Psychotic Beasts

Psychotic Beasts
© Surazeus
2015 06 03

We float through the open door of our eyes
and soar on the broken wings of lost faith
to play hide and seek in the field of lies
and listen amused to the singing wraith,
now that we are ruled by psychotic beasts
disguising themselves as pastors and priests.

We open the book of old shepherd tales
and hide our real faces with ancient masks
to replay the roles of dead gods and kings
in social games with no reason or rhyme,
now that we are ruled by psychotic beasts
disguising themselves as pastors and priests.

We stand in the temple of freezing stone
and drink sweet blood of our savior as wine
then walk windy heath in horror alone
to talk with crows on the telephone line,
now that we are ruled by psychotic beasts
disguising themselves as pastors and priests.

I step outside glass door of the clean church
and stare at gold hills of the rugged coast
where ocean waves weep with angelic tunes
and blind prophet carves his own secret runes,
now that we are ruled by psychotic beasts
disguising themselves as pastors and priests.

My ancestors walked in mountains of snow,
your ancestors walked in deserts of sand,
together we dance American hills,
teaching our children to sing new-made songs,
now that we are ruled by psychotic beasts
disguising themselves as pastors and priests.

On A Sunday Morning

On A Sunday Morning
Surazeus
21 February 2010

RIP Rachel Wetzsteon 1967-2009

Handful of cornflakes and granola
in a clean white porcelain bowl
with apple sauce and cow milk
satisfies a deep aching hunger
in my soul when I remember how
I need not milk a cow at dawn
in a rotting barn of wood and mud
or peel corn husks in a factory
or deliver boxes of these foods
on vast network of asphalt roads
for these things are done by people
who sing in joy to work so free
while I relax on Sunday morning.

I do my part in machine of commerce
to produce goods with my labor
rewarded with dollars of energy
I spend to grease engine of money
that splutters on highway of power
till fresh fuel in billions of dollars
fills gas tanks of glittering banks
so I stay under blankets an hour
but a magic sprite outside window
taps glass so I grumble and rise
and look down at old street below
where I see a woman in a jacket
walking among wind-blown petals
who pauses and writes in a book
while I rub eyes on Sunday morning.

Where are you going in blue light
of dawn without your phone or purse
but ghost of Rachel Wetzsteon flows
on fluttering wings to Sakura Park
and guides a thousand invisible souls
still dreaming in light before dawn
who flow on silver light from windows
of apartments to swirl in great spiral
of souls over shining city of light
and pages of books flutter with voice
unheard under clamor of car radios
if we hover on verge of becoming more
than we were meant to be at birth
so let your soul be scattered in wind
for each memory of your lost hope
is written on soft petals of a flower
that dance alone on a Sunday morning.

My top hat towers above my head
pronouncing my great money power
as I stride Wall Street of Manhattan
to rule my empire of steel numbers
who dance in calculations of wealth
but two women grab my arms tight
and make me sit on a plush couch
in salon surrounded by mad poets
and weird painters with bright eyes
then Gertrude and Alice pluck my eyes
and put them rotating in glass sphere
because Robin Hood in leather jacket
arrives on rumbling engine of a motorbike
and points to planes among clouds
shouting you destroyed cities of glass
and sent a million souls to heaven
screaming in light of a nuclear flash
so I drink wine on a Sunday Morning.

Who are you poet of broken hearts
sweet Rachel weeping saltless tears
whose face shines inside steel hearts
of bankers and insurers and brokers
who look from windows of towers
and see you floating in river stream
clutching flowers like sweet Ophelia
confused by rejection of kind Romeo
when Hamlet married Juliet in Ohio
and raised three children who play
video games and soccer and guitars
so kneel in church of forgotten poets
and gaze at painting on dais wall
Young Martyr by Hippolyte Delaroche
for I long to kiss her soft rose lips
before she transforms to a dragon
as I drink coffee on a Sunday Morning.

I am in love with my bride Melusine
as I float on my back in shining water
gazing up at emptiness of blue sky
glad I was not a royal passenger
on French frigate Meduse that wrecked
on Bank of Arguin near Mauritania
nor was I stuck on Raft of Medusa
painted by mad Theodore Gericault
and had to leap into swirling waves
to escape sharp knives of hungry men
nor had to swim all night in dark deep
till God decided to create dawn light
nor stood dripping in jungle heat
and staggered groping in hot light
till old bearded man in a white robe
took me to cool shelter of a Zawiya
where men will spin on angel wings
chanting as they seek soul of Allah
so I write visions on a Sunday Morning.

I see your noble savior Jesus Christ
in face of that man considered insane
staring from portrait of a kleptomaniac
painted by mad Theodore Gericault
showing your savior lost within himself
who saw visions of angels and God
with eyes staring past veil of death
at infinite face of holy Mother Maria
who was raped and beaten and abused
by a drunk husband whose farm failed
so he left on quest for Holy Grail
sacred knight appointed by fairy queen
but where did he get lost in despair
hungry and staggering in cold rain
so he stole fruit from a market stall
and ran into woods of laughing ravens
but police locked him in a jail cell
and mocked his prayers for salvation
so now your lost sacred priest king
is locked alone in asylum for insane
where I am not on a Sunday morning.

