Temporary Gods Of Flesh
© Surazeus
2026 09 03

Three ways blind angels know our death is soon
tricks me to wander thoughtlessly alone,
but since I see your face in the bright moon
I leave last pear of my heart on your stone
that never rolls up or down at my word,
therefore I conclude that life is absurd.

The ancient bearded bard with broken harp
still lingers manic in the happy field
while cradling with care gold comatose carp
that leads me to buried Achillean shield
depicting how citizens of the world
pray for third coming of the cosmic herald.

Medusa calls me on the telephone
so I attend her late-night singing show
where she plays mirror of the psychic clone
whose proverbs teach the spirit how to grow
till cute Cheonyeo Gwishin with purple eyes
recruits me to join her squadron of spies.

She wants to ask me why she is not here,
but words that drip from moist clam of her mouth
transform to lizards lured by bitter fear
that mutate problem of evil to faith
since we are temporary gods of flesh
with brains that store their memories in dream cache.

Medusa asks me if I want to kiss
so we embrace with passion of the snake
that tricks Eve into wanting homelife bliss,
though social role she plays is never fake,
despite how industry consumes tall trees
as paper money we use to pay fees.

Since we compete in endless psychic game
by chanting spells in church of prophet bards,
we find our souls trapped by oppressive fame
as social heroes who must hire tough guards
since farmers are foundation of the state
whose struggles define our national fate.

As fugitives from language of the heart,
we tangle bodies in ballet of hope
through algorithm hidden on the chart
favored by survivors who learn to cope
with exploitation our spirits endure,
till Jesus arrives on snake-horned markhor.

One hundred thousand poets recite spells,
while gathered round fountain of the town square,
which conjure demons from aesthetic wells
to win song contest at Scarborough Fair
over whose poetic vision best depicts
real world we perceive on the River Styx.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2026/09/…

Orpheus searches for Ophelia at Scarborough Fair but no one has seen her since she went on pilgrimage to Canterbury last year so he finds her white horse alone by the river of ghosts.

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