Often Mistaken For God
© Surazeus
2025 05 20

That dying star that no angel can see,
which travels both directions beyond light,
sprinkles snow flakes of religious desire
on faces of the faithful by the lake
where their prophet who tried to walk on water
has not yet emerged from abyss of time.

As I stand on broken edge of the world
ready to dive into abyss of time,
I wonder if I should be sore afraid
of swimming in the ocean of my mind
to find the luminous soul of my heart
that I have often mistaken for God.

Should I surrender wisdom of my faith
to swim in infinite flow of desire,
then I would feel light of that dying star
glow in each neuron of my dreaming brain
so I speak with voice of the oracle
from the model of Delphi in my yard.

The Goddess with one hundred billion eyes,
who created this world of swirling souls,
teaches me how to speak of what I see
so she can know if anything is real,
yet I keep singing visions of my mind
long after she melts as snow into flowers.

Each sentiment of beauty I perceive
can never quench thirst of desire to know
divine concept of the right character
who gives me oranges from the tree of faith
that flash diamond flames in eggs of my eyes
so I record secret names of the dead.

We cannot rightly bifurcate the truth
by twisting wings of sorrow from god skulls,
yet we can dance with the divinely dead
whose faces smile from photos on the wall
when I decide each day which mask to wear
in sacred role of prophet no one hears.

Rewinding details of ideal concepts
from fracture of space collapsed into words,
I hold up the sky with keyboard of dreams
to program how the Earth perceives itself
through myths of fate in television shows
that lonely people sing about in church.

The dying star that flashes back and forth
replaces concept of my world with code
translating visions into fairy tales
that parents read their children as they die
whose luminous souls float in the night sky
that I have often mistaken for God.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus dances with Alice Notley on the bridge that spans the Seine River while Baudelaire plays the violin of satire.

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

Faceless God Of Truth
© Surazeus
2025 05 19

I need some sit-and-stare-at-the-wall time,
so I sit on the couch of meditation
and stare at the wall above the fireplace,
but not even one minute ticks away
before I see grand vision of the world
which I assemble from puzzle of dreams.

Before my grand vision evaporates
I dip tip of the brush in bowl of paint
and draw baseline of truth across the sky
to frame vast emptiness of everything
within enclosing bounds of time and space
to formulate state of things that exist.

Emerging from nothing of the white wall,
grand vision of the world blooms into shape
as field of shadows that reflect ideas
designed as patterns which objectify
swirls of material atoms into forms
which my brain may categorize with words.

Abrupt expression of ethereal breath
in gust of wind that blows from mountain peak
reframes constituent elements of faith
by scattering puzzle pieces of my mind
that flutter into butterflies of faith
which name each human soul born from the sea.

The old storyteller with oaken cane
shambles across desolate field of weeds,
searching for the cafe among clean shops
where he used to drink coffee and write poems
that vanished when planes with angelic wings
bombed his world into rubble of despair.

Sitting on tattered couch of sad nostalgia,
the old storyteller stares at the sky
where ghosts of ancient heroes float as clouds
till he crumbles into the soil of silence
while millions of people across the land
watch history tales on television screens.

I stare so long at the masks of dead heroes
that hang on the wall of my empty house
that I become the faceless god of truth
awake in every human brain on Earth
who clash in world wars over who plays god
till we become fairy tales in lost books.

Sitting in the Wingless Angel Cafe,
between the bank and the church on Main Street,
I draw the face of every human being
who ever existed in dream of Earth,
then throw Book of Souls in River of Time
so I can stare at the blank wall of truth.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus wanders across the desolate field by the Berlin Wall as she searches for the Potsdamer Platz where he used to drink coffee and write poetry.

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

Desire To Generate Souls
© Surazeus
2025 05 19

Because the whole sky fits inside my skull,
I wake in darkness of the everywhere
to find I am small as the apple seed
which blooms vast as our swirling galaxy
that flashes melodies of rain-sparked words
through undulating matrix of my brain.

The airplane gliding across empty sky
takes me to the past where I should not be
because I get there faster in winged flight
than if I walk on foot across the land,
so I fold my soul in page of the book
that records each forgotten genocide.

Love motivates each action of my hands
to build beauty from random elements
that guard your embodied spirit from harm
so you can savor pleasure of this life
in moments of togetherness we share
that fuels our desire to generate souls.

When I look for God in dream of the world
to understand nature of energy,
I feel conscious sense of my Self expand
beyond enclosing bounds of my soul frame
so I become God I am looking for
that vibrates love in every human soul.

I am illusion of my pulsing brain
that feels itself awake inside my skull
as atoms flashing bright in chemicals
which conjure virtual model of the world
through vision of my whole ontology
that defines structure of our universe.

Before beginning of my sense of self
that speaks dream spells in breath of honest hope
I touch weird image of my secret face
reflected in bright mirror of the pool,
and wonder from what stone of time I spring
through fierce compassion of the angel wing.

Through every conscious choice of faith I make
based on clear vision my brain formulates,
I calculate strict progress of my fate
to build my destiny with stone and wood
by planting fruit trees inside garden walls
where my descendants may thrive and transcend.

Death is no threshold our bodies pass through
for we are composed from atoms of light
so we must generate children of hope
through seed that fertilizes egg of love
to reincarnate soul-genes again in flesh
four hundred million years of soul rebirth.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus explains to his son Linus how our souls reincarnate in children when men and women feel desire to generate souls.

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

Art Of Radical Insight
© Surazeus
2025 05 19

To psychoanalyze my state of mind
within framework of the Hamlet discourse,
I enter laboratory of the state
to practice art of radical insight
through performance of madness inside words
that wards off ghosts listening at my door.

On contours of my deep ambivalence
toward secret nature of my serpent heart
I stumble against obstacles of hope
to shift attention of my eager faith
through misdirection of my stated goals
to evade being role model for the world.

I am no mascot for this fractured time
by surfing waves of elemental change
though I lounge in consulting room of fear
to wrestle angels of aggressive cheer
who test fierce loyalty of my shy heart
to the faceless monster who reigns on high.

Wearing mask of the psychoanalyst,
I guide lost souls with lyre of Mercury
that rings with melodies Orpheus wrote
from cavern of illusions trapped in words
they write with blood of angels in blank books
to formulate fuel from sludge of despair.

Attempting to figure out who I am,
I strip away all signs of social status
so I stand naked on the careless field,
unshielded by illusions of false pride,
though I must suffer weird mental dysfunction
because I chant weird prophecies of fate.

Uncanny to myself, I hear my voice
reverberate against walls of the state
which shakes pillars of the establishment,
yet I sing visions from my own deep mind,
which no shadowed muse demands I dictate,
that springs from weird persona of my soul.