Every morning for a thousand years
I see Rachel Wetzsteon walk alone
and sit in an empty gazebo in a park
surrounded by crowds of children
and mothers talking on cell phones
but she only hears with sea shell ears
rustle of a cherry tree and soft tune
of aching flutes in mountainous Peru
then she stands and takes my hand
whispering come back to true cave
and I will teach you how to fly high
but forgets to tell me till we are lost
in labyrinth of her heart in paradise
that we will plummet like Ikarus
back inside rusty locked gates of Eden
so we meditate on cluttered dreams
at Zen mountain monastery to laugh
and hide neuroses on a Sunday morning.

None of this means anything to me
because a million girls are not free
and though I love everyone on Earth
I give you all my purest love alone
and once you returned my love true
but now you never look in my eyes
and turn away when I want to hug
and give me a quick unhappy kiss
when I want to merge our souls
in passionate flash of aching desire
but I will not kill myself over this
for though this situation of dry bliss
is perfect except for sleeping desire
I will not destroy years of achievement
for an hour of passionate pleasure
so I preserve love on a Sunday morning.

Elegy for B. B. King and Franz Wright

Anansi And Loki Dance Again
Surazeus
2015 05 15

Elegy for Bee Bee King and Franz Wright​.

When the blazing meteor that flames bright
transforms into a singing butterfly,
I dance into the city to see why
the open doors are flashing eyes of light.

I find the bar that everyone attends,
winding labyrinth of coffins where clowns
place books they write on clean grocery store shelves,
and touch the golden stage of fame and glory.

Anansi twangs electric steel guitar
and wails the blues that weaves our brains with thread
of zinging particles from Outer Space
when Bee Bee King spreads wide gossamer wings.

Loki leaps and gyrates with microphone
before broken statue of blind Apollo
and howls poetic spells that make stars spin
when Franz Wright spreads his Batman cape and laughs.

Whichever Psychopomp you choose to follow
through labyrinth of Gotham to Elysium
past sizzling neon signs that flash your name,
remember when we rose from Lake of Dreams.

Hold hands and form an endless human chain
that unites our minds sea to shining sea
in dancing ring around the rosy bush
where Anansi and Loki sing our dreams.

Their eyes are flashing galaxies of hope
while dancing on the peak of Devils Tower,
and twanging guitar shoots fireworks of music
flashing words of poems in Milky Way blast.

We are the champions of justice and truth,
howl Anansi and Loki as they play
tricks of illusion that reveal our souls
vibrating beams of light from dreaming brains.

Now I am singing the fallen clown blues
when spirits of Bee Bee King and Franz Wright
shoot fireworks of laughter at pain of life
and light the dreary night with anguished cries.

We all will die at turning of this world
and light of our atoms join the Milky Way
so we will sing the vibe of desperate joy
and howl together at the midnight moon.

Hermead Epic of Philosophers

The Hermead, epic poem about philosophers and scientists contains 118,000 lines of blank verse about 26 Greek philosophers. Currently 50,000 lines about 14 philosophers have been published in three volumes which are available in four editions listed below.

Hermead Vol 1
15,000 lines - Hermes, Prometheus, Kadmos, Asklepios, and Hesiodos
Four Editions

Hardcover 6x9 $45.99
Paperback 6x9 $26.99
Pocket 4.25x6.88 $9.99
eBook $2.99

http://tinyurl.com/Hermead01

Hermead Vol 2
16,000 lines - Thales, Anaximandros, and Pythagoras
Four Editions

Hardcover 6x9 $46.99
Paperback 6x9 $27.99
Pocket 4.25x6.88 $10.99
eBook $2.99

http://tinyurl.com/Hermead02

Hermead Vol 3
19,000 lines - Herakleitos, Parmenides, Anaxagoras, Empedokles, Leukippos, and Philolaos
Four Editions

Hardcover 6x9 $49.99
Paperback 6x9 $30.99
Pocket 4.25x6.88 $11.99
eBook $3.99

http://tinyurl.com/Hermead03

God And Evil

God And Evil
Surazeus
2015 04 17

David kneels down by hospital bed
where his kind, generous, loving wife Arlene
lies broken after a car accident"
"I am glad you came, Michael, when I called.
Police tell me another man, enraged
she was driving too slow for his desire,
shot her while she drove a car full of children.
"Lord Jesus, God who created this world,
please, heal my wife and bring her back to life.
I know you are all-powerful and good,
and whatever happens in our lives
happens according to your divine plan,
and I must accept your will in all things.
Please, heal my wife and bring her back to life.
Just because I do not understand well
your plans for why we must suffer bad things,
does not mean that you are not at my side,
so guide me well according to your will.
Please, heal my wife and bring her back to life.
You are everywhere, watching over us,
so you were at her side inside her car,
watching over her when you let that man
shoot bullets at her, which caused her to crash.
Please, heal my wife and bring her back to life.
My life is not going the way I planned,
but I know it is going the way you planned.
I know you must have bigger plans for me
than I have for myself, so calm my heart
with confidence that you, Jesus, know best.
Please, heal my wife and bring her back to life.
Prayer is powerful, and you answer all,
but I must remember with patient faith
that you work on your own timing, not mine,
so help me understand why you allowed
my sweet loving wife to get shot and crash.
Please, heal my wife and bring her back to life.
I know there is a reason for closed doors,
unanswered prayers, blocked roads, and altered plans.
If my plans do not work out as I wish,
it is because you have better plans for me.
Please, heal my wife and bring her back to life.
You choose not to answer my prayer, Lord Jesus,
and now my wife is dead from accident.
I know you are taking her soul to heaven,
so now she is with you in paradise,
and I will her join her at my time to go."
David stands and stares down at his sweet wife
whose pretty blue eyes stare at nothing blank.
Michael places hand on shoulder of his brother.
"Jesus did not cause your wife to be killed,
nor did he take her soul to live in heaven.
Your wife died because an evil angry man
fired a gun at her, causing her to crash.
This accident was a random event,
and not part of some divine cosmic plan.
You say this world was created by God.
Remember wise paradox of Epicurus
about disparity between God and evil.
You say God is omnipotent and benevolent.
Yet this world is bloody from evil deeds
when people enslave and kill other people.
Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able?
Then we cannot say God is omnipotent.
Is God able to prevent evil, but not willing?
Then we must say God is malevolent.
Is God both able and willing to prevent evil?
Then why is evil rampant in our world?
Is God neither able nor willing to prevent evil?
Then God is not omnipotent nor benevolent.
If he is neither, then why call him God?
I must conclude your God does not exist.
While death of your kind loving wife is tragic,
no benevolent god caused her to die."
David weeps over body of his wife.
"I wanted you to be happy and live.
Everything I believed in disappears,
and my worldview based on God falls apart.
My faith in a good and all-powerful god
dies with your death, so now I am reborn
as if I wake from nightmare of belief.
Now I can believe in nothing but love,
for love alone can guide us through this world."

