Target Of The Lonely Word © Surazeus 2025 06 28 I eat the fruit of my labor with angst to understand why beauty of my heart gleams bright as target of the lonely word deployed as weapon of mass disrespect to translate laughter of water to jokes that vanquish light of liberty at dawn. I leave my clean skull on the other side where tree branches imitate network of words bound by molecular structure of thought that forms liquid base for statue of fruit reflecting how we die from fulgent shame that blinds fools with imprint of safe triumph. Illusion of safety digests my brain with pickled brine of arrogant concern for empty stomach of the angry ghost who fails to remember when he was born from cracked library door of afternoon too soon to disparage unwelcome spells. Since we are never meant to survive life we stand together around blazing fires and speak about the trauma we all share that bonds our hearts with strong communal faith so we can storm gates of Heaven at dawn with righteous demands for electric hearts. Inflexion of tree ghosts who search for lies to eat that fuel grim engine of desire hopes ardor scatters time from atmospheres of twirling books that float on raven wings in hope that butterflies of flowing clocks might share state formulas for soul rebirth. Unnecessary tablets of false lore lament stark weight of memorized grandeur contrived from grammar of the noble bridge where Death waits patiently for every soul whose flame of life escapes to long-dead stars dedicated to protect faceless gods. Restricted rites for monuments of fools work back to bankrolled madrigals of flight that measure endless spinning of this world conformed from light of spiral galaxies by asking how we paint blood on road signs when humble fishermen overthrow kings. Instead of demanding computer brains we praise wise Hymen of the bridal veil with brutal epithalamion for maid who steals false stories from my bleeding tongue and writes them with typewriter of respect to conceal target of the lonely word.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Orpheus joins Tristan Tzara jogging in Central Park where laughing skull of Hamlet prophesies fall of King Midas.
ReplyDelete