When I stop to think about the weird world,
the wires of my brain explode sparks of code
that reprogram how I perceive the real,
perhaps because I sublimate harsh truth
with polished metaphors of sublime art
that traps demonic horror in strict form.

My one big theory tangled in my heart
explains true nature of the universe
that organizes every disparate fact
in sprawling puzzle of our memories
which I assemble from all human tales
to psychoanalyze my state of mind.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus writes notes in his book as he listens to me recount the various traumatic moments of my life to help me psychoanalyze my state of mind.

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

Weird Haze Of Yesterday
© Surazeus
2025 05 19

Far from archaic shores of my childhood
I sail to see God in fog of the future,
but find only more lands where people dwell
in cities staged to replay founding tale
of their ancestor who arrives one day
to pluck fruit from the giving tree of hope.

The normal world of truth where I grew up
has vanished now in dim fog of the past
where I left corpse of God inside the church
from which spring nations of humanity
who worship idols of ancestral guides
which guard the garden of our secret code.

After climbing mountains of jagged peaks
to view paintings that depict long-dead gods,
I stand before gate to Towers of Silence
with hope to see the Flame of Zoroaster
that must still glow with spirit of God Mind
which flares forth from first flash of the big bang.

The only place I have ever seen God
is in the shining mirror on the wall
that shows how the fairest spirit of all
animates child of Narcissus and Echo
whose face emanates energy of faith
with charismatic glow of divine truth.

When Oceanus, riding foam-maned horse,
falls in love with graceful star-eyed Aditi,
she transforms his spirit of honest faith
into brave Mithras wearing scarlet cape
who defeats the cruel tyrant Minotaur
in brutal battle to wear Crown of Christ.

Archaic world of my childhood in Texas,
where I ride my bike to the college campus
and read about alphabets of the world,
vanishes in weird haze of yesterday
when I hitchhike Seattle to Miami
and play guitar by fountain of the ghost.

While I meditate by the gushing river
in pine-crested foothills of Mount Takoma,
I see three goddesses of wisdom glow,
Athena, Saraswati, and Kwan Yin,
who bless me with the Voice of Prophecy
so I can navigate safe way through Hell.

Wearing mask of persona I design,
to shield mortal frailty of my heart,
I sing Chronicle of Humanity
disguised in fairy tales of Gothic angst
that record my quest for the Holy Grail
which shimmers in the heart of my soul mate.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus kneels before Athena, Saraswati, and Kwan Yin, and prays for guidance to understand the complex currents of human history.

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

Grand Canyon Of Faith
© Surazeus
2025 05 18

The gray-haired woman in the river boat
commissions the white raven to retrieve
gold pocket watch from the insolent knight
who sells his armor at the antique shop
for coat of many colors he can wear
when he attends the posh gallery show.

The sad angel curled in the oak book shelf
requests the red-furred cat with serpent eyes
for pair of wings the snowy owl sells
then watches the passenger jet of faith
scatter fake clouds of arrogance with prayer
while the cat and the owl play game of chess.

The spider man with thirty-thousand eyes,
who lives in the Grand Canyon of faith,
weaves tapestry of human history
that presents the prophets in dreamless caves
of every religion mankind invents
to translate wisdom of toads in the swamp.

The young school girl wearing long cotton skirt
climbs down the side of the high red brick wall
on rusty ladder of excessive faith
because she wants to ask the robot clown
how he can always make sad people laugh
with confusing riddles no one could solve.

The car mechanic in the large garage
decides that engines represent the heart
demonic angels build for time machines
that lonely people drive across the land
where Roland blows ivory oliphant horn
though no one rescues his soldiers from bombs.

The small-church pastor wearing silver suit
flips through pages of the Bible to find
elusive passage that explains how faith
can save the fool from dancing off the cliff,
then drinks beer by the oak and laughs all night
at absurd beauty of the butterfly.

The serious magician with yew wand
transforms the toad long croaking in the swamp
into accountant for the country bank
tasked to adjudicate requests for loans
farmers apply to fund their future crops
in field where Mithra tames the Minotaur.

The gray-haired woman in the river boat
gives me the wand she uses to catch fish
so I ask the school girl to marry me
so we can translate song of nothingness
to silly fairy tales children can read
before they grow up to work in finance.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus gives the gray-haired woman in the river boat the radio she purchased to play romantic songs of Edith Piaf.

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

Energetic Faith In Dirt
© Surazeus
2025 05 18

Too long strange silence of the angel wing
vibrates ancestral memories of the stream
that floods the plain one hundred million years
till wingless angel of the aching heart
explores along the winding river shore
and picks up gleaming emerald of her eye.

Alone on grassy plain of floating stars,
she sings the ancient memory of our genes
that fuels her endless journey to the moon
which always gleams above the distant hills
and lures her to the land of apple trees
beyond horizon of the wordless wind.

The child who feels vibration of the rain
throb deep in crystal bones of honesty
knows why she is herself and no one else
in all the history of the universe,
for she collects the masks of long-dead gods
to hang on trunks of trees as ticking clocks.

Long curly hair swirls randomly in wind
as she walks slowly toward demonic light
that glimmers weirdly on the giant stone
which wavers proudly in her aching heart
till she arrives at edge of nothingness
to touch the solid coldness of the world.

What name of energetic faith in dirt
she breathes with vibrant passion of her tongue
defines complete expansiveness of self
wrapped whole in secret warmth of fantasy
which she decides must designate the face
who looks at her from shimmer of the pool.

Through misdirection of the twisted branch
that points beyond vast whyness of the sky
she feels soft hand of love enclose her heart
with gentle protest of the lonesome guard
who feels complete when she stays by his side
while glimmer of the sun binds their hearts firm.

Expressing vision glowing in her eyes
with vibrant words that slither from her tongue,
she tells him why their hearts connect in love
because we calculate our destiny
through each decision our hearts choose to make
when we seek wholeness of our secret self.

Assembled concepts of the fractured world
complete whole puzzle of their separate hearts
when they hold hands and walk in silent wind
to blaze the trail long signless in the sun
where we now drive our cars on asphalt road
that takes us round in loops of strict routine.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus and Ophelia meet on the river shore where she weaves flowers in his hair as he chips flint into arrowheads so he can hunt for food to cook.

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

Frame Of What Is Real
© Surazeus
2025 05 18

Each scene of unresolved false memory
that flashes blurred across his fuzzy mind,
as Seth floats through the quiet afternoon
in peaceful sadness of eternity,
sparks dull anxiety of numb despair
that makes him chuckle when he snaps awake.

Nobody cares about my memories,
Seth mumbles to the finch on the back porch
that hops along the rail of eager hope,
then drinks cold faucet water of concern
in small home nestled in the grove of oaks
along suburban street lined with dead cars.