Quantum Dice Of Fickle Fate

Quantum Dice Of Fickle Fate
© Surazeus
2015 04 16

Skating on thin ice in wild hockey game
of political ambition to play
king of the world, I gamble with your truth
by tossing quantum dice of fickle fate
with hope that I will win ten thousand minds,
so toss your quantum dice of fickle fate
to see if you can win eternal life.

Leaping high on rocket sandals of Hermes,
I soar on angel wings of righteous rage
into nether reaches of outer space
and preach salvation of eternal life
when Horus walks the crystal sky of stars,
so toss your quantum dice of fickle fate
to see if you can win eternal life.

Two billion people here on Planet Earth
believe some man two thousand years ago
will resurrect their bodies from blank death
and they will sing forever in paradise
but first have to buy the stairway to heaven,
so toss your quantum dice of fickle fate
to see if you can win eternal life.

Imagine You Are

Imagine You Are
© Surazeus
2015 04 14

Imagine you are alive without soul
and you are a cloud of mist in Steel City
and you hold in your hands an angry gun
and nobody cares about your beliefs
though God called you to be prophet of truth
as you run through maze of accomplishment
on sacred quest for salvation and truth.

Imagine your taut skin is every color
from white to pink to orange to brown to black,
your eyes are blue and green and brown and black,
your hair is blond and red and brown and black,
and you are male and female, both and neither,
as you walk past yourself on city streets,
exchanging smiles and frowns and neutral stares.

Imagine you are standing on high stage
before ten million faces watching you
and you speak spells in silver microphone
that amplifies your voice in echo chamber
and we all join in your heavenly choir
and sing together in false paradise
as you express our thoughts in jokes and poems
in universal church of faith in truth.

Imagine you are poet, rock star, clown,
and politician trying to win our votes
by preaching loud on street corner and stage
sacred visions you are sure came from God
and then you raise your microphone wand high,
lead us from slavery to the Promised Land,
and strike the rock to make sweet fountains flow,
as you parade after your flight to the moon
when we crown you emperor with no clothes.

Imagine you are risen from the dead
and glide on wings of light to paradise
where you rebel against authority
and fall nine days and nights back down to Earth
where we must meet in coffee shop at dawn
and talk about philosophy all day
as you watch cat videos on your cell phone
then we sing with the new Bob Dylan song.

Imagine you are human and robot,
and born again in the blood of the lamb,
and wear glass mask of actor you despise,
but when you pluck the apple of desire
and hide behind the rotten tree of life
remember who you are before you die.

Popularity of Poets

In an interview with NPR, Donald Hall the Poet, says with a sly grin that he thinks he will be forgotten after his death.

"At some point in this book I said
that I expect my immortality to cease
about seven minutes after my funeral.
I have seen so many poets who were famous,
who won all sorts of prizes, disappear with their deaths."
-- Donald Hall
http://www.npr.org/2014/12/06/368013634/at-86-poet-donald-hall-writes-on-but-leaves-verse-behind

I think lots of poets who become famous while they are alive, become well-known through a combination of good luck, knowing the right people, and being skilled at performing their poems. The poems themselves are only part of the life as a poet that they develop.

Since much of their popularity hinges on performance, and relationships with the right people in power in pobiz, the poetry business world, it is no surprise that their popularity vanishes when they die. While there is sometimes substance in the poems that they have written, much of their popularity was based on their actually being alive.

The poet whose vision in their poems is based entirely on their own personality may be successful while alive, but oftentimes are forgotten after death, unless the poetry they write is exceptionally good like Wordsworth, Dante, Byron, and Shelley. Poets who write about other people will be remembered far longer, such as Homer, Shakespeare, Chaucer, and Milton.

I find it interesting that poets who often were not popular or well-known while they were alive, yet wrote great poetry of rich substance and complex visions about the weirdness of life, become astronomically famous after their deaths.

Back in the 1990s, I was a student of poetry from all aspects of culture, from popular singers to the beats to the academics. I was intrigued with the careers of people like Jim Morrison, who had aspired to higher poetry, yet expended so much energy in the wild flash of the Orphic quest for truth of the trance and conveyance of vision through the live performance. Yet when he died, the blazing fire of his personality vanished, and all that was left, besides performances recorded on video, were the lyrics of the songs he had composed.

