Wheelbarrow Of Hard Work © Surazeus 2026 09 17 To find out how my body was transformed by the gossamer ghoul with thirty eyes who lives on highest mountain of the moon, I stroll downtown among the lunchtime crowd and give my heart to every soul I meet, who each plucks one feather from my fake wings. Since nothing that ever happens depends on the rain-glazed wheelbarrow of hard work, I stand on street corner of Fear and Hope to watch the blinking traffic light all day till I begin to float into the sky because I forget the true name of God. Strange children I have never met before steal glass masks from museum of dead gods, then ask me with weird voice of secret rain if I know the way to Sesame Street, so I point to the camera on the pole that records writhing rainbows of the soul. I go through glass doors of the Spirit Bank and ask if I can withdraw with Dream Key enough credits from my psychic account to buy the latest pair of angel wings that Icarus designs in his workshop because I want to explore the galaxy. Climbing the stairway to Heaven nine years, I whistle merry tunes of innocence about my lonely Brickleberry Friend, then stand before Odin on jeweled throne and ask for job as scribe in Hall of Dreams, presenting my credentials on silk scroll. When Odin gives me most important job of washing dishes for the Feast of Gods, I walk through Valhalla with humble pride, where Achilles and Sigmund drink and laugh, to join Lucifer in the kitchen hall where we talk about the magic of lamps. After I finish work just at midnight, I stroll above Tintern Abbey some few miles to find Minerva on banks of the Wye where she translates murmur of mountain-springs to cosmic prophecies in arcane code which I transcribe as psychic formulas. If beauteous forms that manifest Dream Glow in conscious bodies of organic hope shine with immortal absence of my love, then I shall pose in studio of glass skulls for author photo on my latest book which I toss in the Well of Melusine.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Orpheus steps outside the back of Valhalla to smoke after working twelve hours washing dishes for the endless feast where Zeus and Jesus arm-wrestle for dominance.
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