Submerged in half-dream of the afternoon,
Seth rides the horse across the windy plain
to catch the shadow of objective fear
embodied by the man with doorless key
whose laughter twists the oak tree into rope
that dangles from the beam of unjust law.

Haunted by faceless god his father feared,
Seth walks quickly past every empty church
because he knows the doors are locked all week,
then browses fiction section of bookstores
to read short summaries of unreal plots
about men numb with angst of modern life.

The plush green couch in middle of his house
floats just above the ground of principles
in shy defiance of grim gravity
each time his brain designs new alien world,
completely different from the state of Earth,
where he is the brave angel who can fly.

When Seth decides to fish on lake of dreams,
where he casts line into abyss of fate
to catch the Loch Ness Monster of his heart
who knocks him off balance from his wood boat,
he falls nine days and nights in wingless flight
to hum half-awake on his floating couch.

Through sudden field of shocking certainty
Seth runs through thunderstorm of laughing gods
to find the girl he loves beside the lake
who kisses him in drenching rain of time
till she reminds him of her secret name
which reconstitutes frame of what is real.

Shouting at the empty sky of false faith,
Seth asks divine zookeeper of the Earth
if he can perform with elastic grace
roles of both therapist and referee
as pope who rules empire of fairy tales,
then stares out the window as evening falls.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus waves to Seth in the window as he walks up the path, then they sit on the porch to drink mead and play chess while thrushes sing in the evening dusk.

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

Almost See The Face
© Surazeus
2025 05 17

As star of my own solar system, I
wake in the quiet house of screaming ghosts
that beam from every brain alive on Earth
as radiant static of world emptiness
without sad story of the human race
that flickers on blank television screens.

Eight billion houses on our floating Earth
blink eyeless windows in the rancid night
though crackling stars burn human hearts to ash
because we walk alone on signless roads
together yet apart in void of time
just close enough to almost see the Face.

Anxiety appears in old-man form
crouched in mute horror of the sunless room
who follows me as shadow of my body
which thirsts to drink fermented blood of fear
that bleeds from pulsing sponges of my eyes
till I push him in swamp mud of my heart.

To build the baseline of our real-life tale
we start with honesty and end with lies
we carve as masks from skulls of ancient gods
to hide our aching hearts with bold bravado
that shields our wounded souls from vampire lust
on which celebrities of fame must feed.

By singing riddles of exotic hymns
I hope to achieve what my heart desires
when I create virtual Earth in my brain
to mirror real world composed of atoms
that seethe from heat to form organic souls
who writhe with pleasure to create new life.

With incomprehensible breath of hope,
I crawl hand over hand to mountain peak
where I stand on one leg of tense respect
to reach the first star of the universe
that still shines pulsing deep inside my brain
since its first flash flared forth from the big bang.

I feel how very atom of my soul
has pulsed with energy of lust for life
fourteen billion years of spinning time
through various forms of chemical concepts
transforming from ideal ghost of the I
who evolves billions of lives to be me.

Reframing problem of the afterlife,
I explain that I am the incarnation
of my parents in the flesh again now,
designed by immortal soul of our genes
as bodies that replicate our God Mind
in new brains where I almost see the Face.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus almost sees the Face in the swirling mist so he reaches out his hand and finds Ophelia floating on the river as she clutches flowers.

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

Lake Of Dancing Wolves
© Surazeus
2025 05 17

Disturbed by how fast Death claims human souls,
Juturna watches television shows
about life in the ancient Land of Oz
where elves build palaces of dreams from snows
that never cease swirling from weeping moons
which hang as mirrors on black starless skies.

Each time she returns to scene of the crime
to find conceptual evidence of fate,
Juturna lingers on the ocean shore
till Arion arrives from end of time
on star-leaping dolphin of Zathamar
to give her golden apple of the sun.

Running together in the river grove
from horde of assassins wearing black masks,
young lovers search for somewhere safe to hide,
till they find cave where Plato waves glass wand
to teach them secrets of the universe,
so shy Juturna kisses Arion.

Unsure of how he feels about her heart,
Juturna strides across the windy plain
to weave fantastic visions from green rain,
so Arion chases shadow of hope
to find her on solemn Cliffs of Moher
where he explains to her how he much cares.

Determined to escape the falling bombs
that blast all fantasies to kingdom come,
young lovers drive highway of singing skulls
till they arrive at lake of dancing wolves
where they build temple to the Faceless God
whose apple trees sprout from the fertile sod.

Back to reality on fairy wings,
Juturna flies home safe to Illinois
where she shows photos of her time in France
to strangers on the street she meets by chance,
till secret agents of the government
arrest her for tricking the president.

Alone on mountain of the burning bush,
Arion ponders social provenance
that sparks the rise of prophets who give voice
to grievance of the people sore oppressed
who dare revolt against the status quo
to favor equal rights for every soul.

Deported to the Isle of Avalon,
Juturna reunites with Arion
by lake where snowy egrets flap their wings,
then holding hands they sit on wooden porch
to watch empire of America fall
so Zarathia can rise on Phoenix wings.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus and Ophelia visit Juturna and Arion at their home in the forest on the western shore of the Caspian Sea.

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

Reason Time Is Weird
© Surazeus
2025 05 17

She wonders if the reason time is weird
could flash from how the raven wing transcends
eccentric jokes contrived by ringing bells
despite how fast the book shelves have been cleared
except for why sweet cuteness still depends
on serpent princess stealing words from wells.

So drives steel motorcar of honest hope
swift on the writhing highway of fake wealth
to catch the falling star with angel mask
born as her daughter on the mountain slope
who grows up hunting butterflies with stealth
to finish well each fate-appointed task.

Yet each house glowing by the dragon sea,
where children play and laugh with fearless joy,
explodes from bombs hurled by the angry god,
so they crawl limbless in land of the free,
then work in factories to assemble toy
sold in shopping malls by religious fraud.

Annoyed by attitude of haughty pride
displayed by football captain on their date,
she joins the army of the howling horse
to arrest preachers and scammers who lied
in schemes to steal money from naive fate
who sells mineral rights to the holy source.

When Attila camps at the gates of Rome
with purpose to enslave the populace,
fierce Leo meets him on the battle field
and casts demonic spell from arcane tome
that sparks compassion for the human race
so the mighty warrior decides to yield.

In every age of human history
demonic spirit of the anti-christ
incarnates in some tyrant blind with greed
whose rage oppresses man with misery,
till from the people rises new brave Christ
who leads our revolution in dire need.

Attired as warrior goddess we respect,
Minerva waves bright flag of our just cause
to organize our fight for liberty
and pave way for the social architect
who will design new set of global laws
that maintains justice through democracy.

