Potatoes In Wet Fields
© Surazeus
2025 12 07

I walk in every city of the world,
holding signs with names of their long-dead gods,
so they arrest me with chains of fake laws
and lock my soul in prison of their fears,
but I transform to butterfly of faith
and leave them weeping in their doorless rooms.

Children spring from potatoes in wet fields
and run circles around large army tanks
till falling snow melts metal of mute rage
in face-reflecting pools of history
that trap our memories in photographs
tossed about by wind from bomb-shattered homes.

Wheels made of sticks bound with innocent lies
roll over muddy plains of rotting wheat
till endless stories dripping from our tongues
pave signless roads with asphalt demon blood
that shimmers with mirage of sacred truth
which distracts us from our quest to find god.

These sprawling cities that map maze of streets
insist they are the self-portrait of god
who always stares down from castle of clouds
to see his soul embodied by us humans
who play subconscious energies of lust
he tries to subsume in sacrifice myths.

Risen from dank grave of forgotten fate,
I walk lush undulating hills of time
with serpent-writhing spine of urgent faith
to dance with taut proximity through rain
that shatters treasure chest of my frail heart
in gleaming fragments of my mirror brain.

Yet plasma waves from bright crown of the sun
eject assertive mass of psychic light
to magnetize our bodies with god-souls
so we feel divine spirit in our bones
radiate electric words through gusts of breath
to fill our flashing cells with holy eyes.

She plants tomato seeds of humble faith
in lust-rancid soil of my fertile heart,
then beams with joy when they burst into bloom
that leaves sweet odor in harvesting hands
when we relax beneath the Knowledge Tree
and share sweet kisses with our juice-smeared lips.

Fluorescent angel flashing in green rain
reveals weird beauty of our universe
as we walk holding hands down empty street
but stop surprised by the art gallery
to see the full moon fill our hearts with joy,
then run to make love in our doorless room.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/12/…

Orpheus harvests potatoes from wet fields, filling his pushcart with bushels of earth-apples, then whistles as he walks to the market where housewives buy them with copper coins.

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