Illusions Of Superior Pride

Illusions Of Superior Pride
© Surazeus
2026 10 12

Inspired by calm of stone immortal gods 
that dwell in grand museums of lost faith, 
I walk the melting road of anywhere 
to play my own role in wild game of life 
with sculptured heart of greatness that provides 
urgent compassion for people I meet. 

Inspired by quicker wisdom of the Earth 
that surges through my fragile frame of flesh, 
I ask disputed shades of long-dead gods 
if they can teach me how to understand 
what people need to strengthen weaknesses 
so they rise from their sorrow with new hope. 

Inspired by treatises of hungry hope 
that drive us to evolve as we seek truth, 
I frame tall trees in my sunlit backyard 
with eerie atmosphere of one strange day 
that radiates from my childhood with strange truth 
when goddess of the rock appeared to me. 

Inspired by glimmer of your thoughtless eyes 
that watch me draw hope from harsh misery, 
I range through shadows of blind cherubim 
that hover over us in city maze 
with dreadful beauty of the winter wind 
that strips illusions of superior pride. 

Inspired by her apocalyptic tongue 
that writes new scripture for these shocking times, 
I doubt the cold success that Heaven beams 
through contemplation of our mortal lives 
framed by immortal process of soul growth 
so we restore our sabotaged free will. 

Inspired by leased certificates to lust 
that wound our hearts with libertarian faith, 
I raise my hands to mindless cloud of God 
and prophesy brave deeds through epic tales 
that mirror fractured fantasies we grasp 
as tides of change disrupt our way of life. 

Inspired by swagger of the haughty fool 
who crowns himself new king of nowhere else, 
I ride calm horse across the countryside 
with fierce compassion of neurotic love 
though our world view diminishes from hate 
that seizes hearts of souls abused by greed. 

Inspired by sensual passion of fruit trees 
that roar with horror when human tribes fight, 
I draft new litany of conquered lands 
which I observe from high Parthenon throne, 
to redesign world empire of true faith 
based on equal justice for everyone. 

Wild Laughter Of Untime

Wild Laughter Of Untime
© Surazeus
2026 10 12

Each hour I hear wild laughter of untime 
expressed in how leaves flutter in the wind 
I strive to become glowing light of Christ 
through gnostic insight into human hope 
so I wake from dark shadow of despair 
to bloom with knowledge of eternal truth. 

We gather with wild hearts of open love 
around huge barrel of thick apple juice 
so when we drink wild laughter of untime 
we glow with timeless light of singing suns, 
therefore today we live with selfless joy 
because tomorrow we dissolve to dust. 

Strange birds in morbid trees of urgent hope 
teach me to sing wild laughter of untime 
in spells that tangle memories of joy 
in arcane riddles which conceal weird truth 
that we learn to unravel when we touch 
conceptual essence of existing things. 

Since outside gates of Eden I remain 
with worthless treasures of my wounded heart, 
I mistranslate wild laughter of untime 
from ancient songs of Lesbos Island ghosts 
to plaintive elegies that millions hear 
blind angels sing clear on the radio. 

From mystery of the wood-smoke scented breeze 
that shelters me in solitude of faith 
I must extract wild laughter of untime 
while holding hands with silence of the moon 
that penetrates strange darkness of my fear 
with haunting absence of the soul I love. 

Strange creatures lurking in the shadowed woods 
whisper how they still know my secret name 
through disembodied laughter of untime 
that finds me at wood desk by glowing hearth 
composing fairy tales that symbolize 
tragic consequences of misplaced love. 

I never find God in the chapel hall 
nor in grand cathedral of singing choirs 
because wild laughter of untime radiates 
from pulsing passion of my transient heart 
so I float through the window of your eyes 
on wings of sorrow stolen from dead gods. 

Designed to fly by laughter of untime, 
weird intimations of my childhood self 
express strange revelation of my soul 
as incarnation of wild Mercury 
when I attempt to manage self-control 
that hurls me tumbling from the mindless clouds. 

Drama Of My Clumsy Life

Drama Of My Clumsy Life
© Surazeus
2026 10 11

Evicted from weird drama of my life, 
by eyeless angels dancing on my head, 
I wander land of lakes to learn of dread 
as cloud of breath that drifts against the wind 
on endless journey with my mental twin 
who wonders if I might be wolf or lamb. 

I write my destiny on ocean waves 
with fractured wing bone of the wounded god 
to translate buzz of honeybees to words 
that children shout while they play hide and seek 
in vast museum of the doubtful truth, 
embodied by old wagon of our faith. 

By chanting words that ravens teach my heart, 
I transform seven stones to seven loaves 
that angels sell to widows at the church 
who scream with laughter in the perfumed air 
which poisons minds of lonely wanderers 
who leave their sorrows by rain-worn tombstones. 

Exhausted from spinning threads of dire fate 
from tangled destinies of villagers, 
I step outside in darkness of the night 
to see the red-eyed fox of certitude 
protecting my garden from hungry rats 
that gnaw at electric wires of respect. 

