Urgent Game Of Badinage © Surazeus 2026 03 02 Through apricity of my elder years, enchanted by sweet petrichor of dawn, I savor clinomania of my heart, yet dare no more perendinate my quest from brave intention to peregrinate with tarantism of ephemeral joy. Another day in land of Zathamar provides new opportunities to grow, so I rise up from comfort of my bed to walk in dream land of my throbbing head and build expanding castle from blue snow that gleams with sacred light of the First Star. Abacinated by dream of strange truth that twists my heart with maliferous hope, I ride tantivy over rugged hills to measure love with geomantic tools by drinking from the sparkling winterbourne that meanders with lacertilian grace. Diffluent time of arbitrary gears, contrived with urgent game of badinage, saginates my sabelline heart with pride, so I progress through life with uberty to hyalograph events of great import, preserved through raucous rubricality. Proud of my honest rurigenous ways, using eromancy to fix my soul, I preach weird anecdotes of human fate to nubilate the obvious facts of love, derived from codex of kalology because I apricate my weary heart. Protected by my arborescent heart, I express feelings with torrentine verse through cluttered anguish of tautophony to perform role of facinorous clown with brave abduracy of mute contempt, yet prefer to obambulate through Hell. Concealed by grim torfaceous attitude, I focus on bibliogenesis to maintain state of burgensic respair, revived from fear with mentation of dreams, because through morphallaxis I transcend morient process of the errant seer. Convinced I will hear astral voice of God through austromancy of unspoken thoughts, I write my quest with aurigraphic code to warrantize my frame of reference through secret cabotage of treasure chests since I cherish caducity of faith.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Monday, March 2, 2026
Urgent Game Of Badinage
On Prairies Of Zathamar
On Prairies Of Zathamar © Surazeus 2026 03 02 Since no one watches television show of my life, I do whatever I want if I harm none, for I value with care special beauty of each frail human life that shimmers with the mindless glow of atoms woven in briefly conscious brain of hope. My brain invents stories for people I see walking past the window beside my desk where I work in the Water Business Office, mapping water and sewer system pipes that cycle through every building in town with water-words I hear blind angels sing. When I peel off mask of America, composed of steel towers and asphalt roads, I perceive timeless land of Zathamar, plains teeming with dinosaurs, buffaloes, horses, and humans hunting them with spears, then businessmen driving cars to oil wells. I find bleached skeletons of my ancestors buried in graves from sea to shining sea along the signless roads of immigrants forever searching for the Promised Land somewhere over the horizon of hope where gangs are not driving them from their homes. Arising from bright dust of Mother Earth, Smohalla carries Dream Rock in his heart and shouts from the mountain of dancing trees, "My people shall never work with lust for wealth because they will find wisdom in their dreams when their spirits rise from flames of respect." We gather on prairies of Zathamar where no ring of stones has ever been built to pitch our tents beside the Stream of Souls and share songs of our sorrows with the wind that rise as smoke from fires of hungry hearts which weaves clouds into tapestry of truth. We ask each other with serious concern, what is the nature of America, that marble hall where idols of dead gods proclaim glory of expanding empire, though vines break down divisive walls of faith so we walk together on broken roads. Our stories map vast land of Zathamar that details complicated maze of myths where river of all time orchestrates fruit trees of Eden from bleak parking lots where Yemaya erases boundaries with nurturing rain of our hopeful hearts.
Sunday, March 1, 2026
Weird Chameleon Name
Weird Chameleon Name © Surazeus 2026 03 01 Around to the beginning of the game children of angels fallen from bright clouds give each other weird chameleon name that drapes their soul in derivative shrouds to veil aggressive demon of the soul which we subsume to play our social role. Born to play estimator of true faith, measured by extravagant flash of words, I wear mask of Phoebus to hide dream wraith who emulates fraternal code of birds insolvent with parameters we grade, qualified to disrupt the masquerade. Coerced by fear to play the activist, engaged in contest to prove human rights are crucial to reign of the archivist, I must acknowledge avatar of lights who teaches us with pride to advocate for people doomed to suffer by blind fate. Essential focus of fantastic truth, familiar to the wounded refugees who seek salvation from messiah sleuth, presents forensic process of glass keys that issue fusion of magnetic thoughts installed by mocking laughter of robots. Antique concept of fortunate technique conceals terse vector of sharp resonance, disguised as royal person not unique enough to publish startled relevance because we gather revenue from stones that vibrate with electric rainbow tones. Each car mechanic at the seminar on trauma studies in novels of clowns proclaims their loyalty to Zathamar while recruiting jesters in country towns to oppose oppression of working men who convert the shovel to the dream pen. Subjective syntax of brave sentences, sealed by trademark of our attentive king, details strange keywords of his preferences for who should wear his lost Plutonian ring so he can learn to fly airplane of peace by selling mystery of his masterpiece. When the vampire god tries to suck our souls through mindless worship of fierce followers, Minerva recruits Phoebus to play roles of heroes who free trapped borrowers, but then we all grow old and weak with pain so our power trips dissipate in rain.