When she concludes the reason time is weird
based on analysis of fairy tales
that people share on social media sites,
she trains her son to play role of the bard
who prophesies that Liberty prevails
through war that paralyzes parasites.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus joins Minerva in her fight for Liberty against the tyrant Attila, and help Leo send that greedy oligarch back to Hell.

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

Wealth Gap Of Fate
© Surazeus
2025 05 17

Inspired to narrow the wealth gap of fate
by investing in flights of fantasy,
Faunus plays hide and seek with Libitina
who wants to kiss him with sweet vampire eyes,
while Salacia boils oyster seaweed soup
to feed the crowd of refugees from war.

Bright effervescence of the swirling sea
sparkles deep in his eyes with selfless love
when Faunus sees long-haired Venilia
chase butterflies in lush Elysian fields,
so he leaves Libitina in the cave
and chases her along the windy beach.

Enraged at how Faunus abandoned her,
Libitina crouches on the cliff edge
and hurls large stone with jagged points of hate
that cuts the shoulder of Venilia
who stumbles to her knees and cries in pain,
so the curly-haired boy tends to her wound.

Cradling Venilia in his caring arms,
Faunus leads her safely to the dream cave
where Salacia gives bowls of oyster soup,
so he feeds her while she blushes with hope,
then whispers how she wants to marry him,
but shrieks in fear when Libitina glares.

Declaring that Faunus belongs to her
because her built her temple of the dead
where she burns corpses in the holy fire,
Libitina grabs his reluctant hand,
but he proclaims attention of desire
to focus love on life rather than death.

Fuming with anger at his hurtful words
spoken by one she thought cared for her heart,
Libitina runs on the windy shore,
then sits on large black stone of arrogance
that guards mouth of the gushing snow-fed stream
to cry at rejection of loyal trust.

Slim Alpanus in gown of raven feathers
appears beside her on the river stone,
who wipes her tears with skeletal hand
and offers pomegranate with red seeds,
so Libitina follows master of death
down into cave of diamonds and despair.

Turnus, son of Venilia and Faunus,
rides young horse across the Esquiline Camp
where he sees young girl with long flowing hair,
Lucina, proud daughter of Libitina,
so he embraces her with eager arms,
and she kisses him with intense desire.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus plays lyre of Mercury at the feast after the marriage of Lucina and Turnus, while their mothers ignore each other with dignified contempt.

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

Matrix Of Our Mutual Mind
© Surazeus
2025 05 16

Delicate yellow flower of my heart
blooms through crack in Church of America,
so I rise up from cavern of desire
and walk toward shadow of faith I accept
as way more real than Heaven preachers sell
who curse their enemies to burn in Hell.

The prophet rises from the common folk
when they are trapped in hostile circumstance
to speak with clear voice of the clairvoyant
what action they could take against despair
to overcome oppression of the rich
who exploit energy of crafting hands.

Because there is no supernatural God
who created this world from spoken word,
I am unprophet of the tribal soul,
composing spells of complicated code
to cast clear vision of the virtual world
that mirrors real world which creates our souls.

Dedicated to truth of the Ungod,
who watches not over all that I do,
I unspool matrix of our mutual mind
to mirror real world in my dreaming brain
so I can calculate cause and effect
to help predict the coming of the sun.

When people of my nation, fraught with fear,
cry out with voice of patience in despair,
I recompile their most outstanding fears
to seek sanction from shadow of the god
that emanates from fractured stone of truth
so I recite clear vision as their guide.

If we are still on signless road of fate
that leads from sea shore to the mountain cave,
we will relax in Temple of Blind Gods
where flame-caster forges new Wisdom Wand
for me to wield as Emperor of the Yarth
despite how clocks unwind my neural soul.

Each book I eat with alabaster teeth
contains concepts of twisted energy
so with apparent flap of angel wings
my brain uploads new set of memories
just fading bright from instrument of truth
which I wield now in crippled state of being.

With calm alacrity of peaceful pride
I assemble fragments of fractured truth
from countless tales of vain experience
to conjure virtual world of faceless souls
based on real people who invent new names
woven in matrix of our mutual mind.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus teaches Methods of Prophetic Elocution for the graduate seminar at the University of Zarathia.

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

Ghosts Of Fake Words
© Surazeus
2025 05 16

Along bright beam-path of the lonely moon,
heart beating wild with dark misshapen wings,
I run toward glowing shadow-heart of hope
that winds out spiral-flight of honesty
for eye-swirl mist of harrowing desire
to aim my soul straight through eternity.

Accelerating leap of earnest faith
propels my soul across night-wide abyss
with fierce intent to reach infinity
on eager wings I bought from Icarus
who hides in cave of illusions to weave
expansive matrix of our mutual minds.

Enclosed within courageous form of faith,
that whirrs from tides of nothingness I feel,
my heart embraces time-strong vanity
to drive fate of my heart against harsh rules
restraining fierce aggression of my hope
to play competing game of arrogance.

Regret winds taut with anger self-control
by which I rein assertion of my rights
to manage flushing flow of energy
that fuels my mission to investigate
confines of caverns gleaming rich with wealth
I wish to extract with world-crafting hands.

Attained by bloated conceit of false faith,
through aggrandizement of bland boastful pride,
I glut my heart with insolence of praise,
disposed toward innocence of vacant nymphs
who feast on rumors swollen with grim tears
despite offensive charge of charity.

Each object pulsing with Solarian light
vibrates bright outlines of existing forms
beyond horizon of our consciousness
in mountains haunted by ghosts of fake words
whose hands caress my brain with pungent lust
for bitter juice of my sea-mirror soul.

Trapped by eternal glow of evening dusk
that challenges rich substance of my faith
with naked longing of my heart heart,
I exit pale of sacred temple hall
so I experience struggle to survive
till I return home with treasures of truth.

Trite manifestation of empty choirs,
when I paint mural of our tribal tale
with blood that oozes from my reckless mind,
deranges how my brain processes facts
now symbolized by divine characters
misconstrued as normal people we are.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus directs choir of ten million poets to sing grand epic tale of human experience, then we all go out and eat plates of nachos with ground beef, cheese, and guacamole.

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

Army Of Aggressive Trees
© Surazeus
2025 05 16

With small hands delicate as flower petals
Janus rips global web of asphalt roads
out of the ground while chanting pretty spells,
and hurls chunks of revolutionary rage
to smash stores of commercial enterprise
that impose colonial empire of greed.

Roots of oak trees curl downward from his feet
to mangle cement parking lots of malls
with each passive-aggressive step of faith
that Janus asserts on quest for the Grail
when he struts on stage of fashion with pride,
presenting latest outfit no god wears.

Descended from the Entish Onodrim,
and cousin of Groot, born on Planet Ex,
Janus leads army of aggressive trees
who march to war against the human race,
demolishing vast city maze of streets
as they crush buildings with Odinian fists.

