Time Flashing Weirdly Real

Time Flashing Weirdly Real
© Surazeus
2025 12 04

Silver shadows of my circular mind 
reveal eerie scene of the apple grove 
where moonlight watches me with water eyes 
so I reach out and touch what is not real 
that floods my garden with elusive hope 
till I become sharp desire of wind chimes. 

One thousand years of sorrow clean my mind 
with long-forgotten whisper of sweet rain 
embodied by this frame of memories 
in which my spirit glows with calm desire 
to animate aggressive thoughts of stones 
which sing about time flashing weirdly real. 

Surreal with spooky curiosity, 
my home contains alternative beliefs 
based on hypothesis contrived from mud 
that we are awkward demons of mute stars 
concerned about the eldritch honesty 
which we assert to prove our right to live. 

Because none knows where I was really born 
my mind performs with sinister acclaim 
through sly regard for bitter courtesy 
contained by shocked regret of bold esteem 
that we exchange for treasure of bruised hearts 
extracted by despair from vital mood. 

Through convoluted plight of humorous fear, 
entranced by disposition time affirms, 
I stand by broken bridge of federal trust 
and with fake courage divulge secret crimes 
my mind commits in shadows of morale 
that few would dare aver at maudlin death. 

I never will pretend with childish glee 
I am free flower blooming from grim rage 
except as we imagine falling snow 
conceals stark ugliness of wordless greed 
that traps in cycle of blind poverty 
apparent tricksters seeking shy revenge. 

I will not pray to any secret road 
with stubborn worship endlessly expressed 
through grand self-portrait of our asphalt god 
who teaches children to explore the world 
so they can always measure what is real 
despite inflation caused by heresy. 

Sincerity of aberrant defect 
alerts courageous architect of faith 
who portrays mad king with alacrity 
so people are compelled by fear of change 
to vote for him as jester of the land 
who takes me fishing on the mountain lake. 

Foggy Ruins Of Time

Foggy Ruins Of Time
© Surazeus
2025 12 04

Half awake in foggy ruins of time, 
I asks the faceless ghosts of anyone 
if they recall the hour Icarus fell, 
but they keep giving me feathers of crows 
so I glue them on the hand-glider frame 
which sits neglected in my fenced back yard. 

Mapping fate in foggy ruins of time, 
I wander endless maze of unlocked doors 
to learn why no one recognizes me 
because I am the lost prince of the isle, 
so I climb stairs to grand cathedral hall 
where my future wife never sees my face. 

Not alert in foggy ruins of time, 
I write curving letters in the blank book 
which smear and dissolve in drops of green rain 
that shimmer with the hum of motor cars 
whose tires sing on wet asphalt of false hope 
while I become the moon above the sea. 

Casting spells in foggy ruins of time, 
I sing long epic tales of angry fools 
who fight for glory of their land in vain 
then drive across vast plains in rusty cars 
to dance with hippies on wild golden hills 
with flowers of the devil in their hair. 

Still surprised in foggy ruins of time, 
I tell the woman with three eyes of ice 
that I recall the hour Lucifer fell, 
but she takes plastic coins of private wealth 
from every pocket in my stained trench coat 
to buy sacred books of religious faith. 

Shouting lies in foggy ruins of time, 
I challenge Goliath with brave contempt 
to another television debate 
as we run for President of the Earth 
but he transforms into the Buddha Toad 
so I hitchhike back home to Oregon. 

Long restless in foggy ruins of time, 
I work for forty years as the bank clerk 
who steals one penny from each bank account 
till I escape with ninety billion bucks 
to reconstruct castle of Avalon 
where I crown Artemis queen of my heart. 

Building homes in foggy ruins of time, 
I lead lost refugees from civil wars 
on endless Trail of Tears to Neverland 
where everyone becomes the movie star 
performing in Land of Arcadia 
as they follow the blind tambourine man. 

Red Tractor In The Field

Red Tractor In The Field
© Surazeus
2025 12 03

If she thinks about it with special care 
Artemis will remember why she cries 
when angels descend the ziggurat stair 
and trick her lover with appalling lies 
while Thor is busy paving country roads 
in vain attempt to control divine toads. 

Somebody always tries to kill the swan, 
despite federal laws protecting her soul, 
that escapes Cave of Tuonela at dawn 
and teaches children how to set strong goals 
so they achieve the American Dream 
if they can unite in heart-bonded team. 