I learned the lesson that in spite of all the wild flash of energy, the text that resulted, which encases the vision of the poet's mind, was what would last long after the death of the body. A poet like Bob Dylan encased in a deeper and more complex lyrical body of text that vision of a better world that could be which inspired him to sing. Dylan is one of the very few poets who have been able to channel his energy into the performance and dynamic lyrics of rich complexity.

Many poets and singers have lots of flash where the energy of their popularity depends on the power of the live performance, whether they are using academic poet voice, slam poet voice, folk singer voice, rock singer voice, or rap singer voice, yet in the end, after we all die, the only thing that is left is the text of the poems.

The audience may be energized by the performance of the poet at the ritual of the live performance, but after the ritual is ended, all that remains are the words carved onto the cold stone walls of the temple that dream forever beyond the deaths of performers and audience.

Poetry with a grand vision about the history of humanity presented through the complex characters of humans who go on the classic quest for truth better enshrines the dynamic energy of the visionary mind of the poet, and such poetry will last far longer because it presents a coherent vision than poetry of poets who focus more energy on the temporary performance.

In the end who is more successful, the poet whose popularity during life with much acclaim and prizes is based on performance, or the poet whose strength of vision is based on the quality of the text in presenting the complexity of human life?

Mask Of Every Face - Birthday Poem

Poem on the night before my 50th birthday:

Mask Of Every Face
© Surazeus
2014 09 23

Surazeus Simon Seamount
24 September 1964 - Eternity

Half a century I trudge this ball of dirt
and gather masks from faces of dead people
to hang them on ten billion apple trees
where every apple opens eyes from face
of every person who ever lived on Earth.

I wear each mask and become every person
and see this world through their dream-shining eyes
and feel aching hunger of their dead hearts
and cry out their voices in forgotten poems
which I bury in soil so they grow as trees.

They grow inside me, seeds of their lost souls,
so my little body, bundle of singing atoms,
vibrates stuffed with zillions of long-dead souls
who dream again, swimming in my blood streams,
and mask of every face merges in my face
so I am every person who ever lived on Earth.

Fall Of Our Green Giant

Fall Of Our Green Giant
Surazeus
2013 08 30

Seamus Heaney
13 April 1939 – 30 August 2013

Who could build an oak coffin big enough
to contain seventy years of grand vision
from that Irish giant who wields shovel pen
to unearth silent fear with chanting songs?

Now clovers sprout from aching heart of love
and tendrils of hope weave contending hearts
of warring men who share island of mist
so all may join hands and recite his last song.

Come together at fall of our green giant
where waves wash rugged Clochan an Aifir
erected by his hands with ancient words
to found island of peace we all may share.

Lost

Lost
© Surazeus
2012 11 14

My plane crashed on the island of the dead,
now I chase weird dreams in my broken head.
I run through labyrinth of my memories
and stare in mirrors clutching rusted keys.
I am alive because I am a ghost.
Change the channel in my head, I am lost.

I walk empty highway in sighing trees,
listening to ghosts sing in cool evening breeze.
I look at my love wearing cute blue dress,
skeleton bride who smiles at me from death.
I breathe despair because I am a ghost.
Change the channel in my head, I am lost.

Existence is fragile in this hostile world
so I toil in field where serpent lies curled.
I maintain my farm with genius and art
until turmoil of war tears it apart.
I raise flowers because I am a ghost.
Change the channel in my head, I am lost.

Let My People Vote

Let My People Vote
© Surazeus 2012 09 21

When Americans tried to vote,
Let my people vote!
Old regressives snarled and said no,
Let my people vote!
Stand in line on election day,
Let my people vote!
Touch the glass screen to mark your say,
Let my people vote!

Go down, Obama, way down in America,
Tell old regressives to let my people vote!

We want to choose our President,
Let my people vote!
We bow to no requirement,
Let my people vote!
No more shall they demand name cards,
Let my people vote!
Nor require birth certificates,
Let my people vote!

Go down, Obama, way down in America,
Tell old regressives to let my people vote!

Whether our skin is black or white,
Let my people vote!
We are brothers and sisters in right,
Let my people vote!
Whether our skin is yellow or red,
Let my people vote!
We share the feast and break fresh bread,
Let my people vote!

Go down, Obama, way down in America,
Tell old regressives to let my people vote!

You need not always weep and mourn,
Let my people vote!
And wear these chains of debt forlorn,
Let my people vote!
Let us march for our right to choose,
Let my people vote!
Bodies of women are their own,
Let my people vote!

Go down, Obama, way down in America,
Tell old regressives to let my people vote!

No more shall they toil without rights,
Let my people vote!
They form unions for a decent wage,
Let my people vote!
When my people suffer disease,
Let my people vote!
They deserve affordable health care,
Let my people vote!

Go down, Obama, way down in America,
Tell old regressives to let my people vote!

When my people fall on hard times,
Let my people vote!
Catch them with a social safety net,
Let my people vote!
Your foes shall not before you stand,
Let my people vote!
We all share great America,
Let my people vote!

Go down, Obama, way down in America,
Tell old regressives to let my people vote!

New Atheist Bible

After a year of writing, I have completed a first complete draft of the first part of my epic about evolution and scientists.

I am working on writing an epic in blank verse I call Hermead about evolution and scientists, to describe the origin of life, and the lives of scientists, as accurately as possible. So far over the past year I have written 34,000 lines of blank verse about the lives of 15 Greek Philosophers.

Religion is essentially a set of beliefs based on a body of text that present a description of how the universe works. Preferably we improve our text as we improve our knowledge over the centuries. The best text describes reality as close as possible, nature and society.