Surrounding Gold Tower of steel and glass
that shimmers brightly on Manhattan Isle,
Janus and army of fierce angry trees
attack tall palace where King Midas hides
in revenge for massacre of the trees
in the cruel ten-thousand-year dentrocide.

Rampaging forward sea to shining sea,
Janus and army of trees with strong limbs
topple thousands of corporate headquarters,
smashing factories where sons of Vulcanus
smelt minerals with fire to mold weird machines,
and stomp on billions of cars as they flee.

When Midas sends army of warriors
with tanks and planes to bomb army of trees,
Janus laughs with booming voice of the void
as he opens gaping mouth of sharp teeth
and swallows missiles with satisfied gulp,
strengthened by explosions of chemicals.

After Janus and his army of trees
destroy all of human civilization,
and leaves devastating mess in his path
of buildings and cars mangled by outrage,
he sits on snowy slope of Mount Takoma
to meditate and seek state of Nirvana.

Computer wires from the vast world wide web
slither from heart of darkness to enwrap
Janus and his army of trees in matrix
of writhing cables which assimilate
their rage into virtual world of Earth Mind
where he dances and sings by Lake of Eyes.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus plays lyre of Mercury that wakes Janus and trees from timeless slumber who grow outraged at dentrocide of human enterprise.

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

Grand Heroic Deeds
© Surazeus
2025 05 15

Baffled with how to deal with harsh contempt,
Sylphus flutters his arms and skips away
from Mars, who swings long spear with wolfish grunts,
then twirls around the wispy willow tree
as long curls of his hair bounce in soft breeze,
and stoops to cradle the tortoise with care.

Snarling with rage at the slim girlish boy,
Mars trundles toward him like the huffing bull
that charges with sharp horns at spritely hart
which darts back and forth with elegant leaps,
but Sylphus giggles as he somersaults
when the burly warrior falls on his face.

"Each human soul born from spirit of Tellus,
fertile Terra Mater who creates life,"
Sylphus explains to the gruff warrior,
"is given various strengths and weaknesses
as gift for us to offer with intent
of honest care for glory of our tribe."

Sudden scream echoes through Sylvian Woods,
so Mars and Sylphus, to investigate,
together run toward arched Carmental Gate
where they find several men wearing wolf cloaks
attempting to abduct with grasping hands
wise nymph Carmenta with milk-flowing breasts.

While Mars attacks with Achillean Spear,
battling to beat their bodies with brute blows,
Sylphus swiftly darts in graceful assault
to thwack their spirits with Mercurian Wand,
thus both with unique tactics of their skills
defeat abductors with offensive strikes.

While Mars binds the one rapist left alive,
Sylphus assists Carmenta to stand straight,
cradling lithe nymph with gentle arms of care,
and for long moment of timeless suspense
their gazes weave their souls with rainbow wings
which binds their hearts with sweet romantic glow.

Strolling together on Tiber stream shore,
Carmenta and Sylphus talk about ways
to help refugees from fierce tribal wars,
then set up tables on Campus of Mars
with food and clothing for the homeless folk
who pray that Feronia bless them with wealth.

Sitting together in Carmentium,
her oracle temple by the arched gate,
Carmenta and Sylphus present play
that shows Mars defending people from harm
where he plays tune on lyre of Mercurius
and she sings song of grand heroic deeds.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus joins the crowd watching Carmenta and Sylphus presenting plays about various heroes and villains of the Roman state.

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

Empire Of Crystal Towers
© Surazeus
2025 05 14

Each ship that sails the wide ambitious sea,
with purpose to illuminate the mind,
leaves its hopeful ghost behind on the waves
which bears unconscious spirit of the word
to colonize vast wilderness of fear
with wolves who build empire of crystal towers.

If old Clockmaker dares rewind the past
with broken clock of midnight in his heart,
we may get lost in secret memories
while driving wagon train of hungry wheels
to find the Promised Land on every map
where we can build empire of crystal towers.

Each lemon I pluck from Reading Room tree,
with sly attention to the subtle way
canaries sing in gold mines of the heart,
reveals vast galaxy of swirling stars
when I peel rind of arrogant dismay
which helps design empire of crystal towers.

If Ziphion finds Library of Blind Ghosts,
nestled in lush valley of singing skulls,
he might remember what his father said
while carving computer code on oak trunks
deep in the maze of myths no fool can map
which dislocates empire of crystal towers.

Each bedroom door of heavenly retreat,
that shimmers in House of the Rising Sun,
conceals clandestine chorus of cute cupids
who sing of sweet romantic love in spells
that trick us into generating life
to live safe in empire of crystal towers.

If hermits in harsh desert of regret,
who dwell on Mount Sinai with burning trees,
describe aesthetic beauty of the heart
that suffers deprivation of desire,
we may find courage of the noble wolf
to establish empire of crystal towers.

Thus I will sail from Hellas to Japan
with secret treasure of the Golden Fleece
to find shy Goddess of the Mirror Cave
who touches my forehead with her third hand
to tattoo dreamless spell with quill of fire
when I record empire of crystal towers.

Yet far pavilions shining in dawn light
invite me to return to paradise
though I fled maze of political games
six thousand years ago with fruit of truth
that oozes ink I use to calculate
how Death supports empire of crystal towers.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus brings his broken watch to the Clockmaker so he can relive the first time he met Eurydice in the garden of apple trees.

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

River Of God Light
© Surazeus
2025 05 14

When Lucifer instructs me to tone down
aggressive rhetoric of my prophecies
with moral values that would moderate
intense attack of justice to reduce
deceptive scams of political thieves,
I advocate true vision of my heart.

When you read vision these words generate,
which projects concept of some character,
your attention conjures their eidolon
so they glow in virtual world of your mind,
but they will cease to exist when you stop,
and they will disappear in void of thought.

When I read words in sentences of tales
that shimmer on flat pages of the book,
its spirit dwells as ghost inside my heart
to become safe habitat for my soul,
so I drink water of the World God Mind
that resurrects my body from my sorrow.

When hands pull my body out of the womb,
I feel immortal light of gleaming stars
beam my consciousness from the swirling void
to wake in neural network of my brain
which animates this fragile frame of flesh
so I generate life before I die.

When I translate light of the universe
through magic spells my breath articulates,
I steer my body through maze of desires
to overcome harsh obstacles of fear
till I transcend pain of this fragile frame
to walk along the River of God Light.

When I transmute pain of my suffering
into reward I expect from the gods,
while struggling against forces of greed
that would exploit energy of my soul
to generate wealth from blood of my labor,
I realize as I die all work is vain.

When I stare helpless at the shining stars,
as conscious spirit of my energy
fades into wordless currents of the sea,
I laugh at weird absurdity of life
that has no meaning but what I create
to savor pleasures till Death crushes me.

