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Surazeus Simon Seamount
Epic Poet and Cartographer
Epic Poet and Cartographer

Surazeus's posts

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With Death As My Friend
© Surazeus
2017 03 25

I explore this world with Death as my friend
who reveals sweet transient beauty of life
that glows through vast infinity of time
in brief flash of ecstatic consciousness
that sparkles in bright neurons of my brain
where God wakes and gives itself a new name.

Wind whispers secret of eternal life
in ripples that glitter on lake of dreams
where turtles float in green sheen of rebirth
and blue heron glides on wings of desire
while I dream name of every conscious soul
who lived and died in long spin of our world.

Though I stand alone among whispering trees
I feel all around me on spinning globe
seven billion spirits who wake at dawn
and run through vast labyrinth of desire
to gather as large crowds in halls of doors
and chant name of dead god they hope returns.

I follow road in circle around lake
and listen to voices of singing souls
whose faces appear in mirroring waves
before they vanish in death from this world
for mountains are formed from dust of their souls
that swirls in wind from breath of laughing stars.

Billions of people walk down city streets
to weave their hopes in tangled web of truth,
but consciousness they project at blank sky
reflects back from mirroring Mask of Self
which hides network of neurons in their brains
where face of one god smiles down from white sun.

When oldest woman in our world appears
from gleam of sunlight that blinds my clear eyes
she points down at center of spinning globe
and shows me where dead angels lie who sing
history of human struggle to survive,
encoded in formulas of lost myths.

I wander lost on signless roads of hope
for ten thousand years, following bright sun
around this spinning globe one hundred times,
but stand alone on river shore at dawn
where someone drew secret signs in mud
that reveal Star Woman by Tree of Fruit.

She gazes in my heart with burning eyes,
and all those stories of warriors and kings,
tribe elders told to praise heroic deeds,
are blown away like smoke in wind of words
that swirls refreshing breath of honest trust
from mountain cave where she preserves my soul.

Though seven billion people breath and dream
alive on this small spinning ball of dirt
I stand alone by lake in gleaming rays,
hearing nothing but my own voice in wind,
so I sing and savor joy of this hour
since I will know nothing after I die.

I write ten thousand songs on sandy beach
and sing their words in roar of dancing flames,
expressing vision of human desire
to overcome blind weakness of our hearts,
then careless waves of death rise with bright moon
and erase all my songs on sands of time.

I am no more than flashing flame of hope
that flickers for one second of desire
in boundless darkness of infinity,
then vibrant ripples of my singing voice
echo lost forever through galaxy
that spirals zillions of stars in vast void.

I explore this world with Death as my friend
who shows me name and deed of every soul
who wakes for its brief flash of conscious hope
through endless spinning of our wheel of fate,
and reincarnates in child of her child,
ten thousand generations now in me.

#Ballad #Song #Poem #PoetryMonth #Death #Children #HistoryOfEarth #Evolution #MindOfGod #God

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Time Swirls Around Me, one of 1,421 poems in My American Harp
#Lyric #Poetry #Literature

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"My American Harp" presents 1,421 poems with 587,498 words in 79,994 lines in 2 columns on 738 pages I wrote 2010-2015 that explore what it means to be an American in the modern world of an interconnected global civilization.

I am editing this galley copy to publish it later this year.

#Lyric #Poetry #Literature


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Color Of Broken Eyes
© Surazeus
2011 06 07

Ice glitters in a glass of water forlorn
if silver were true color of broken eyes
or nothing swallows hot milk of death
so she chokes and gasps for breath.

Bow rips across her violin heart soft
as feathers plucked from crippled swan
whose last song is smothered by hand
of iron doctor twisting wires ripped sharp.

Eighty-six girls in torn white gowns
stand staring at you on a granite cliff
pulling scissors out of their belly mouths
then leap and dive into red invisible sea.

Gentle doctor in a clean white smock
steers her mother toward polished door
murmuring I want to gain her sweet trust
by giving her a popsicle or a plush bear.

Lighting cracks open egg of her eye
and screams silent cutting wind why
if her own face melts on car window
to bleed tears oozing from torn mouth.

Hiding behind locked bedroom door
as Gothic vampire king wails on radio
she slashes pale thighs to cut out demon
that squirms gnawing hot stabbed heart.

Galloping in Black Forest on white horse
she raises sharp sword and howls hope
then chops writhing pink worm hard
hacking porcelain mask in splintered shards.

Tangled in blanket escaping cold hands
she snaps awake clutching her violin
to stare at gold moon bleeding tears
and snakes writhe hissing from her head.

Wearing pink gown in ribbons and lace
little girl stands on stage at her church
and rips heads off demons as she plays
tearing tangled wires of fear from her heart.

Face me and look in my cracked eyes
she screams behind sweet knife smile
then bows blind as everyone applauds
moved by strange passion of her song.

Bubbles of red lava explode hot milk
searing sudden thrust of sharp knife
though she kneels in her living room
watching nature channel about volcanoes.