Because she knows the bottom of dark time, 
where roots of fruit trees curl in search for tears, 
brave Sylvia gives me voice of nothingness 
by which I dispel huge shadow of love 
that gallops with impetuous honesty 
since we suffer atrocity of dawns. 

Heart bathed in scathing radiance of the moon, 
I swell as fraught inhabitance of love, 
though terrified by innocence of hope 
that hovers low with vast malignity 
above my garden tangled with dream thoughts 
which petrifies my will through solitude. 

Still bearing Lamp of Reason in my hand, 
I search for cemetery of great gods 
whose spirits rot in brains of living souls 
who howl with desultory prayers of faith 
as stasis in blue darkness of my heart 
till I become swift arrow of desire. 

Reborn as Ariel from hard words of fear, 
soul incubated quick by swirls of blood, 
I rewrite drama of my clumsy life 
with brave conviction of substanceless faith 
because my angel wings were never real, 
illusions beaming from my spiral eyes. 

Crazy Angel Of Despair

Crazy Angel Of Despair
© Surazeus
2026 10 11

The wise leader gives his all for the people, 
focusing attention of his compassion 
to design complex economic programs 
that nurture craft skills of the talented 
so every person performs their small part 
maintaining the food-production machine. 

Pulling cart with crates of apples and books, 
I walk the dusty Massachusetts road 
to find one-door house in shadowy woods 
where the wizard of words and his blind cat 
ponder the meaning of our universe 
that shimmers with the holy light of stars. 

Attempting to adjust steps of my quest, 
I steer myself away from holy light 
to gather firewood in the misty woods 
so the old man in the huge one-door house 
may boil tomato soup with ginger roots 
to warm our bodies on cold winter nights. 

While gliding camouflaged among oak trees 
to snatch one milk cow from enormous herd, 
I stop when billowing shadow of greed 
rises up from Earth with demonic wings, 
so I hide from soul-searing eyes of Geryon 
who roars at Heracles in lion-fur cape. 

After I run back to the one-door house, 
I play wild heart-enchanting melodies 
on glass piano by the gleaming pond 
where Narcissus stares at mask of his face 
till Echo tosses cracked stone of her heart 
so he looks into dark pools of her eyes. 

Shocked at mercurial song of moon-white winds, 
I run outside and gaze at blazing clouds 
to see the crazy angel of despair 
wrestle jet planes that scream across the sky, 
then hurl their bombs of greed to outer space 
where they destroy worlds in ten billion years. 

Through silent grieving for the long-dead soul, 
whose absence haunts me as ghost of their love, 
I wander waste land of America 
beneath proud mirror of the mindless sun 
who shows me end of all organic souls 
that dissipate at death to wordless dust. 

As wordless dust in cold relentless wind 
that blows through endless maze of city streets, 
I translate timeless song of ocean waves 
to jaunty jingles on the radio 
that urge hard-working people to buy goods 
which heals the crazy angel of despair. 

Dress His Daughter Wore

Dress His Daughter Wore
© Surazeus
2026 10 11

Too many children have been killed in wars 
when men wielding angry weapons of death 
assert right to control bodies and minds 
of brave people who refuse to obey 
commands of loyalty to haughty man 
who insists he is God in mortal flesh. 

The eerie way mercurial sunlight gleams 
on silver waves of our Pannonian Sea, 
wakes in my heart obsessive quest to find 
hidden island of my innocent faith 
where children of my heart play in the mist 
as nameless ghosts who vanish when I call. 

Ten billion angels on bright swirling clouds 
open holy book of myths with shining words, 
then raise their faces to the glorious sun, 
and sing ecstatic hymn of mindless faith 
to praise divine nothingness of pure light 
that pulses through each atom of our souls. 

When spectral shadows of our transient souls 
gleam soft as flames of candles in dark gloom, 
we ask each other why our spirits swirl 
on clock-expanding spiral beyond fear 
through psychic force of love-composing songs 
that weave our bodies in matrix of time. 

Elijah crouches low in river boat 
when two black-winged whooping cranes of desire 
swoop slowly past the broken willow trunk 
as orange flames of the evening sunset flash 
with fierce compassion on bleak river waves, 
so he grips book of dreams with steady hand. 

Striding through invisible waves of light 
into bright cavernous cathedral hall, 
past angels singing praise to God on Earth, 
Elijah stands behind man in white robe 
who turns around and welcomes him with hope, 
smiling with joy of selfless love for all. 

Showing torn blood-stained dress his daughter wore 
to Archangel Michael, grandson of Jesus, 
Elijah relates tale for all to hear 
how Michael lead angels with shining swords 
to slaughter people of his mountain clan 
because they deny that Jesus is God. 

Stepping forward with sudden thrust of hate, 
Elijah tries to assassinate Michael 
by stabbing him with his own holy blade, 
but Michael twirls wand with emerald sphere 
to fracture his skull with hard blow of prayer, 
then smirks as angels drag his body out. 