Grim Peat-Bog Devil
Grim Peat-Bog Devil © Surazeus 2026 03 01 When grim peat-bog devil with fox-red hair crawls from black clay-ensouled mud of the marsh, Seamus welcomes her with bottle of rum, drapes silk cloak over her shoulders with care, and leads her to lit auditorium where he plays jester to her regal queenship. Since I am neither god nor ghost at birth, I wander virtual city of your tales with jeweled eyes of understanding rage that see through masks the most powerful wear as they condemn outsiders from their club to slave in factories of clanking steel. Purring ghosts of love rise with burning blood from machinery of language that twists tongues with rogue substitutions of natural law when strong men fearful of obsessive death hunt to kill wanderers in misty woods who stumble and scream in anguish of hope. Heart hardened against cruelty of life, I snarl insults at monsters of despair, detained by performative callousness when I suppress compassion for frail life that struggles weakly against stronger force to evade degradation of the soul. Unversed in country matters of field life, I mold sunset glow into bricks of faith to build safe haven in dark tangled woods with chimney that channels smoke of our prayers to heaven where Faceless God of old tales ignores desperate hope for the Afterlife. Through fractured window of my wordless heart crows swoop on devil wings of honesty to bring purple-brain mushrooms from boglands which I eat soaked in honey of respect till I become coiled rainbow of brave angst howling with wild wolves in the twilight zone. Since we dwell in troubled ambivalence, uncommitted to mindless creeds of church, we explore uncanny landscape of ghouls wearing human faces that grin with lies, malnourished from harshness of eager hope which calculates effective cause to perform. If I am born from mind-controlling force and squirm squalling into hands of regret, first mother of gloom cries to feed me milk as prideful authority hurls my soul back into vast illegitimate sea where I morph into Mermaid Bride of Christ.
Museum Of Idols That Cry
Museum Of Idols That Cry © Surazeus 2026 03 01 Alive in drafty castle of my heart, I play both king and dragon of desire within the frame of fables liars built to credit those who provide them with food with miracles no human could perform till my white horse drowns in river of change. Eager to reclaim my inheritance, hidden near the River Gyndes by time, I leave behind this land of broken dreams which my ancestors invaded with greed, but everywhere I go in this world now new people live on my ancestral lands. When he plucks out my heart with hungry hope to find what syncopates our fertile love, he breaks its clock of passionate desire which cuts taut chord of our mutual song so now I cannot articulate well trust shattered by aggressive lust to own. Indestructible ship of my brave heart, shackled to the creaking dock of desire, wrenches at ropes of duty to assert right to sail pulsing waves of curious faith, but blinding passion for treasure regained traps my wingless soul in fake fairy tales. Bright flame that licks and fawns at mirror mind with merciless respect for wordless smiles, throws fish of my heart back in the wild sea, so I ascend Arctic mountains of hope to sell costumes for my outdated selves to faceless ghosts of famous movie stars. Sinuous orchids in gardens of skulls shelter refugees from exploding bombs who dream of clear water hiding pure gems, though I mail my book of forgotten lore to willow witch behind the theater whose bodiless owl understands my tricks. Yet pitchforked farmer in lush daisied field struggles through blackthorn thicket of concern to nine-pooled fen where swirling mist conceals wounded god who clutches turtle-shell lyre while declaring this vale of tears is his to build museum of idols that cry. I marvel at the brutal nonchalance of Mother Nature who creates our souls from tangled sunrays of hazardous hope with racketing flux of religious faith that taunts our fake heroes to prove themselves by ransacking libraries of dead gods.
Brave Daughters Of Amen
Brave Daughters Of Amen © Surazeus 2026 03 01 She always asks the blind man how to see true essence in each object she perceives, but he replies that death will set us free as sweet relief for every soul who grieves, so she measures strict bounds of time and space to name true features of the godless face. She always asks the mute man how to sing insightful lyric of the broken heart, but he attempts to fly on crippled wing beyond perimeters of the dream chart, so she carves runes on trunks of screaming trees then brews sweet mead from tears of honeybees. When she asks the crippled man how to fly above the endless maze of social myths, he teaches, good reporters must ask why the fairy queen once ruled from monoliths, so she films documentaries on ghosts of people murdered by the Lord of Hosts. When she asks the hungry man how to cook food for gods in ziggurat temple hall, he records human history in the book as word of God who hangs on marble wall, so she fries burgers at the small cafe near the factory where old widows pray. Though she asks the preacher for secret key to open door of wisdom locked by fear, he snarls, she cannot know the mystery because Jesus is the Mind Puppeteer, so she plays folk songs in the haunted church depicting the fool and his lonely search. Though she asks the jester for demon mask he wears while mocking dictators and kings, he assigns her the most difficult task of finding how Daedalus makes god wings, so she plays Zenobia on global stage to oppose Christian Nationalist rage. If she asks Mercury for turtle lyre to sing epic tale of heroes and fools, he hides how Helios designed the tire for his wagon filled with technical tools, so she frees humanity from despair when she rides the gold hot-air balloon chair. If she asks Apollo for his starship powered by crystal jewels with star eyes, he takes her on his transgalactic trip to populate every planet with spies, so she arrests the most powerful men who abuse brave daughters of Amen.