She throws glass of milk at clean window
of laughing rage behind picture shards
that reflect one eye swallowing her mind
or piece puzzle of despair to forget now.

Kneeling nude at midnight on lake shore
she paints violin red with dream blood
and strings wires from her mute heart
since books eat theories of mad love.

I she opens gray mouth to explain fear
if face of mother gleams brittle white
confusion tainting her voice from love
but falls without wings and groans hurt.

My favorite letter ache that is for horse
shines red as blood from broken eyes
that float with Orpheus on silent stream
and watch you when you wake in dream.

You know my name I carved in stone
hammer striking chisel in mountain glade
but who rose from death though torn apart
by teeth of kind doctor in a wolf cloak.

Gliding with friends in elegant lounge
and sipping gold drink by large window
lit by moon she smiles at a cute guy
asking his name with a flirtatious grin.

What do you do for a living William
and he purrs I work as a pediatrician
but her fingers crush chalice of red wine
and she throws up on his clean white suit.

Wrapped in pink wool bathrobe warm
she looks at her hands shaped like a violin
and blushes I apologize for my behavior
but dragon of rage ripped my pretty mask.

Look in my eyes beyond mirror moon
and you will see color of broken eyes
and smiles as he fusses over her health
giving her warm honey ginger tea to drink.

His finger caresses her trembling cheek
but eyes of glass crack into egg of light
as she whispers he is locked in prison now
then disappears behind mist of lost hope.

He paints her wearing a pink lace gown
playing violin safe on marble cupola bed
as three swans float on star-sparkling lake
but spirit of her soul pounds at her skull.

I live in top room of a cold stone tower
singing with birds and holding a flower
but hair your hands could climb up to me
was ripped from my soul when I was three.

Huddled in a yellow coat on river walk
she stands away from him in gray drizzle
and watches her face melt down windows
while staring beyond illusion at star heart.

I could not escape his grasping hands
but letter double you glows soft green
so maybe your kiss will revive my heart
but this sleeping beauty rots under glass.

William places porcelain vase with rose
on river balustrade and whispers mute
I love you no matter what happened Em
as I explore labyrinth of your purple heart.

Ice cubes melt filling her glass heart high
with water rippling down river of light
while true color of broken eyes reveals
death smiling from abyss of nothing real.

Emma holds his face with both hands
as William wakes just before blue dawn
and they sit together silent on wet lawn
watching sun rise reborn on shared breath.

#Ballad #Song #Poem #Rape #PTSD #Survival #TrueLove #Romance #LostSoul #WhiteKnight

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World of atomic objects is real while realm of Ideas is shadow in our dreams.

From tale of Lucretius to be published in Hermead Volume 7.

Hermead Epic of Philosophers

#Hermead #Epic #EpicPoem #HistoricalFiction #Book #Classics #Philosophy #Poetry #AmWriting #Science #GreatAmericanEpic #GreatAmericanNovel

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Rebirth Of Astarte
© Surazeus
2017 03 24

Through the cluttered garden of burning orchids
she dances in the soul-enchanting wind
and weaves sunlight in laughter of lost hope
though death in the soil waits for ache of moonlight.

Slouching back in dark shadows of the shed,
she stares into deep dark gloom of despair,
and shivers at sweet memory of warm sunlight
that wakes aching desire to run in meadows.

His face was golden with the morning sun
and his eyes sparkled blue as the dawn sky
when he swept her off her feet with a kiss
then locked her in the sunless room of fear.

Why did he whisper in my tingling ear
as he laid me down in shadows of hope
that my sister wants to wear the gold crown
our mother placed on my head when she died?

My sister gave him large bag full of coins
to lock me hidden in this shed of death
where I eat purple mushrooms to survive
and dream the world expands from blinking light.

Digging down into the heart of the world,
she claws her way through underworld of death
and pushes out through the door of despair
to dance laughing in purple midnight rain.

Smeared in blood, and clutching sharp spear and stone,
the orchid demon climbs pyramid steps
and stands before her sister on her throne
who shrieks in horror at white of her eyes.

I am Death, she shouts in the crowded court,
and I come to claim the flame of your soul,
for I eat darkness and give birth to light,
so replace the crown of gems on my head.

Trembling at horror of death, she obeys,
placing ring of gold with thirteen white gems
on head of the goddess of life and death
who leaps and twirls, chanting in rays of red light.

We are born from the womb of Mother Earth
who animates our bodies with light beams
so drink the tears of the rain and awake
from darkness to beam rays of loving light.

Stepping before the tall man with gold hair,
she slips the purple orchid in his hand,
then whispers while she kisses his dry lips,
you locked me in the dark tomb of your heart.

She sucks his burning soul into her heart
where he mutates into small wailing child
who suckles milk from her breast as she sings
while she stands high on the pyramid ledge.

I am the goddess of stars, and my soul
glows brighter red than the light of the sun,
and I am the mushroom that sprouts in rain
who dreams the transformation of the world.

You father imprisoned me in his heart
but I dug through the dark heart of the world
and rose from death to rule the Earth and Sky
for I am the Sun who gives life to all.