Electric God Rays

Electric God Rays
© Surazeus
2026 10 11

When I was a young boy in Fort Worth, Texas 
we always ate Roman Meal Bread for lunch, 
with slice of Nuteena fried in the pan, 
so I would picture myself as Apollo 
strumming the golden lyre of Mercury 
while soldiers maintained peace of our empire. 

While I was attending the first grade 
at Morningside Elementary School, 
we rode the bus to the bread factory 
on Summit Avenue in Fort Worth, Texas 
that Ninnie Baird founded in her back yard, 
and watched them bake bread on conveyor belts. 

Sitting at the wood table in the kitchen 
every morning before going to school, 
I smoothed peanut butter on slice of bread, 
then gooped strawberry jam with gentle care, 
which I placed in the small brown paper sack 
with the monkey tail of my last name Craig. 

I remember riding our red Volkswagen 
through the debris-littered streets of Forth Worth 
one rain-wet morning of electric sun 
after hippies demonstrated all night 
against the brutal war in Vietnam, 
and staring at a mattress that was burned. 

In early morning hours before dawn 
when my mother drove us to the daycare, 
I heard some guy on the radio sing 
Bye, bye, Miss American Pie, I drove 
my chevy to the levy but the levy 
was dry, them good old American boys. 

That song still echoes in my heart today 
and vibrates in every song I compose 
which rings in waves of subtle prophecy 
to shake foundation of cruel tyranny 
so we can rebuild our democracy 
after long autumn of the patriarch. 

I fail learning to sing with the Quaint Voice 
prized by School of Domestic Quietude 
where poets contemplate their fraught childhoods 
as if we are frazzled psychiatric patients 
with sponge brains zapped by electric god rays 
as incarnation of Phoebus on Earth. 

I can no longer find in grocery stores 
orange bags with Roman Meal Bread for lunch, 
so I strum lyre of Mercury and sing 
about the fall of empires when cruel tyrants 
seize control over the mans of production 
till we follow Liberty up from Hell. 

Mute Cloud Woman

Mute Cloud Woman
© Surazeus
2026 10 10

When cloud woman on silk demonic wings 
explains how child of the mountain transcends 
glass box of sorrows hidden in the stone, 
I gather flowing water of the moon 
that flutters on frail wings to where I wait 
in glowing aura of the willow tree. 

Entranced by sadness of green ocean waves 
that seem to know what I intend to do 
before I wake from fractured stone of fate, 
shy cloud woman steals from electric snake 
last apple of love, then brings it to me 
in glowing aura of the willow tree. 

Trapped by skin of the wolf with angel wings 
that should conceal true nature of my heart, 
I run in spirals of expanding faith 
through maze of meadows to the misty glen 
to help faceless people build garden homes 
in glowing aura of the willow tree. 

Assembling relics of lost memories 
as photographs of people by the house, 
and undelivered letters in the drawer, 
heart-broken cloud woman compiles new book 
about her brother who wanders the world 
in glowing aura of the willow tree. 

While children run along the orchard hedge 
to count ducks floating on the silver pond, 
and women churn butter by the stone wall, 
mute cloud woman sings about the moon owl 
who watches her with eyes of ancient stars 
in glowing aura of the willow tree. 

Born from strange gleam of the viridian sea, 
with eyes of emeralds that perceive the heart 
of every conscious creature in the world, 
cloud woman climbs stairs to the Parthenon 
where Athena sends me to find her scroll 
in glowing aura of the willow tree. 

On ruins of the city bombed to rubble 
we build new temple of the laughing god 
who teaches us to love this transient life 
for every soul has no more than one chance 
to shine with beauty of expressive love 
in glowing aura of the willow tree. 

I deconstruct the person I have been 
when I dismantle memories of pain 
by beaming all my sorrows in the mask 
that hangs in hall of the many-faced god 
who wakes reborn as me with crafting hands 
in glowing aura of the willow tree. 

Castle Of God Skulls

Castle Of God Skulls
© Surazeus
2026 10 10

Yet steely spring-dawn sun of innocence 
that sparks my soul awake with ardent joy 
fuels my aggressive strife to conquer hate 
by harnessing with passion of the lake 
pain-devil dancing in cave of my heart 
with shocking laughter of the rolling stone. 

When dawn strikes my heart with ardent joy 
I rise from coffin of my dream-stained bed 
and saunter lustily along the stream 
that laughs at giant stones of arrogance 
which teaches me to navigate my rage 
and build enormous castle of god skulls. 

So faceless demons chase me in the mist 
with mocking laughter of the blind sky god 
till I rip wand of rage from muck of Earth 
and fight dark shadows of terrible truth 
whose sharp teeth gouge weird faith into my heart 
because I gnaw at seeds of bitter love. 

