Hollow Statues Of Gods
© Surazeus
2026 06 20

I wonder as I wander city streets,
where bright stars are not visible at night,
what mortal spirit of human ambition
could still possess hollow statues of gods
with intense passion to participate
in fierce games that win temporary fame.

Each book I find on stale library shelf,
that writhes with ghosts of faceless characters
who wander vain adventures of despair,
maps signless road on landscape of false faith
where social heroes meet their tragic fates
with howling anguish of the victimized.

Yet books I grab transform to wingless owls
that shriek loud ideological creeds
reverberating through speakers on poles
in harsh command for prisoners to march
down starless tunnels of Platonic mines
where they extract concepts with bleeding hands.

If I request you call me Ishmael,
because I cannot celebrate myself,
then you should know I will not stop for Death
though she chase me across the signless waste
where I find Lolita, light of my life,
living in the trailer park with our son.

Because I may never meet the best minds
of my generation, destroyed by faith
in the afterlife that will never happen,
I should argue these are the best of times
which always comes after the worst of times,
so I can dance graveward without my furies.

If I decide to not be lonelier
without the loneliness of company,
I may spend half my days in wordless light
through passion imperceptible as grief
to reprogram my wakened memory
without remorse for actions I perform.

I cannot find my real self in this mess
of puzzle pieces from unwritten poems
scattered in fragments of psychotic vibes
from holy scriptures of the idolized,
till I melt their codes in brave fires of truth
and translate them to hymns blind angels sing.

With ghosts of all my younger selves I stand
on shore of the wide world and ponder why
our love and fame still sink to nothingness,
so I dwell in ruined temple of truth
as guard over hollow statues of gods
who stare at me with hungry eyes of death.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2026/06/…

Orpheus finds Ishmael alone on small boat that drifts onto rugged shores of misty Oregon, so he records the strange story which that Wanderer relates before he dies.

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