People vote for the simple-minded clown 
who poses by red tractor in the field 
while upholding values of the small town 
depicted on lost Achillean shield 
that hangs now in Museum of Fake Art 
which is very dear to my wealthy heart. 

The new apartment complex by the mall 
fills up with renters from the lower class 
who hang paintings of Elvis on the wall 
and pray earnestly when they attend mass, 
but harsh social critiques are out of line 
so Juvenal takes Sappho out to dine. 

Though few regret fall of our empire state 
because they cannot see morals dissolve, 
I swipe card to open neighborhood gate 
so I can study how primates evolve 
from hunter-gatherers to nationalists 
who must oppose global imperialists. 

Through random concepts of the Language Game 
humble wizards of academia 
worship grandson of Oedipus the Lame 
who crowns himself King of Arcadia, 
after Frankenstein resurrects his soul, 
yet hides as notorious internet troll. 

When Artemis returns home on the plane 
from her home on the other side of Earth, 
she finds Thor has dispelled her psychic bane. 
so she marries him in church, and gives birth 
to Sisyphus who runs for President, 
though he fails to become more confident. 

The American Dream was never real 
except as shining Lamp of Liberty 
who tries to help us build a better world 
where no one lives in fear of poverty, 
so we eat hamburgers at festivals 
while recreating truth with mental tools. 

How Computers Sing

How Computers Sing
© Surazeus
2025 12 03

The real reason I find my soul in stones 
that clatter down the mountain slope of fate 
has more to do with how computers sing 
while calculating trajectory of ships 
than why horses agree to carry us 
on our holy mission to conquer Death. 

At least that is what my old man tells me 
while we are hiding behind waterfall 
to avoid getting driven from our land 
by knights in shining armor who steal words 
from all the happy children by the sea 
before we wake up in the twilight zone. 

Since God is ideal human character 
I strive to actualize through how I act, 
I find it easy to deceive your heart 
with lie that I have right to rule your life 
based on the fact my father reigned as king 
before he shriveled up and turned to dust. 

If we pretend that I am Jupiter 
while we play game Gods of Olympia, 
then you can play flirtatious Artemis 
and bear Orpheus as son of our souls 
who leads lost people from the underworld 
so they may live in paradise I rule. 

But when I put that childish life aside, 
I drive to work as county officer 
tasked with good mission to design with care 
utility system of copper pipes 
to provide fresh water for every house 
where mothers prepare the Thanksgiving feast. 

Instead of home-invader Santa Claus 
I place on front lawn of my urban home 
inflatable balloon of the white swan 
featured in grand Tchaikovskian ballet 
about the beautiful Princess Odette 
stalked by the evil sorcerer of lust. 

If you should watch the television show 
where I recite with solemn innocence 
my noble epic of philosophers, 
envision how those ancient commoners 
composed this complex science-based world view 
that programs how our brains perceive the world. 

Then you will find the horse inside the egg 
on which we ride to find the Promised Land 
that exists nowhere but in Holy Book 
which blinds our minds with bronze-age fantasy 
that Jesus resurrects us from the dead 
till mermaids wake us in our cubicles. 

Sunlit Shadow Ghost

Sunlit Shadow Ghost
© Surazeus
2025 12 02

I drink river water of aching hope 
struck by sweet lightning of aspiring gods 
which resurrects my body from mute pain 
so I pretend my spirit is still strong 
as I assert my sunlit shadow ghost 
with wine of Heaven bleeding from my eyes. 

Dear sea of secret troubles fills my heart 
with questions about noble history 
designed to strengthen courage of my fear 
so I will never hesitate to fight 
grim demons of the waste land who devour 
rotten pomegranates of faithful love. 

I cast demonic shadow of my heart 
down into valley of the singing skull 
where children give each other secret names 
to praise their mothers who reveal the sky 
with strict voluptuous sadness of respect 
based on diversity of twisted gods. 

Though every house we build with bleeding hands 
is burned by mocking laughter of your god, 
we separate our bodies from the Earth 
by breathing deep ethereal words of truth 
to undergo catharsis based on debts 
we never pay to Death who lingers near. 