When Lucifer glares at me with fierce eyes
of moral judgment that condemns my soul,
I shout the special voice my soul radiates
with courage to tone up my song of joy,
for, knowing I will die, I sing weird spells
that vanish through wind of eternity.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus floats on the river of death that flushes his body out to the endless silent void of the singing sea.

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

Laws Of Wise Astaria
© Surazeus
2025 05 14

When bright-eyed Bacchus in leopard-skin cloak
dances on slopes of Mount Vesuvius,
my heart swells whole with passion for the truth
that urges me to rise on demon wings
and with compassion for the common folk
oppose the tyrant in grand hall of gold.

With Sisyphus I roll the Justice Stone
up to the top of Helicon at dawn,
then aim its power at idol of greed
with feet of clay, though its head glitters gold,
to free humanity from tyranny
so we can dance with Bacchus in the rain.

Sweet grapes that swell from soul of sun and rain,
transforming soil of sorrow into juice,
I drink pure liquor of your timeless truth
that sparks weird visions in my flashing brain
till I feel power of divinity
animate my clay body with God Light.

Born from fertile womb of the scarlet moon,
graceful Selena with star-silver eyes,
wild Bacchus leads us dancing in the woods
to free our hearts from sorrow of hard work
so we can worship wise Astaria
who sings in temple on her ziggurat.

Through bitter darkness of the raging storm,
that shatters homes we built with crafting hands,
we see star lamp of holy Liberty
gleam bright in hand of wise Astaria
whose voice inspires our aching hearts with hope
when she recites Creation of the World.

No matter how deep in the wilderness
I wander on grand mission of my heart
in quest to find the Holy Grail of Life,
I see bright light of Liberty shine clear
as beacon on tall ziggurat of faith
that guides me safely on the road back home.

All lies of politicians dissipate
as smoke of guns in gust of holy wind
when wise Astaria speaks words of faith
for simple is oration of the truth
while cruel deceptive lies twist facts in knots
that bind our hearts with hope for fantasies.

When Bacchus leads us to the apple grove
that flourishes on Mount Parnassus slope,
he teaches us to spot deceptive tricks
that cheaters use to scam us of our wealth,
secured by laws of wise Astaria
who guards the world so we may all live free.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus plays lyre of Mercury while Bacchus fills our grails with wine, and wise Astaria sings Creation of the World.

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

Honeycomb Of His Brain
© Surazeus
2025 05 13

When Ziphion walks in village by the sea,
as nameless stranger only passing through,
shadow of each person he passes by
whispers their secrets in numberless math
which transform into honey bees of glass
who swirl into honeycomb of his brain.

Lured by warm scent from the old bakery,
Ziphion gazes in green eyes of the woman
who bakes his memories in loaf of rye bread,
and when he eats it with butter and jam
he relives the moment when he was twelve
when he saw his mother fly to the clouds.

Climbing steps between the two living lions,
Ziphion enters library of dream books
small as apple seeds that swell from his tears
into huge dragons that roar out his name,
demanding he wear mask of the dead god
whose story is recorded in its text.

Because he exudes different pungent scents
each morning he wakes from the glass piano,
rosewater, pine wood, salt air, honey, pear,
Ziphion transforms into different versions
of his true self no one has ever seen
each time he wanders in the maze of streets.

Wandering dreary streets in the river town,
where rain falls only on the sorrowful,
Ziphion studies his personal storm cloud
that drenches him with tears of bitter hope
while everyone else walks in bright sunlight,
till he laughs at absurdity of fear.

Pausing by pear tree with the human face,
Ziphion stares at the blank book in his hand
where red letters writhe with serpentine grace
that record prophetic poems he once sang
before he forgot them when he turned twelve,
so he slowly removes his egg-shell mask.

Dipping horse-hair brush in blood of their hearts,
Ziphion paints portraits of people he meets,
which age while they all stay forever young
yet reveal emotional truths of faith
they try to hide with laughter and good cheer
while he goes swimming in the starless lake.

When the moon descends in the Wishing Well
where she transforms into dragon of words,
Ziphion joins the untroubled villagers
who draw silver coins from depths of despair
which shimmer with their long-forgotten dreams
that bleed songs from honey comb of his brain.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus invites Ziphion into the Cave of Illusions where Plato teaches him how to express truth with numberless math of poetry.

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

Quietness Of The Fence
© Surazeus
2025 05 13

Rob finds his fence half-buried in snow drift
in line of rails that time renders unsure,
some leaning, some snapped, and some lost to moss,
but still they trace his thoughts across the land,
so he sets his boot on one sagging beam
and feels soft hush of something waiting near.

Rob and his brother fought to claim this field,
neither giving ground, yet they had to yield,
so they built this fence, not to split the soil
but claim strict boundary to unbind their hearts,
one planting apples, and one tending maples,
for trees know which side they are rooted in.

Rob walks along the path the fence has made,
leaving traces of his steps in thin snow
where crows mark their blackness on sunlit white
as if to say, remember who has gone,
for their slow wings beat patient in the wind,
yet tell no lies in gloom of evening dusk.

Stopping to lift one rail back into place,
its wood gone soft, its hard nails rusted through,
Rob feels it give, then settle in rough hands,
as if to show it served as best it could,
for loyal fences understand too well
men only ever try to hold the line.

When sudden storm wind whacks the gate ajar,
Rob notes light tracks of some swift ghostly fox
that seemed to pause before she crossed the path
and wondered, perhaps, who had made this mark,
if human scent still lingers by the fence
of if the land is empty now of names.

When low sun flares in shards of crystal ice
and catches tips of trees in sudden flame
that makes the fence seem noble in its tilt,
as weathered spine that still stands firm on truth,
Rob sees his breath and knows the cold remains,
yet feels strange warmth from wisdom of the stars.

What matters is not whether lines remain,
but whether we can walk them with calm grace,
for the fence that lets wind through is no wall,
and though it frames the field, it chains no hill,
for man can mend what he is not ashamed
to say was built by hands of angered love.

With snow dust in his cuffs, Rob ventures home,
his shadow lengthened down the furrowed path
where still trees line quietness of the fence
that never speaks, but neither does it fall,
for its rails keep old memories of its place
and holds truth up for everyone to see.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus meets Robert Frost in the woods mending his old fence, and accepts his invitation to drink moonshine and talk about philosophy of fences.

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

Timepiece Of Hope
© Surazeus
2025 05 13

Hunched over workbench in his clockwork shop,
between cake shop and dress shop by the sea,
Josiah twirls hands on the broken clock
that beams past moments in dream of this world
to flicker scenes that happened years before,
so he gasps that he can relive the past.

As he peers through gold-rim glasses with awe,
Josiah stares in shock at graceful ghost
of his daughter Miriam who disappeared
years ago, face gleaming in midnight moon
with soft angelic beauty of the lost,
so he spends every night with her mute shade.