Intense assertion of my right to live 
details contract I sign with Death at dawn 
to question why organic creatures die 
in frantic battle to survive stark pain 
though I glimpse beauty of the timeless glow 
which radiates from my holy heart as love. 

To solve the complex mysteries of love 
I strip my mind bare of intense desire 
to generate new life before I die, 
then float in psychic water of the world 
where faces of the dead gleam in dark waves 
before I wrench my body free from greed. 

I wonder where across landscape of fear 
I could progress against hard social tides 
that sweep our bodies into grand events 
when brutal gods of power fight for right 
to rule how we perceive with frazzled minds 
amazing story of courageous deeds. 

Reborn as wing-foot messenger of hope, 
I fly above vast maze of city streets 
where millions of bright angels sing wild hymn 
to glorify one man above them all 
who guides their journey to the Promised Land 
but vanish as illusion of despair. 

Unlicensed feelings of my mirror mind 
reflect strange legends of the evening news 
that detail endless tales of absurd death 
which humans suffer in their quest for love 
because everyone who lives will soon die, 
and everyone who meets will part at last. 

Tears Of Fallen Angels

Tears Of Fallen Angels
© Surazeus
2026 10 10

I drink luminous juice of cosmic fruit 
that boosts my mortal soul up to godhood 
which vibrates from frail network of my brain 
till my bones dissipate in swirling waves, 
then I rise dripping from pool of despair, 
soul baptized clean by tears of fallen angels. 

Drenched in electric shadow of desire 
that crackles through frame of my fragile soul, 
I stand amazed before wraith of star words 
who teaches me to sing hymns of respect 
for all the people falling from the sky 
who writhe in sorrow on the broken Earth. 

Enraptured from this mortal frame of flesh 
by sweet angelic voices of the choir, 
which weaves wings on my wounded heart of faith, 
I float up in cathedral of blue ice 
that gleams with starlight of divine insight 
till mute atomic god wakes in my brain. 

So I become bright angel of star eyes 
born from smooth river stone of endless time 
till I wake in my body down on Earth 
where I trudge aching in cold field of mud 
to harvest cabbages in drizzling rain 
for baskets on the splintered cart of hope. 

When God in crystal palace of the clouds 
speaks on the radio with human voice, 
assuring us we will endure this war 
while angels fly on silver wings of faith 
and drop bombs on our humble river homes, 
we clasp our hands and weep in bitter prayer. 

Great city built of stone with bleeding hands 
glistens in ruins from bright exploding bombs, 
so we search rubble of our lost world view 
to find the jeweled crown of divine right 
crumpled under heaps of rage-blasted stone, 
yet I pray to the stern face in gold clouds. 

Dismantled wisdom of aggressive greed 
exposes treasure of our offerings, 
that we paid for the afterlife in Heaven, 
was stored in coffers by grim men in robes 
who buy airplanes and islands in the sea 
where they feast on our noble sacrifice. 

What fragments of lost faith I hope to find 
lie scattered on the broken street of faith, 
so I gather photographs of the dead 
and paste them in world book of memories 
where children read their names with solemn voice 
that frees their ghosts from dreadful tragedy. 

Egg Of The Serpent God

Egg Of The Serpent God
© Surazeus
2026 10 10

Spirit born from egg of the serpent god 
with ten thousand eyes of galactic minds, 
I walk city streets of America 
with ambitious hope of the fallen angel 
to comprehend gears of the human brain 
through dizzy laughter of the black moon ghost. 

Strange ennui of existential sorrow 
grips my heart with anguish of desire 
when I walk past glass doors of shopping stores 
filled with cute trinkets of human concern 
about disease, famine, and holy war 
that obliterate countless souls each year. 

Expanding scope of conscious insight swells 
my self-awareness huge as dinosaurs 
that wandered Earth as gods with tiny brains 
one hundred eighty million years of faith, 
evolving into gray ghosts in spaceships 
who haunt dire memories of our midnight skies. 

When our dark shadows detach from our bodies 
and form glowing spheres of glass that float lightly 
over sea of ink which gods use to write 
emotional contracts between blind lovers, 
I explain why clocks are ticking backwards 
to the old witch wearing red face of Geryon. 

Till the baseball player demands with voice 
of bus engines rumbling on the highway 
that I explain arcane code of weird proverbs 
that bleed from my eyes when I play guitar, 
I wait for Artemis in the train station 
to prove I am brave assassin of faith. 

I keep attempting to assemble right 
immense puzzle of human history, 
but all the pieces depicting great heroes 
and evil tyrants fighting over truth 
scatter from gusts of indifferent wind 
when Boreas chases Phoebe all night. 

After carefully planning twenty years 
plot to assassinate the greedy king, 
Selene finds the most beautiful boy 
standing in her way in the hotel door, 
so she calls Hyperion on the cell phone 
which causes glass cathedral to explode. 