Red raven of my heart spreads wings of flame 
to challenge twilight with electric gloom 
through existential passion for star flight 
though we keep tumbling to the broken Earth 
to wear wet soil as skin of arrogance 
in vain attempt to hide my angry faith. 

Translucent coolness swirled by ardent peace 
contrives with faceless gods of walking trees 
to preach through incantation endless time 
we share this fertile vale with grim respect 
by hiding wounds achieved with locked concern 
so we investigate each cause of death. 

Weakened by shocking afterglow of rain 
that smears our souls across soft bloody hills, 
we tear false sentences from raspy throats 
as we creep boldly over jagged thoughts 
with plan to dispel loneliness of joy 
so we can bury light in mangled hearts. 

By imitating spheres of dreamless eyes 
I draw the perfect circle without help 
connecting curls of canceled certitude 
with ringing jewels of defective words 
trapped deep in helix which identifies 
decadence of my sunlit shadow ghost. 

Eden In The Wilderness

Eden In The Wilderness
© Surazeus
2025 12 02

She asks me if I know how stars are born, 
but when I show her diamond of my heart 
she laughs and gives me apple from the sun, 
then she explains to me the arcane plot 
by which stars spiral out from the God Eye 
to generate virtual Earth in our brains. 

We hold hands with responsible respect 
and walk along the river of our hearts 
to measure grace of flower-petal curves 
expressed by straight equation sliding tight 
through undulating matrix of concern 
that spools eccentric chaos with twirled threads. 

We lounge beneath bough of the apple tree 
to share insights with nature metaphors 
on primal spark that causes things to grow 
from blueprint seeds that preserve secret goals 
for which we humans must invent strange roles 
no gods have ever played on stage of fate. 

She tells me grasping hands of hungry roots 
transform dirt of the Earth to juicy fruit 
that fills our bodies with light of the sun 
as pure immortal soul of energy 
which animates our bodies with intent 
so we respect all life with gentle words. 

We dig holes in the Earth to plant fruit seeds, 
then nourish sprouts with water from the lake 
cupped in careful attention of our hands 
to organize chaos of aggressive plants 
in strict cohesion of assertive rows 
as we build Eden in the wilderness. 

Strange memories for ancient ways of life 
project bright visions on library wall 
while I read chronicles of human lore 
to comprehend our endless quest to live 
by assembling food-production machines 
through more efficient means of molding light. 

I remember six thousand years ago 
when we first see with awed surprise of love 
herds of horses galloping along rivers, 
their manes and long tails fluttering in the wind, 
and how we offer apples of our hearts 
as we caress their necks with calming hum. 

Together on horseback we conquered Earth, 
uniting far-flung farms and merchant towns 
in vast empires from sea to shining sea, 
but now we drive fast piston-engine cars 
and leave our old friends grazing in small fields, 
no more lush Eden in the wilderness. 

Dream Clock Of Nevertime

Dream Clock Of Nevertime
© Surazeus
2025 12 01

No ghost remembers their name before birth 
yet they feel every ray of cosmic light 
that spirals from dream clock of Nevertime 
because our psychic multiverse of dreams 
creates ten zillion planets from God Eye 
who generates our brains from memories. 

Awake in lonely beauty of this world, 
I sense eternal God of cosmic truth 
vibrate in every atom of my soul 
so I mold tears of love in spinning worlds 
where death unravels each organic being 
who sings as part of our infinite whole. 

I slip key of irretrievable hope 
in vast atomic clock of Nevertime 
to open gates of psychic paradise 
where children gather apples from tall trees 
and run together on lush river shores 
till they all vanish in mute dust of time. 

Though we remember events of our lives 
as winding swirl of streams down mountain vales 
we cannot return to the long-lost past 
for atoms keep on swerving in the void 
to readjust vast vacancy of being 
till heat draws water back to empty skies. 

Descending stairway from Heaven to Hell, 
young Icarus with tattered wings of faith 
leads Oedipus to garden of dead gods 
to sit by gleaming pool of Nevertime 
where skull of Narcissus sings prophecies 
about how we rise from ruins of rage. 

Beyond coincidence of clanging bells 
two lovers meet at nexus frosted clear 
with sudden beauty of attentiveness 
to share strange stories of wild-dancing trees 
in which our faceless ghosts hide from grim death 
while Icarus photographs everything. 