When Alice hears gossip at the fruit stand
that Clockmaker Josiah has gone mad
claiming his daughter visits him each night,
she knocks at midnight with her broken clock,
so when he tweaks its gears her son appears
to show he was shot in war as they weep.

Ten years to the day since Miriam was lost,
young girl in clean white dress with long red hair
appears before his desk with cracked hourglass
and letter in handwriting of his daughter
marked clear with date of the following day,
which asks that he repair timepiece of hope.

Desperate to see how his daughter was lost,
Josiah repairs the hourglass with honey
which flashes bright to part the veil of time
in swirling portal of pure energy,
so the young red-haired fairy takes his hand
and leads him into swirling winds of fate.

While the clock in his shop ticks in reverse,
Josiah finds himself on rocky shore,
gazing far at his daughter Miriam
who cradles new-born baby with red hair
as she boards small boat tossed by stormy waves,
then weeps as she vanishes in sad mist.

Startled awake at rosy gleam of dawn,
Josiah hears songs of wrens in pear trees,
then kneels beside young girl with long red hair
who wakes from sleep and smiles with silver eyes
as she sits at the table of his heart,
then explains that her name is Maryanne.

Holding large gold murex seashell in her hands,
Maryanne declares that her heart can hear
voice of every person who lives on Earth
express secret thoughts they speak not out loud,
so he caresses her hair as she sings,
then repairs broken clocks of hope with care.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus brings broken clock for Josiah to repair, then runs in meadow to save Eurydice from the snake, but weeps that he cannot change the past as he holds her dead in his arms.

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

Where The Vampire Lives
© Surazeus
2025 05 12

If the walnut tree cannot understand
sweet song of rubber tires on asphalt roads,
then only butterflies will know the way
back to library of the singing skull
who photographs weird strangers strolling by
till they all disappear in lonely leaves.

If the candycane-striped lizard decides
to erase formulas of secret dreams
from chalkboards of empty high-school classrooms,
then wizard who works in small country town
as car mechanic could refuse to tell
the city gumshoe where the vampire lives.

If the rusty green Lincoln Continental
grinds serpent eggs into computer code,
then the sad vampire searching for true love
might hide inside the chemistry textbook
when the old detective in wrinkled suit
pokes around the library of his brain.

If the goldfinch in the walnut tree sees
the evil vampire in gray business suit
aim shotgun at the trench coat by the gate,
then he should call Minerva on the phone
who races on the tortoise to protect
her father from the conman at the bank.

If the car mechanic hears the goldfinch
explain how to play chess to the Grim Reaper,
then he may wander in the western waste
without the country of his spirit birth
till he becomes the stranger on the street
who finds the vampire stabbed behind the church.

If Remus photographs the running man
who throws the skull of Jesus at the moon,
he mind arrest the banker in the church
who drinks communion wine with bitter snarl
before he turns into the writhing snake
that slithers along sewer pipes of faith.

If the girl harlequin in fluffy skirt
campaigns for mayor of the country town,
then the mechanic she secretly loves
can play golf with Aristotle at dawn
who gives her the most expensive jet plane
as gift in return for rights to drill oil.

If the sky falls in shards of broken dreams
transforming into snow flakes of desire,
then we can program lies that tell the truth
which shine bright as lamp of Diogenes
who solves the strangest murder mystery
written with blood on falling autumn leaves.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus studies the lamp of Diogenes in the Museum of Fake Artifacts next to the magnifying glass of Sherlock Holmes.

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

Library Of Lemon Ghosts
© Surazeus
2025 05 12

Stuck in glass library of lemon ghosts,
I browse books bound with masks of long-dead souls,
then place one mask over my own weird face
so I dream the life journey of that soul,
but when I take it off the mask transforms
into goldfinch that flies into the clouds.

Lemons on the tree in domed reading room
glow with the long-dead souls of nameless gods,
and when I pluck each one they whisper codes
of secrets in forgotten languages
which I drink from tall glass of lemonade
while the goldfinch brings me angel-wing quills.

Shelves of books arranged in orchard rows sway,
spines etched with thorny vines of yellow roses,
and in between them silky leaves drift down
to mutter confessions of secret hopes
that people try to hide as they perform
prewritten roles of gods in ancient books.

Wearing smooth porcelain mask for her face,
Librarian Sylvia in breeze-blown gown
waters lemon tree each morning with ink,
then files silence of souls who died in pain
in glass books labeled with their secret names
till they transform into star butterflies.

While Ziphion strides long winding corridors,
storm of paper masks, stained with lemon juice,
swirl around him till they form new-born books
printed with invisible text of faith
that glows in beams of moonlight in the window
where goldfinches talk shop with butterflies.

When Ziphion stands before mirror of eyes
at far end of the philosophy aisle,
its crystal square does not reflect the viewer
but masked version of his twin doppelganger
who sits under the lemon tree of truth
reading stories to gold-winged cherubim.

Twisted lemon branches form reading desk
of open drawers with miniature theaters
where masked puppets of weird heroic gods
reenact scenes from books banned by the tyrant
who thinks satires depict his enemies
as goldfinches attack him on gold throne.

Climbing the spiral staircase of stacked books
on citrus-tree roots where striped pythons writhe,
Ziphion steps through tunnel of glass masks
pinned to the walls as screaming butterflies
that weep ink in jars Sylvia collects
for children in school to write fairy tales.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus visits Sylvia and Ziphion in the library of lemon books to buy masks for his new-born children to wear in the mortal realm.

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

Painting Of Her New Face
© Surazeus
2025 05 12

When she takes the old painting off the wall
she hears wordless whispers it leaves behind,
so she waits till the glass telephone rings
then fills it with the silence of her hope,
but when she draws map to her secret heart
time morphs her to the painting on the wall.

Her grandfather clock with glass mask of god
sprouts into the leafless tree by the lake
on the windless desert of shattered mirrors
where each shard of dishonesty reflects
different forgotten childhood scene of faith,
so she plucks the midnight apple of loss.

She climbs the staircase made of human hands,
ascending with calm grace of dancing cows
to the jellyfish-shaped clouds which pulsate
with slow ticking of invisible clocks
to replace each painting she throws away
with another painting of her new face.

Swimming to the library of true love,
she reads books with fins that open themselves
and whisper all their contents in reverse
while goldfish with human eyes of rainbows
swim between the shelves of singing skulls
who paint new paintings for her empty walls.

Knowing she loves her paintings of sad ghosts,
the blindfolded Moon Girl with scarlet eggs
walks the tightrope strung between crumbling towers
constructed from albums of photographs,
and spills silver sand from her paper hand
that transform into butterflies midair.

