Bowls Of Sweet Tears
© Surazeus
2025 05 03

When he breathes scent of the corporeal ghost
stuck in time capsule of the widowed oak,
he wades into river of bloody oil
to ask the salmon in their dialect
how many bridges arch across its flow
with intimate knowledge of the burger joint.

Young girls from high school by the boiling lake
dance laughing around the wood matriarch,
each wearing cute pinafore dress she sewed
from threads of sorrow that unwind their hearts
when they give their children apples to eat
though they were maimed by empire bombs of greed.

Our mutual disappointments ricochet
across glass sky of white supremacy
in game of domination angels play
through puppets they construct from bones of gods
conducive to the nurturing of souls
with fierce capacity to love the world.

Bright tulips bloom from brains of weeping clowns
who write surreal novels of country life
about construction workers who rebuild
temples in Heaven destroyed by dream bombs
deployed by businessmen in pinstripe suits
to invest in stringent idolatry.

Gazing at Heaven with wide hopeful eyes,
zombies hungry for brains pray to the king
who stomps on flowers and sprays honeybees
while strangers gather in the empty house
to hide their memories of futile lives
in abstract paintings hanging on the walls.

Since I regret the way I hurt your heart
I let you live in my dreams with your horse
so we can sing sorrowful psalms of faith
while everything we hold as good and true
keeps vanishing from pictures on the wall
so we give each other bowls of sweet tears.

Glass mountains, all wrinkled with craggy cliffs,
regard my sorrow with indifferent wind
so I join my friends under glowing clouds
to drink and shout with joyful angst of fear
till we are bones that form the mountain range
as dancing skeletons of humble faith.

Untouched divinities of whispered love
progress with slippery dance of urgent hope
to release the corporeal ghost of time
from fractured mirror of the sunlit mind
so we share ripe apples we steal from God
who joins us for the feast before we die.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus crowns himself Pope of the New World Religion, and conducts sacrifice to crucify the arrogant clown on the telephone pole.

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