Sometimes I jokingly refer to my epic about evolution and scientists as a new atheist bible, but I don't intend it to be that serious. My epic is more of a literary and artistic presentation of scientific ideas and biographies of scientists who developed modern civilization and knowledge. 

Three short excerpts from my epic poem the Hermead.

Epicurus
http://open.salon.com/blog/surazeus/2012/06/02/principle_doctrines_from_garden_of_epikouros

Aristotle http://open.salon.com/blog/surazeus/2012/03/03/categories_and_motions

Plato
http://open.salon.com/blog/surazeus/2012/01/24/allegory_of_the_cave

God

God

By the definition of God as omniscient and omnipresent, beyond the bounds of time and space, God cannot exist. The term exist means in Latin to stand out, ex-stare. So anything that exists stands out in time and space, limited within the bounds of its being, an object of material substance subject to the chemical processes of change in the flow of time.

God could be said to subsist, from the Latin to stand under, sub-stare. God could be defined as the substance of existence.

Aanaxagoras is thought to be the first to formulate the concept of the Creator Mind, which Aristoteles called the Demiurgos, the craftsman. They argued that the mass of substance was without form, and the Mind, the unmoved Mover, sparked the mass to start processing so that all things emerged from the chaos and took on temporal processes of change as living things.

I am agnostic in that I do not know if that Mind is at all conscious of my existence, except perhaps through my own self-awareness. So as I get to know myself, God gets to know itself. So I could be said to be gnostic.

God being my friend and guiding my way through life is more of a socio-political concept, the "leader" of a group, the chief of a tribe, the pastor of a congregation, the boss of a company, the mayor of a town, the king of a nation, a living man who follows the example of Jesus as the anointed leader who takes care of his people, and is willing to die to protect them.

Our Star-Spangled Banner

Our Star-Spangled Banner
© Surazeus
2012 07 04

Oh, say did you hear that slick lawyer Key,
who wrote a great song about fighting for freedom,
then argued white men could own people as slaves,
over the years though we fought for freedom and justice?
So stand up strong and fight against slavery of people,
and give proof to the world that our liberty still lives.
Oh, say does our star-spangled banner yet wave
over the land of the free and the home of the brave?

When two towers were struck by terrorists in planes
we united to fight for our freedom and justice,
but our cowboy president lied about weapons of death
then we fought a bank war to steal the oil wells of Eden.
Now we rise in protest against bankers gambling stock
so they send the police to stomp our faces in cement.
Oh, say does our star-spangled banner yet wave
over the land of the free and the home of the brave?

Many people have arrived from every nation on Earth,
all religions and races share this bountiful land.
But who dares to destroy human rights we uphold
trampling down sacred laws to exploit men for labor?
Come and march by our side to occupy our own land
and defend liberty for every human alive.
Oh, say does our star-spangled banner yet wave
over the land of the free and the home of the brave?

This is my update to the national anthem. In 1861, my distant cousin, Oliver Wendell Holmes, wrote the following verse as his update to the national anthem just before the Civil War.

When our land is illumined with liberty's smile,
If a foe from within strikes a blow at her glory,
Down, down with the traitor that tries to defile
The flag of the stars, and the page of her story!
By the millions unchained, who their birthright have gained
We will keep her bright blazon forever unstained;
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave,
While the land of the free is the home of the brave.

Like me, Oliver Wendell Holmes, through his mother, was descended from Massachusetts Governor Simon Bradstreet and his wife, Anne Bradstreet, the first published European poet in America, and daughter of Thomas Dudley. I figured I should carry on a family tradition of updating the national anthem to reflect the times.

Orphean Spirit Reborn

Orphean Spirit Reborn
© Surazeus 
2012 01 24

I saw the best actors of our generation 
imitating Allen Ginsberg, James Franco 
and Daniel Radcliffe, bearded and wild, 
prancing Satyrian before cameras 
of our watching eyes, angel-headed hipsters 
channeling his ancient Orphean spirit 
on heavenly stage of Dionysian worship 
of manly warriors against ignorance and fear 
who plunged howling into eyeless abyss 
to swim in swirling visions of holy breath, 
to proclaim magnificent prophecies 
of self-actualization outside borders 
of the huge silver screen on crowded streets 
dodging cars of power and glory, fame and greed, 
where aching towers of Money Moloch burn 
over shimmering asphalt cathedrals of glass 
though ten thousand living nameless poets 
crucified on world web of telephone poles 
sea to polluted sea on every mountain top 
babble meaningless spells of confessional despair 
to high priests of advertising and mass media 
and pharmaceuticals and global policies, 
then gather with saints at the river that flows 
by the steel superbowl dome of Hercules 
where blue-jean angels in mascara-red tears 
sing star-tangled honor, and Buddha floats 
laughing over broken television tubes, 
chanting spells, so why do you think I am 
the most recent incarnation of Orpheus. 

Atoms and Ethics

Laughter Of Demokritos
© Hermead of Surazeus
2011 11 03

Excerpt from an epyllion about Demokritos,
from my epic Hermead about scientists.
Demokritos gives a speech about atoms and ethics.

