerning when the last train will arrive 
with refugees from London getting bombed 
by origami swans of the star bride. 

Three times the clock in the rowan tree trunk 
explodes with laughter of fake irony, 
how children replay the state power games 
their parents engage to control how words 
mean the opposite of shattered mirror states, 
arrogant enough to never know why. 

While searching boxes of lost memories 
stored in dusty attic of my failed state, 
I find the mostly famous photograph 
no one has ever seen on the big screen 
depicting victory of the Rainbow Ghost 
in the civil war that we never fought. 

For entertainment purposes, we fold 
pages from ancient manuscripts in masks 
hiding demonic nature of my face 
with alchemical formulas of change, 
subtracting presence of electric brains 
programmed as radars to sense the mind ghost. 

So when I welcome into my home 
I expect you to remove your shoes smeared 
with disappointments of the fallen god 
who slouches under rotten Tree of Life 
and complains with bitterness of false pride 
that no humans worship him anymore. 

Having no career in the field of lies 
I can eat the clock of demonic fruit 
composed of atoms bleeding from the sun 
so we can dance with abandon of joy 
in cluttered ruins of our empire state 
to build new temple for the laughing toad. 

The apple tree and the wind-winged horse 
are all that matter to me in the end, 
yet I cannot return to my first home 
in the mystic Almaty Mountain range 
where my first mother stands on the lake shore 
and forges my thoughts into diamond words.