While Apollo in the Museum of Masks 
designs the chemistry textbook with herbs 
and seashells instead of math formulas, 
I gather skulls of children killed by bombs 
and place them on shelves in the grocery store, 
packaged for sale as cookies the rich buy. 

Disaster Of These Times

Disaster Of These Times
© Surazeus
2026 10 09

With serpentine runes of atomic truth, 
I chronicle disaster of these times, 
depicting how King Midas steals and lies 
to wreck democracy with claws of greed, 
so we desert grand city of gold towers 
and cross the waste land without wings of faith. 

With nothing but guitar and book of dreams, 
I chronicle disaster of these times 
in solemn hymns of passionate despair 
that satirize grand heroes of our age 
who prop dictator with his tin-pot hat 
so he can strut and call himself great king. 

With crackling radio in basement den, 
I chronicle disaster of these times 
through frantic cartoons of brave disrespect 
for lords and ladies in the castle court 
who plot to enslave millions of lost souls 
to work for nothing in their factories. 

With magic wand carved from telephone pole, 
I chronicle disaster of these times, 
presenting ancient gods of bogus myths 
as spirits that possess ambitious men 
with poisoned energy of selfish greed 
that cracks foundation of our world empire. 

With oar of wisdom in the boat of dream, 
I chronicle disaster of these times 
through blateration of ephemeral truth 
which I deal with jokes to perendinate 
commission of Death to eradicate 
precious treasure of apricity. 

With laurels Fame shackles around my head, 
I chronicle disaster of these times 
through interlocking formulas of faith 
contrived by preachers to scam humble fools 
who purchase timeshares to the Afterlife 
that they can never use in this sad life. 

With psychic camera of the holy lamb, 
I chronicle disaster of these times 
when I transfer my brain to robot skull 
replacing old withered body of flesh 
with android chassis of smooth polished steel 
so I can rule the world as Machine God. 

With writhing dragon of my honest heart, 
I chronicle disaster of these times 
by dancing wildly in the acid rain 
that swells my sponge brain huge as the White Whale 
so I swim deep in abyss of lost time, 
then lounge relaxed on beach of broken ships. 

Wander With Clumsy Grace

Wander With Clumsy Grace
© Surazeus
2026 10 09

Old woman who lives on the moor alone 
beams her strange face into the mirror mask, 
then turns to look at me with star-black eyes 
so I remember when my soul is born 
from ocean waves at dawn of my Gene Dream 
four hundred million years ago this hour. 

Paralyzed with laughter of crackling ice, 
my bruised heart limps across the frozen field, 
so I become the woman in the house 
watching herself wander with clumsy grace 
beyond fuzzy scope of adoring eyes 
to place wood plate of apples on the stone. 

My heart is not white as the unlit sky 
because the rain-smooth stones refuse to buzz 
when airplanes float above the mindless clouds 
which traps me in cold atmosphere of glass 
till I stand up another thousand times 
and walk through the door of infinite hope. 

Leaves swirl around my feet with playful joy 
so I press my hand on the frozen dirt 
to wonder if the Earth feels my soul warmth 
and wants to speak of ancient moonless truth 
till I become one wheel of the apple cart 
that searches for the words negating grief. 

When she asks me if winter has arrived, 
we wander leafless woods of sleepy faith 
in robes of tender green that keep our minds 
enclosed in social structure of our names, 
since garlands we had woven back in May 
now wither with transparency of hope. 

Our eyes become entangled in desire 
as flashing magnets of conceptual love 
when we embrace with passionate despair 
to generate new life before we die 
or savor pleasure of this transient life 
because our bodies glow with divine light. 

Discarding fractured puzzles of the past, 
framed by romantic gestures of respect, 
we search for what world view of holy love 
could replace deconstructed fantasies 
which once sustained our nation through world wars 
because we built empire on privilege. 

If we escape dim shadows of our fear 
to give our bodies with calm selfless love, 
we might rise up reborn from graves of books 
to see strange beauty in this broken world 
where wounded hearts beam light of fierce desire 
to taste electric wisdom of the rain. 

Unclock Of Atomic Fate

Unclock Of Atomic Fate
© Surazeus
2026 10 09

While Rapunzel in glass tower of mirrors 
calls to the angel falling from the sky, 
Gawain leaps on meaningless legs of love 
to catch the neutered wolf of Arkansas 
because this life is still unbearable 
for children on the Dnipro River shore. 

Still clutching unclock of atomic fate, 
Rapunzel evades Death for many years 
while dancing awkward ballet gracefully 
in supple swirls of humble hurricane 
which hopes to tend flowers of holy faith 
that bloom from corpses of forgotten gods. 

Alert to strict analysis of waves, 
Rapunzel wonders why oceans of faith 
leave her soul stranded in the greenless room 
with phone of supernatural intelligence 
while she waits for messiah of world peace 
who never returns from the lonely moon. 

Whenever Rapunzel tells her nine sons 
to scorn the casual randomness of death, 
they play game of baseball with the Muses 
in the long-neglected graveyard of kings 
who rise as zombies on election night 
since Lucifer campaigns for President. 