Demokritos teaches basics of ethics
on foundation of concept that our Kosmos
swirls in vortex of atoms to form life.
"Everything is structure of shooting atoms
that swirl in tight vortex of energy
forming texture of all things that exist.
Construction is to build structure in shapes.
Destruction is to break structure in parts.
Whether any action is good or bad
depends on value in process result
of construction and destruction of things.
When humans intervene in natural process
we choose by free will to participate
supporting life against chaos of death
and work to create order by our actions
producing material assets of wealth
by growing and creating things from Earth.
We assess aspects of each situation,
analyzing character for true value
to understand well cause and consequence
if actions set in motion sequence flow
of events that produce desired result,
fostering growth to nourish bodies and souls.
Actions that destroy we want to avoid.
Actions that create we want to pursue.
Sometimes actions that destroy we call good
and actions that create may warrant bad.
Some situations are stacked with deep levels
of consequence, so destroying one thing
may preserve good life of another thing.
We consider it bad to kill a man,
yet if that man is oppressing good men
or abusing women for his own gain,
striking to kill that man will be called good,
for destroying him preserves common health.
We fight brutal struggle for life in storm
of hunger, rage, chaos, darkness, and fear,
so actions of our hands, fueled by vision
of our minds constructed from information
gathered by our senses, we gear toward progress
of common good for survival and growth
of our whole group, thus decisions we make
are based on health of everyone involved.
Our whole universe is composed of atoms,
that form our bodies in random production,
so good and bad results from social actions
are analyzed on worth of chosen values
to create or destroy structures of things.
To understand how actions we select
cause construction or destruction of things
or people, wanting to preserve our souls
in health and happiness to thrive in joy,
we study how our Kosmos is designed
by random swirl of atoms to congeal
in structure of flesh that supports our soul,
and thus we may act right for common good
on base of ethic values we create.
Our universe is constructed of atoms,
and we participate in process of life,
performing through our actions good and bad,
born to struggle for small moments of peace
and pleasure when we share succulent love,
then we die and disappear without trace,
for our consciousness glows, a fragile flame,
one short flash in dream of infinite nothing.
We are born, laugh, love, sing, then sleep forever."

Give A Man A Bank

Give A Man A Bank
© Surazeus
2011 12 01

I want to buy a home for my wife and kids
so I go to a big bank built from glass
where the man in a suit gives me a loan
larger than I need at high interest rates.
Give a man a gun and he can rob a bank.
Give a man a bank and he can rob the world.

I put my faith in the man at the bank
who gives me a mortgage with hidden fees
then bundles it in a credit default swap
and rakes in piles of bucks when I default.
Give a man a gun and he can rob a bank.
Give a man a bank and he can rob the world.

When large insurance companies and banks
collapsed in ruin from financial fraud
our government bailed them out with tax funds
giving them billions while I still pay loans.
Give a man a gun and he can rob a bank.
Give a man a bank and he can rob the world.

If I want to build my own shelter home
I should fashion metal into an axe,
chop down strong trees, and build a house from wood
around a hearth I stack from rolling stones.
Give a man a gun and he can rob a bank.
Give a man a bank and he can rob the world.

I buy insurance for financial support,
to pay high bills when emergency strikes,
but they deny every claim I submit,
citing fine print tangled false with loopholes.
Give a man a gun and he can rob a bank.
Give a man a bank and he can rob the world.

I want to start a family company
so I write up a simple business plan,
obtaining finance in high interest loans,
but market crashes and I fall bankrupt.
Give a man a gun and he can rob a bank.
Give a man a bank and he can rob the world.

If I rob a bank they lock me in prison
where I would linger bored for forty years,
but if I rob billions through banking schemes
I get bailouts and sip wine on my yacht.
Give a man a gun and he can rob a bank.
Give a man a bank and he can rob the world.

Who occupies the lobby of glass banks
demanding thieves in suits must go to prison
and pay for ripping off billions of bucks,
for my police will mace you in your face.
Give a man a gun and he can rob a bank.
Give a man a bank and he can rob the world.

Rise Of Hyperion

Rise Of Hyperion
© Surazeus
2011 06 08

I dream fantastic curves of marble halls 
and weave paradise with stone and grape vine 
muring around fresh bubbling fountain pond 
to tight enclose within hard granite walls 
lush garden of herbs and silk-bloom fruit trees 
that binds our hearts in heaven of our songs 
when bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

I blow ram horn to call home river nymphs 
who dance through high arching gate of gold bars 
to heap wood round table with basket bowls 
of fruit and nuts and eggs and berries, ripe 
from kissing sun and sparkling eyes of rain, 
then Gaia plays flute carved from dragon bone 
and Kronus flaps cape of black raven wings 
while bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

We feast in timeless sunset on moss mound 
beneath shaded arbour with dropping roof 
of trellis vines and bells and apple blooms 
that swing light in breeze dispensing sweet scent 
to taste juice of sunlight and rain in gifts 
Earth provides from her rich generous heart 
since bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

Stumbling from forest mist on signless path 
pale Adonais, dressed in black suit and hat, 
invades secret bower where gods drink nectar, 
blind to joyous dance of flower nymphs, 
to grasp and devour melons and grapes 
as if he had not eaten since time began 
while wandering lost on friendless quest, 
then falls fainting in sleep of dreamless groans 
while Silenus mimics his agony on grass, 
till bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

Urania plays haunting melody on bone flute 
of glittering sea waves woven on wind threads 
that shoot rays through his weak enchanted heart, 
sparking soul of slumbering poet aware 
to start up as if with wings on wild hope 
and wander aimless into ancient stone hall 
where Moneta tends eternal flame of truth, 
while Mares stamps gold into shining coins, 
when bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

Climbing thirteen high steps of ziggurat, 
Adonais struggles to ascend pyramid peak 
where Astaria observes motions of stars, 
peering eager through polished crystal eye, 
but grim Moneta robed in vestal shroud 
declares, "If you cannot ascend sacred steps, 
die on that marble where you crawl in pain, 
for your flesh would crumble to bitter dust 
if you never feast on fruit or drink Earth juice, 
though bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