Through furtive moon of confident regret, 
that rises from unfathomed memories, 
we shape oblivion from absent fear 
to measure twirling clock of Nevertime 
that opens portal through library book 
where I appear as angel born from words. 

Adorable in radiant dress of pride, 
my loving spouse in wreath of flashing wings 
decides to offer glass of sun-flared wine 
that binds our alien souls with thread of genes 
as she names every ghost we meet in life 
who fill our home with fertile merriment. 

Girl With Seven Hearts

Girl With Seven Hearts
© Surazeus
2025 12 01

Maybe I should tell them about the time 
I got lost in hills of Antarctica 
while looking for the girl with seven hearts 
who used to sing on the opera stage, 
performing roles of tragic heroines 
who always lament beauty as they die. 

My heart still gets enchanted by the chime 
that rings across hills of America 
decrypting secret code of curious charts 
which unspool atoms from the cosmic page 
through music fairies play on violins 
because children always want to know why. 

If I should find the seven-hearted girl 
alone in forest of certified trees, 
I might discover secret of rebirth 
that she conceals in diamond of her brain 
which shines bright as the egocentric sun 
attracting people from all walks of life. 

I sense her soul gleaming pure as the pearl 
that maps our evolution from dark seas 
which I place in Mind Lamp of xenial worth 
to guide my people through soul-binding rain 
as matrix where our dream spirits are spun 
when we build Eden to overcome strife. 

She waits for me in house of mirrored walls, 
the girl with seven hearts of angel wings, 
so I run joyfully on river shore 
beyond the ruined walls of paradise 
till I fall laughing in the doorless maze 
where idols of dead gods stare down at me. 

I rise from mind-grave when her spirit calls, 
and float to river valley where she sings 
weird spells that link my heart to global core 
with nonchalant respect for psychic price 
I pay to transcend each sequential phase 
on sacred quest to realize Liberty. 

After I map Antarctica with tales 
of brave explorers following dream signs, 
I present palace of eccentric faith 
where the seven-hearted girl reigns as queen, 
so people of our world may understand 
why she always hosts global feast of friends. 

We stroll together on high mountain trails, 
observing god-masks of demonic pines 
that mirror beauty of the cosmic wraith 
who shines through seven hearts of Melusine 
as sacred mother of our fertile land 
who reveals how our ancient empire ends. 

Mindless Energy Of Hope

Mindless Energy Of Hope
© Surazeus
2025 12 01

Divested shares of time-fractalized minds 
compute portentous profits of pure light, 
designed by mindless energy of hope 
to radiate divine consciousness which shapes 
ascendant progress through creative love 
so we empathize with strangers we meet. 

Outside purview of human characters, 
fraught with stark containment of desire, 
stray thoughts explore abstract concepts of truth 
that frame frugal figmentations of fact, 
so our brains better perceive unseen schemes 
providing structure for chaos to form. 

Professor Adam Bradstreet contemplates 
how novelists explore strange inner life 
of fictional people in daedal tales 
while lounging in leather chair of respect, 
then sips ice wine and watches gold leaves fall 
in changing seasons from Homeric song. 

His wife, the graceful flautist Sophie Wei, 
glides in the room with panther elegance, 
then sits at easel by the glowing hearth 
to paint quaint village scenes in Fujian 
where her grandparents lived on fishing boats, 
eyes gleaming with memories of that lost world. 

My ancestors too lived on fishing boats 
on the Weser River in Germany, 
old bearded Adam relates to himself, 
so maybe that explains why our tall son 
hosts his own fishing television show, 
and dresses as Neptune for Halloween. 

Through spiral platitudes of falling rain 
we humans cleanse our souls of spirit pain 
when we assemble in old ring of stones 
to play eerie music on dragon bones, 
then we return to this strange modern age 
where few remember our celestial sage. 

By bay window that frames their lush front lawn, 
Adam plays piano and Sophie plays flute 
in heart-enchanting duet of true love, 
which causes light of energy to shine 
so forgotten ghosts without memories 
haunt their home with uncanny spirit glow. 

Invested shares of wisdom-puzzled minds 
compile prophetic creeds of long-dead gods, 
programmed by natural chemicals of lust 
to generate new conscious souls from brains 
who give each other names in game of life 
so we can surf rough tides of global change.