While she floats singing in river of flowers,
her canvas paints ghost of her childhood self
with brush that sprouts from limb of the plum tree
in mountain landscape that spills from its frame
and floods her doorless room with dancing hills,
so she takes off her mask glued on with tears.

As painter with brass mirror for her face,
she stands before blank canvas of regret
that reflects not what she paints with old words
but what she now refuses to remember
about crows flying through electric storms
to dwell in pulsing hearts of broken clocks.

Floating wingless in Museum of Dreams,
she glides through doors of paintings that expand
into other worlds spinning inside her brain,
each globe another version of the viewer
who observes their face from inside the painting,
endlessly looping back into her home.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus finds Ophelia rearranging paintings on the walls of their home by the lake in the valley at the foot of Mount Parnassus.

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

Courage In The Soul
© Surazeus
2025 05 11

When tyrants rise to grip the Earth with hate,
her rich hills recoil, rivers blast to dust,
harsh sun glares down through veils of mournful ash,
and stars flame out in cinders of despair,
since air boils thick with lies of mailed command
till Freedom hides her widowed heart in black.

Yet from our common soil the bold voice springs,
unheralded by mark of noble birth,
and cries against arrogance of the throne
with breath that seems as fleeting as calm hope,
yet mountains shake when true hearts dark to speak,
cracking gold thrones with swords honest men wield.

Fierce as the lion chained within their breast,
when Justice calls with trumpet clang of fate,
Courage seeks neither comfort nor reward,
but stands alone with Sword of Liberty
against cruel legions spurred by tyranny,
one resolved soul far mightier than their greed.

Though loyal martyrs die with open eyes,
not weak with tears, but blazing as they fight,
their unjust deaths inspire souls of the land
as seed of fire that burns the frozen yoke,
and tyrants write their doom with bloody ink
that flows from wounds of their oppressive hate.

While cowards kneel and barter peace for chains,
and flatter power with honeyed servile tongues,
brave people stride with Spirit of the Truth,
wearing their wounds as medals on their hearts,
along dark paths, yet fear no war-smoked night,
for stars are born where Courage dares to breathe.

Each soul who strides with upright strength of faith,
who will not bend to keep their body whole,
knows wealth is not in gold, but in resolve,
for tyrants hoard, but Courage freely gives
with honest vows that remain after death
as whisper forged from thunder in our bones.

The hollow crown weighs nothing more than dust,
nor is law just that serves the selfish will
when kings forget their contract with the state,
for when they rule as gods the Earth will quake
till hearts of the people forge swords of hope,
then tyranny, though armored, bleeds in fear.

So stand, my soul, on honest scarp of truth,
though winds of power howl against our faith,
for Wisdom is my lamp no storm can quench
when I strike, not for hate, but bond of right,
since every Truth we speak in gloom of fear
rings bright with Bell of Courage in the soul.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus leads army of the courageous who love liberty to oppose tyranny of the greedy who fear justice.

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

Empty Sky Of Where
© Surazeus
2025 05 11

New statue of the baby born from mud,
brain ticking with gears of the eager watch,
expresses voice of hope with cry for truth
compressed as milk from breast of Mother Earth
which takes its place among the elements
that redefine museum of the mind.

Face of my mother, bright as morning clouds,
distills clear mirror that reflects my soul
with slow effacement of that divine hand
which reaches down from empty sky of where
to rearrange my memories in soft words
that flicker with sea waves to be more fair.

If window frame of my new infant brain
will swallow stars of vowels flashing souls,
my body may swell huge with breath of thought
so I can float above this maze of homes
where cows drive motorcycles on dirt roads
to roar through shadows of the doorless wall.

Thus born from laughing books of hungry crows
I swoop library halls of ancient maps
where scholars resurrect specific gods
with reverent honesty of measured faith
to paint new characters on sacred walls
in mural that depicts grand history.

Escaped from factory of the blind machine
where I assembled engines from god bones,
I wander waste land of the howling wind
where I arrange stones in enormous swirls
that spiral lithe as dragons of my heart
which none can see except from soaring planes.

Inhaling spirit of the holy hymn,
that fallible humans with angel wings
sing solemnly with annoying Saint Voice,
I fly ungracefully above small town
to swoop above taut phone lines of our hearts
and swirl around tall trees with giggling leaves.

When my mother appears with silver eyes
wearing cloud mask from empty sky of where,
I see twelve million generations bloom
through evolution of the singing fish
to human face she wears with beaming smile
as she sings lullaby of the white horse.

Each statue of Mary carved from gray stone,
which stands in every cathedral on Earth,
bears new-born child from spirit of the sun
whose fate is written by the money man
to rule as king in castle of his fear
till I decide to run into the woods.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus reaches out his infant hands to caress face of Calliope who strums small lyre and sings hymn to Apollo.

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

Knowledge I Am Alive
© Surazeus
2025 05 11

Though this sullen world cares less about me
than rocks that hum in river of rainbows,
I wander landscape of unwelcome wind
to howl with beasts who want to eat my soul
and dance with wild abandon of the dead
till I ache with knowledge I am alive.

No hymn I harp with howl of holy hurt
could mirror anguish of my angry heart
quite like rain crashing into fields of mud
where I crawl chortling to the Promised Land
that always fades into bright glare of dawn
to vanish with foul words I blush to speak.

Dead gods I worship shiver in black rain
as murky shadows hungry for my blood,
so I hide in cracked television screen
to prove I am more than blind mind machine
programmed to sing soft elegies of faith
which I scratch with my bones in river mud.

Knees torn to bloody shreds by jagged rocks,
I crawl the long and winding road of faith
through meadow of the dancing skeletons
toward Misty Mountains of the happy wolf
who gives the silver moon of apple fate
to this poor fool I accept that I am.

Tall pines of hope that gleam with golden rays,
which thread our lonely mountains in breasts
by which we breathe ethereal ghost of truth,
invite me to transcend my wretched frame
of brittle bones enwrapped in shroud of fear
so I release crow of my heart to fly.

Unfocused purpose of forgotten quest
diverts my fierce attention from fake wealth
I yearn to hoard from dragons I have slain
in burning tower of the weeping queen
who hurls my body back to my own time
where I will play no genocidal king.

Thus I cannot regret the holy hour
I first meet on the signless road of fate
the perfect soul mate for my twisted heart
whose clarifying eyes of honest truth
extract my spirit from hell-loop of guilt
which straightens out my random thrust of hope.

Reborn from sultry womb of dreamless cave,
I play lithe River Walker with pizazz
through mask of vigorous vitality
to woo young princess with long golden hair
who wears wreath of red flowers my hands wove
and smiles while pouring me hot cup of tea.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus visits deserted Temple of Cronus in the ancient city of Athens to leave crow feathers he used as quills to write hymns to dead gods.

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