Moneta grasps tight his pale trembling hand 
when Adonais achieves highest pinnacle, 
and takes him through towering silent hall 
to shadowed grove of ancient tangled oaks 
where Saturnus lies forlorn on cracked rocks, 
long gray hair curling into sinews of our world, 
and moans wordless despair a thousand years, 
deposed from throne of power by jaunty youth, 
so bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

Forlorn divinity grasps shoulders of fair youth 
and groans, "I see her eyes gleaming in your eyes, 
sweet bride who crowned my mighty humble head 
with laurel wreath, appointing me her house guard, 
for her sweet eyes I see reborn in our only son, 
brave but reckless Hyperion, who cast me down, 
and grasped scepter with diamond of hard truth, 
then claimed right to rule over my measured realms, 
so now bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

Stepping slow and regal on jagged stones, 
ancient woman with hair silver as moonlight 
resolves from swirling mist in torn black gown, 
and kneels at feet of Saturnus, weeping in sorrow 
as grumbling king caresses her bowed head, 
"My gentle Thea, our son, who tamed wild horse, 
locks gate to heaven, preventing our return, 
though you birthed him and I trained him well 
to defend our people and decide each hard case, 
yet bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

Two soul-weary wanderers, without warm home, 
hold hands and walk together toward stone wall, 
followed by Moneta clutching bag of gold coins, 
and heart-broken Adonais, ghost of humanity, 
through whispering woods with grasping claws, 
leaving behind ancient temple of moldering stone 
to climb thousand stairs toward temple of light 
that gleams gold on high rock mountain of hope 
where bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

His grand new palace shimmers cold and bright, 
bastioned with pyramids of flashing gold, 
though shadowed by shape of towering obelisks, 
and glares red as blood through ten thousand courts 
of arches supporting domes over galleries 
while Seraphim tend flames on altar stones 
behind soft linen curtains of Aurorian clouds 
where bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

Holding scepter key that opens treasure halls 
where coins are stored, that buy loyalty of men, 
Hyperion laughs delighted as his parents come, 
and spreads arms wide in kind generosity 
of victorious power to offer food and drink, 
inviting aged parents who long had ruled well 
to rest in safe retirement and restore health 
since bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

Ancient bearded Saturnus growls annoyed, 
"I forged from stone this heaven of cooperation, 
organizing labor of men to benefit every citizen, 
and long achieved smooth operation of life 
guiding social games of equal work and play, 
but you grasp wealth and give nothing back 
though you should guard welfare of our souls 
while bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

Hyperion leaps high and proclaims bold, 
"I am loyal to ideal principles you invented 
of respect for men, and honor to defend truth, 
and justice to punish men who steal and kill, 
represented by political union that I contracted, 
for rules guide actions to create not destroy 
when citizens cooperate for benefit of everyone, 
yet you used principles as reins to control 
believers in ideals who dream lost fantasy, 
for bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

"I separate institutions of government 
from human who gains position of power 
by killing opponents and silencing speech 
of men who dare oppose his program of greed, 
for tyrants are insecure on thrones of bones 
so they use fear and torture to maintain grip 
on wealth that slips away from hungry grasp, 
though bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

"We create our government of honest people, 
by creative people, and for loyal people, 
each new dawn of game with actions and words, 
by treating each man as though he were a king, 
for power is built on hearts of men not stones, 
if bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

Young man, wearing sandals and leather kilt, 
leaps from stone and faces bright sun king, 
gripping long sharp sword, then crouches low 
to shout, "At last I find you, pompous Hyperion, 
who think you stand so far above mortal men 
by claiming divine knowledge hidden in code, 
but you are nothing more than bones and blood, 
and you will crumble to dust after your soul 
deserts ship of your flesh and lets you sink 
in womb of black sea under dreamless silence, 
yet bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

Grasping broad shoulders of handsome lithe boy, 
Hyperion wrestles him on jagged mountain range, 
like black clouds clashing to generate white flash 
of lightning, and crack egg shell of our universe, 
then cries out in deep voice booming thunder claps, 
"My son Helius, born from secret love forbid, 
when my heart was enchanted by sweet Kalliope, 
your noble soul ripens richer in loving wisdom 
with each spinning turn of our blooming globe 
where bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

Bright father and brighter son tumble down, 
and roll laughing in delight, then leap on feet 
and clasp hands to chant, "We rise from death, 
for we are children of ten thousand mothers," 
but faded grandfather with tangled gray hair 
sits with sweet wan Thea by gleaming stream, 
and whispers to her, "I never played with my son, 
yet bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

"Sweet-voiced Kalliope calls for you, my son, 
so skip free on will of your beating heart, 
and breathe deep mysterious spirit of life, 
then listen to her firm instructing words 
to learn magic art of strumming harp strings 
that vibrate unseen spirit of our vast universe, 
so you chant spells of words to articulate 
shape and process of our complex world 
that rings alive taut inner souls of our minds 
so we all sing in harmony of goal for love 
when bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

Forlorn poet Adonais, standing beside old muse, 
whispers to Moneta, "Teach me his mystery 
so vital spirit of joy for life to satisfy hope 
ever glows bright to animate this feeble flesh 
when I meet merry folk on endless road, 
and share gifts of my wealth with everyone, 
for death will shroud us all in silent cloak 
and transport shells of bones to dreary cave, 
so now, today, share ripe feast and sing free, 
since bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