When Apollo, eating burgers and fries 
at the Gearshift Grille on Route Sixty-Six, 
calls Rapunzel with the news that she won 
the Nobody Prize of World Literature, 
she tells him she is singing with the wind 
while wandering hills of Iceland before dawn. 

Clutching marble face of Endymion, 
Rapunzel kisses him with ardent lust, 
and whispers she will steal him from that witch, 
Selene, runway model at the Louvre, 
then removes glass mask of her personhood 
so tender shoots sprout with greenness of love. 

While we are young and brimming with desire, 
we make love with the stranger in the woods 
and generate wild children of the heath 
who build great empires with machines of grief, 
but, Rapunzel grins at Endymion, 
we still die and dissolve to swirls of dust. 

As the world law-enforcement officer, 
Rapunzel prosecutes in Justice Court 
brute thief who dismantles democracy 
when he demands the Laurels of World Peace, 
arrested by Gawain on Christmas Eve, 
then she lies down by the ocean to die. 

Godness Of The Empty Space

Godness Of The Empty Space
© Surazeus
2026 10 08

My heart is withness of the empty space 
that binds our distances in spiral thought 
based on miniscule ecstasy of love 
flashing inside our closed eyes with strange luck 
at randomness of fame that curses fools 
who chase elusive butterfly of faith. 

Transformed by notness of the empty space 
expanding endless books of fairy tales, 
redesigned as sacred stories of faith 
that guide how we adjust our focused fear 
contrary to completeness of dire need, 
I hear Death object to thrust of desire. 

My brain is forthness of the empty space, 
woven by assertive fractions of light 
that pulse with psychic energy of waves 
which toss my fragile body on the beach 
so I attempt to stand straight at the sky 
of dizzy upside backward till I laugh. 

Through intense thingness of the empty space 
I try to explain twisted differences 
between bittersweet moments of regret 
for choosing where to go at flash of dawn 
that leaves me stranded in the somewhere else 
if time tricks me to tell you how I feel. 

Remembered dreamness of the empty space 
renders my face invisible to Death 
who wanders everywhere in swirls of snow 
to edge of eternity where ghosts build 
house of memories that steals my true name 
because I believe in the endless rain. 

Cherished by startness of the empty space 
for vast imperfectness of ardent play, 
I wear faces sharp as knives children sell 
for boxes of fractured gods who require 
pain of sorrowful truth to resurrect 
fictional characters from holy books. 

Entrapped by calmness of the empty space, 
I stumble perilously happy through Hell 
to follow laughing horse with clockwork eyes 
who gives me crystal orange of irony 
so I may understand how she loves me 
more as we grow old by the willow tree. 

Pregnant with Godness of the empty space, 
I hang nine days and nights from the phone pole 
because my brain is linked by psychic wires 
to weird internet of the world wide web 
so I channel prophecies of Star Wraith 
which disassembles puzzle of the brain. 

Formulas Of Wrong Think

Formulas Of Wrong Think
© Surazeus
2026 10 08

Obsessed with trite formulas of Wrong Think, 
I uncreate myself with every song 
I shout into the void of everywhere, 
when I dismantle and interrogate 
illusions of myself as normal being 
I forge as shield against absurdity. 

Helenus tells every person he meets 
along the winding road of anywhere 
that he was born in grand towers of Troy 
before they fell from market games of greed, 
but he was born in some small lonely town 
in mercurial backwoods of Oregon. 

Learning to play guitar when he is twelve, 
Helenus busks in the Pretty How Town 
where up so floating bells corrupt the clown 
who writes in anguish of electric wires, 
composing hymns sung by cathedral choirs 
when his body twirls up to the glass moon. 

Shocked by disturbance in the psychic force, 
as if millions of voices cried at once 
than huffed into silence of the Soul Source 
that blows soft as the wind in willow leaves 
where the first mother of mankind still grieves, 
Helenus plays chess with Death on the beach. 

Concerned about formulas of Wrong Think 
that angels use to calculate our fate, 
I recreate my body from weird genes 
entangled by ancestral memories 
that program how my brain perceives the world 
and tricks me into playing the cosmic herald. 

Helenus keeps his fraught relationship 
with his mother secret from the tabloids 
who invent new strange American myths 
based on the fabulous life of the fool 
who proclaims himself Emperor of Earth, 
not knowing he is our psychotic tool. 

Accepting award for weird spells of faith 
he conjures from grave of the holy seer, 
Helenus reigns as wise Asterion 
in Anglonesium, New Parthenon 
as capitol for Empire of Anglonesia 
composed of Zarathia, Gothinia, and Russia. 

Inspired by weird formulas of Wrong Think, 
I sing with secret voice of everyone 
to play eccentric role of Lucifer 
by bearing sacred Lamp of Liberty 
while writing name of every human soul 
in epic poem as Tellurian Testament. 

