Grim Peat-Bog Devil
© Surazeus
2026 03 01

When grim peat-bog devil with fox-red hair
crawls from black clay-ensouled mud of the marsh,
Seamus welcomes her with bottle of rum,
drapes silk cloak over her shoulders with care,
and leads her to lit auditorium
where he plays jester to her regal queenship.

Since I am neither god nor ghost at birth,
I wander virtual city of your tales
with jeweled eyes of understanding rage
that see through masks the most powerful wear
as they condemn outsiders from their club
to slave in factories of clanking steel.

Purring ghosts of love rise with burning blood
from machinery of language that twists tongues
with rogue substitutions of natural law
when strong men fearful of obsessive death
hunt to kill wanderers in misty woods
who stumble and scream in anguish of hope.

Heart hardened against cruelty of life,
I snarl insults at monsters of despair,
detained by performative callousness
when I suppress compassion for frail life
that struggles weakly against stronger force
to evade degradation of the soul.

Unversed in country matters of field life,
I mold sunset glow into bricks of faith
to build safe haven in dark tangled woods
with chimney that channels smoke of our prayers
to heaven where Faceless God of old tales
ignores desperate hope for the Afterlife.

Through fractured window of my wordless heart
crows swoop on devil wings of honesty
to bring purple-brain mushrooms from boglands
which I eat soaked in honey of respect
till I become coiled rainbow of brave angst
howling with wild wolves in the twilight zone.

Since we dwell in troubled ambivalence,
uncommitted to mindless creeds of church,
we explore uncanny landscape of ghouls
wearing human faces that grin with lies,
malnourished from harshness of eager hope
which calculates effective cause to perform.

If I am born from mind-controlling force
and squirm squalling into hands of regret,
first mother of gloom cries to feed me milk
as prideful authority hurls my soul
back into vast illegitimate sea
where I morph into Mermaid Bride of Christ.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2026/03/…

Orpheus and Seamus drink beer in the pub, then sing old folk songs about the ancient bog people who ran wild as wolves in misty woods.

#Poetry #Poem #Pastoral #Necropastoral #MetaModernism #Transrealism #NewSublimity #NewRomanticism #AmericanDream #Cinemism #Existentialism #Surrealism #NegativeCapability #NewGnosticism #MetaRealism #NewTranscendentalism #Astarism