Kalliope, wearing red gown of flaming words, 
places book of blank pages and swan quill 
in hands of pale poet who gasps wordless awe 
at translucent beauty shining from her eyes 
that spiral with vast galaxies of eternal truth, 
then sweet immortal light of reviving faith 
beams from heart of Proserpine to shroud 
his mortal frame in fearful awesome blast, 
so Adonais faints and stares at her bright star 
while bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

Adonais falls from heaven for three days, 
and lies wounded in garden of white blooms 
where Fama, stitching shirts with silver needle, 
cradles head of fallen Titan on her bosom, 
caressing his hair and gazing down in his eyes 
to read secrets of his soul written in his book, 
then comforts his mind by whispering love spells 
while his eternal spirit dissolves in rays of light 
when bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

Dance in my heaven of stone and grape vine, 
and drink from waters of my bubbling pond, 
then gather in temple where Moneta tends flame 
to celebrate rise of Hyperion over Chaos 
by grasping reins to guide chariot of state 
when noble father who created social game 
grows weak from devouring winds of time, 
great thundering god reduced to a sad mime, 
when bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

Ginsberg And Whitman At Walmart

Ginsberg And Whitman At Walmart
© Surazeus
2011 04 07

What thoughts I have of you tonight, 
Allen Ginsberg, with your bristling beard 
like Saturn with his curling goat horns, 
for I drive down strip mall among stores 
shimmering bright with lights after dusk 
that glitter on metal shells of zooming cars, 
and look up but I cannot see any moon 
for skies are bright with metropolitan lights. 

In my bored misery of existential faith 
pretending national government of power 
will not be shut down by tea-drinking clowns, 
I turn into vast parking lot outside Walmart 
and walk slow under shimmering purple sky, 
hoping to find civility and justice for all 
packaged for sale in plastic under blue signs. 

Striding through great glass sliding doors 
like arch over a cathedral of a lost religion, 
I see hundreds of people walking long aisles 
pushing carts heaped with clothes, boxed food, 
movie disks, romance novels, music disks, 
cheap furniture, plastic bottles, and brooms 
to decorate hidden homes of their sitcom lives. 

I see Homer playing on an electric piano, 
and Ovid reading computer magazines, 
and Dante trying out a new white Eye Pad, 
and Shakespeare playing a war video game, 
and Milton lacing up a pair of hiking boots, 
and Dali looking into heart of a chicken egg, 
and Bob Dylan buying bikes for his kids. 

I see you, Allen Ginsberg, childless prophet 
of madness and grinning, lonely, old grubber 
poking among meats and drawing smiley faces 
in frost on glass of open refrigerator doors 
as you eye grocery boys asking each one, 
are you my angel come with a bright sword 
for I am King of May wearing a plastic crown 
thrusting pen spears at dragons of oil-rigs. 

Allen Ginsberg at Walmart stops at a table 
with romance novels and programming books, 
but covers them with books about Buddhism 
and sexual Tantra and spiritual enlightenment 
and star messengers and pictures of Green Tara 
who floats meditating over lotus of sweet truth, 
and he leans on his cane with a painful smile 
and beckons I approach like Saturn in his cave. 

I open my black book splattered with drops 
of rain smearing words of poems I wrote, 
and he takes fountain pen forged by Vulcan 
dipped in black blood of generals and tyrants, 
and scribbles ten thousand thought spells, 
and draws cartoons of Moses on Mount Sinai 
meditating with Buddha under light of Jehovah 
who glides over Earth in a silver flying saucer. 

Where are you going, mad Allen Ginsberg, 
with beard bristling full of spiders and snakes, 
because doors of Walmart stay open all night, 
so we could find Walt Whitman in vast parking lot 
trying to open door of his rusty pickup truck, 
and we can drive together along Chattahoochee 
and sit on river shore passing around a pipe, 
and sing mantra spells from our holy books. 

Will we laugh, dreaming of lost America of love, 
as we race howling over bridge of tomorrow 
past shining automobiles on superfast highways 
home to apartment complex by a shopping mall 
with giant flat-screen televisions and computers 
that weave ten million minds in supersoul cyberspace, 
liking pictures and thoughts in face-book world, 
and twittering endless stream of conscious hopes. 

Dear father greybeard, mad old courage-teacher, 
what America thriving on ambition and greed 
and ruling Earth with roaring bull of Wall Street, 
did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry 
and you got out on smoking bank of Zarathi, 
and stood watching boat disappear in mist 
on black water of Lethe in forest of missiles 
that spread steel claws over great cities of glass. 

I saw you on stage in Seattle, ageless jester 
shouting into a microphone, whom bomb 
we bomb you, as audience of college students, 
aging hippies in suits, and thought-painters 
listened in polite silence under golden lights, 
then clapped with deference for prophecies, 
glad you did not howl and strip down naked 
as they drove to Star Bucks for a cappuccino. 

I wandered alone Seattle to Denver to Miami, 
sitting under bridges at midnight writing poems 
and listening to terror from quiet car engines 
that hummed on highways toward my paradise, 
and walked wearing backpack full of words 
to play stringless guitar by water fountains 
while tourists threw dollar bills in my fedora. 

I see you no more in Walmart or Manhattan, 
mad Allen Ginsberg, prophet of secret truth, 
so are you walking with Walt Whitman now, 
holding hands with Dionysus in Elysian fields, 
dancing and laughing with Orpheus and Lorca 
where sun always shimmers on distant hills 
and apples fall ripe into your generous hands?