Human Face Of Geryon

Human Face Of Geryon
© Surazeus
2026 10 08

We cannot fear ambition of the heart 
to transcend sorrow of soul-twisting pain 
till we design new myth-contriving chart 
that guides our leap through time portal of rain, 
so we walk fields of lush Elysium 
with noble vision of delirium. 

Though not as brave is honest Heracles, 
new-born as his contemporary clone, 
I face the screaming ghost with psychic keys 
who wears the human face of Geryon 
because I want to know the arcane truth 
that motivates reign of messiah sleuth. 

I climb three steps to Heaven before dawn 
to measure our indifferent universe 
where I meet Pegasus on White House lawn 
eating apples from Medusa the Nurse 
who asks me if I know the Golden Way 
that binds our lonely hearts in fertile play. 

While crossing bleak waste land of Libya, 
I throw sharp raven quill at Helios 
who gives me Holy Grail of Sylvia, 
then asks me of I know Prometheus, 
but I just want to find the Promised Land 
where Fortune doles fate with her Red Right Hand. 

When Norax, son of Hermes, calls my name 
with lunar melody through secret code, 
I climb Parnassus to hex curse of fame, 
but find Lyre of Hermes on signless road, 
so I sing romantic tunes of blind faith 
to woo humble daughter of the Star Wraith. 

After I kill cruel giant Geryon 
in battle against tyranny of greed, 
I build with laughter of Hyperion 
light house tower on cracked skull of his need 
from which I rule world empire of free will 
named Anglonesia for the Wisdom Hill. 

While sailing down the River Phlegethon 
to find apple garden in Tartarus, 
I find shy Erytheia on the phone 
arguing with the architect Sisyphus 
about reconstructing the Parthenon 
where I will rule Earth as Asterion. 

When I wake at dawn from weird fantasy 
that I wear human face of Geryon 
with solemn quest to map the galaxy, 
I play my role based on criterion 
that I am temporary soul of light 
conscious of its God Self in cosmic night. 

New Truth In Byzantium

New Truth In Byzantium
© Surazeus
2026 10 07

Since I find new truth in Byzantium 
in scrappy gardens of the laughing skull, 
I flirt with Death who smiles at me with eyes 
that mirror galaxies of flashing stars 
to cherish virtue of pretentious faith 
that helps me translate water song of love. 

If I should recognize my holy ghost 
who drifts among old apple trees of fate, 
I may learn secret of Byzantium 
concealed in cedar box with golden lock 
that gleams ephemeral as fragrant joy 
my love exudes while lounging by the pool. 

To measure gravity of drifting clouds 
that veil swift airplane with projective voice, 
I stand on glistening bridge of evermore 
that spans abyss of swirling arrogance 
as proof I must purchase right to exist 
from every stranger I may never meet. 

Thus I cast victimhood into the trash 
because I want to eat the shepherd pie 
while showing constellations to the child 
who wonders at the story of the snake 
who transforms into queen of bubbling wells 
because I sing on moonless summer nights. 

Entranced by how cicadas sing of light 
beneath the sprawling stars of honesty, 
I read strange omen in the eagle flight 
about the guardian of the apple tree 
who builds another bank beside the lake 
and offers loans to farmers in the dell. 

Though I have traveled far around the world 
with wings of angels tucked into my pack, 
I purchase jar of honey, and blue cheese, 
at small family store by the river bridge, 
then give my voice to stranger at the door 
who gives me book of grief to keep the score. 

Reprising sacred role of global seer, 
which I perform on stage of tragedy, 
I type strange story of the hungry girl 
who walks across the field of screaming trees 
so I can understand her bitter words 
when she gives me egg of the serpent god. 

Carving spell of wisdom with demon bone 
in runes on Emerald Tablet of Untime, 
I channel energy of my brain soul 
to wake Star Ghost of Lake Ontario 
who asks me with flirtatious grin of hope 
about truth I found in Byzantium. 

Church Of Bitter Prayer

Church Of Bitter Prayer
© Surazeus
2026 10 07

Trapped by sharp lethargy of innocence, 
we drift the midnight sidewalk of desire 
to find the purple haze of shocking truth 
that veils our long-healed hearts with nonchalance 
through incoherent laughter of sad faith 
that we lose our souls in the photo booth. 

Strange flower on the roadless mountain slope 
gleams in electric smile of bitter ghosts 
whose voices taste like silver light of dawn 
despite confusing absence of jasmine 
crushed by careless joy of city car tires 
that glisten in the rain of reptile faith. 

No one will ever see ghost of my being 
sitting on roof of the haunted hotel, 
because I twang decisive nerves of steel 
when death employs belligerent respect 
while driving old truck on the dusty road 
far past the last gas station of fooled hearts. 

Too lonesome for the chance to cry for real 
in performative display of victimhood, 
I sing with angels on the radio 
about the true love I left back in town 
who may wonder if I am still alive 
somewhere outside the church of bitter prayer. 

I refuse to pay the cost of wild joy 
while driving nowhere on the lost highway, 
since time cannot undo my noble deeds 
protecting women from aggressive men 
who leave me bruised and beaten on the ground 
long enough for her to fly up to Heaven. 

Though I love the land where I was born, 
and grew up running in lush river vales, 
I journey to escape liars and thieves 
who figured out how to steal all my land, 
and build another home far from my home 
that shelters children I tend with calm care. 

I hold this world together with strange words 
though the mountains of my youth call my name, 
because I scatter prayers on rancid soil 
that redesign wild spirit of my flesh 
so I become another human being 
by wearing mask of a long-forgotten god. 

Because I catch flame in the ether zone 
while soaring on fear-fueled Icarian wings, 
my words become the hex of secret truth 
that breaks hard walls in church of bitter prayer 
so we treasure our darling thoughts of hope 
and frame them with theology of growth. 

Live Equally With Faith

Live Equally With Faith
© Surazeus
2026 10 07

Sunk in dire gloom of her brave misery, 
Blathnaid lifts heavy sorrow of her head 
to stare bleak-eyed at meadow of bright flowers 
where bodies of young men clutching cracked spears 
still groan in agony of painful death 
till eerie silence shudders in soft breeze. 

When she finds the lyre that Achilles stole 
from Eetion, father of Andromache, 
Blathnaid nestles small curved-wood instrument 
on her lap, like mothers cradles newborns 
to suckle them with milk, and strums taut strings 
that vibrate with elegy of despair. 

Failing to find words that clearly express 
anguish of her heart at death of young men 
who could have lived unremarkable lives 
with loving wives while raising happy children, 
Blathnaid shrieks at corrupt justice of Heaven 
till her body shakes uncontrollably. 

Why would you die for some young mortal man, 
Blathnaid howls at corpses with trembling voice, 
to crown him leader of our hill-wild tribes 
because his grandfather once wore gold crown 
while claiming authority from High Heaven, 
instead of dwelling in your own safe homes? 

Though your cowardly king has quickly fled 
over the sea to Skye in boat of fear, 
Blathnaid caresses blank face as she sobs, 
I have remained with fate-abandoned corpses 
to lament bitter loss of your brave souls 
that could have brightened our land with joy. 

Why have the tribes of men throughout all time, 
in every land around our roomy world, 
Blathnaid sighs as she buries more dead soldiers, 
always chosen to crown the strongest man 
as leader who enforces tribal laws 
and orchestrates their wars to conquer land? 

Why can men not live equally with faith 
as colleagues sharing rich communal space, 
Blathnaid glares at the fallen crown of gems, 
instead of building hierarchical states 
that allow managers to exploit workers 
then living on wealth they extract from slaves? 

Heart purged of anguish at loss of brave men 
from hot tears that cleanse their faces of blood, 
Blathnaid strums long-lost lyre of Mercury 
as she journeys in the Scottish highlands, 
and sings of boys who fought with bravery 
in every feasting hall where people weep. 

Mute Book Of Lies

Mute Book Of Lies
© Surazeus
2026 10 06

If my soul gets trapped by mute book of lies, 
because my heart is lured by promises 
of awards and acclaim for dreams I weave 
from tangled memories of nameless souls, 
I shall untwist false concept of dream time 
to map my progress through the Otherworld. 

Each angel who escapes mute book of lies 
transforms into some normal human being 
who goes about the routine of their life, 
performing rote roles expected of them 
by social rules that obligate success, 
though most of us manage with hidden flaws. 

Gods of myths labeled in mute book of lies 
are based on mortal humans who once lived 
long ago in swirling mists of untime 
whose valorous deeds glamorize their souls 
so they become concepts of noble deeds 
that provide templates for how we behave. 

Writhing with passion from mute book of lies, 
Helios races the chariot of fire 
across the crystal highway of the sky 
to conquer the world with glorious deeds, 
defeating tyrants so people live free 
to build new world empire of equal rights. 

Stumbling through doors to leave mute book of lies, 
I stand on the road of Forever Now 
and ask myself where I should go from here 
to maintain balance of my eager heart 
so we can stay together till we die 
because we are flowers in field of fate. 

Sailing on the flood from mute book of lies 
in fragile boat of my body-bound soul, 
I feel my brain pulse with aggressive lust, 
programmed by millions of ancestral lives 
regenerating souls life after life, 
so I sway entranced in the midnight mist. 

Falling forever in mute book of lies 
that gives me angel wings like Icarus, 
I ride the bus each dawn to work all day 
assembling radios in the factory, 
while I dream of being a famous singer, 
then ride home to eat pizza at midnight. 

Reborn as Star God from mute book of lies, 
I type magic spells on computer screen 
so they flutter fragile butterfly wings 
and fly to flower-hearts of random strangers 
to sprinkle fairy dust into their eyes 
so they wander with me in Wonderland.