I am Astarte, Great Mother of Mankind,
the queen who conquered sorrow, fear, and death,
and my tears cause the Earth to sprout with fruit,
so dance with me in dark garden of skulls.

Through the cluttered garden of burning orchids
she dances in the soul-enchanting wind
and weaves sunlight in laughter of lost hope
though death in the soil waits for ache of moonlight.

#Ballad #Song #Poem #HistoricalFiction #Astarte #StarGoddess #QueenOfEarth #Sumeria #CoupdEtat #Politics

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Slopes Of Parnassus
© Surazeus
2017 03 23

I hear stark voice cry in the wilderness
that calls out to people who wander lost
claiming they know the way to paradise
but wander circles under empty skies
so they follow dreams flashing in their eyes,
another blind messiah in the rain
that soaks apple seeds on slopes of Parnassus.

I find the prophet in the wilderness
who studies old map of circles and lines
trying to find the way to the halls of heaven
where the mad king feasts in tower of gold
while his people wander lost in the waste land
clutching apple seeds in the hot dry wind
that bewilders ghosts on slopes of Parnassus.

I see wandering lost in the wilderness
ten thousand poets groping in the dark
who scratch split verses with sticks in the sand
to calculate how the brain perceives truth,
each one claiming to be the only one
who deserves the laurel crown of Orpheus
whose skull chatters spells on slopes of Parnassus.

The nameless Sibyl of the wilderness
who once reigned on the pyramid as goddess
gives me star-jewels to replace my eyes
and teaches us how to classify dreams
that generate virtual world of ideas
which helps us navigate vast maze of lies
through shining city on slopes of Parnassus.

The blind poet who rules the wilderness
with pencil and ruler to measure myth
sketches blueprints of archetypal tales
that design characters of tragic plays
who spring to life as Superman Messiah
they claim created the whole universe
in frail toy model on slopes of Parnassus.

I play broken lyre in the wilderness
to reweave the fabric of space and time
in the rhythmic dance of meter and rhyme
which generates the matrix of our brain
reflecting vast clusters of galaxies
so we dance circles around fires in rain
to worship Death Love on slopes of Parnassus.

#Ballad #Poem #Song #Satire #Poet #Poetry #PoBiz #Conceptualism #Language #Modernism #PostModernism #MetaModernism

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Plumbers Of Faith
© Surazeus
2017 03 21

Morning light stabs his eyes through the cracked glass
after Robert lies awake all night long,
staring at shadows flickering on the wall.
Without dressing or combing his thick hair,
Robert walks down stairs to the living room
and sits beside his mother on the couch.

Clarice squeezes his hand and dabs at tears.
"I feel the whole vast city all around me,
enormous towers with steel skeletons
covered with tightened skin of brick and glass,
and filled with organs of machines and pipes,
throb and pulse alive like a sensual woman."

Clarice blushes as she looks at her son.
"Your real father whispered this in my ear
when he slid my dress up over my hips
while I was washing dishes at the sink
and filled me with sweet pleasure of his love.
I know you always thought John was your dad,
but your real father is some nameless plumber
who came to fix broken pipes in my basement
in the sultry summer of forty eight.
So that is why you heard John shout last night
because after fourteen years he realized
you are not his son, since you are much larger
and your eyes are blue and your hair is blond,
while he is more intellectual and thin
and his eyes are brown and his hair is black.
John was never much interested in sex,
at least with me, since I think he likes men,
so I had to trick him into my bed
not long after your real father and I
spent three days making love on the plush couch
while John worked late at the accounting firm.
I had to make him think you were his son.
Now that John knows you are not his real son
he told me to kick you out of his house.
I said you are only fourteen years old,
and just began your first year of high school,
but you heard him shout with impotent rage
that he refuses to house, clothe, and feed
the false bastard son of another man.
I tried my best to reason with him, but,
he insists you leave before he comes home.
I took five hundred bucks from his account
so take this money as your patrimony,
and take the motorcycle that he bought you.
Drive out west from New York to California
before he comes home and reclaims the bike."

Clarice gazes sadly into his eyes.
"Son, we had fun while you were growing up,
going to the beach, and learning to read.
I do not regret giving birth to you,
but now you have to go out on your own,
and make your own way in this world of men."

Strumming guitar on the high wooden stage,
Robert gazes out over city park
at thousands of hippies with flowing hair
who attend the large music festival.
"I left home when I was fourteen years old,
because my accountant dad was a square,
and drove my motorcycle way out west
over the vast waste land of hopeful dreams
on a sacred quest for the Holy Grail.
I arrived here in this magical land
where a star-eyed angel with golden hair,
that I met on Haight Street in San Francisco,
taught me how to play the lyre of Apollo.
So we started this psychedelic band,
and we call ourselves the Plumbers of Truth."

The slim blonde girl in flower-painted jeans,
and long golden hair that flows in the wind,
shakes her hips and rattles her tambourine,
then the band begins to play eerie music,
while Robert strums guitar and sings new lyrics.

"We are all a apart of everything whole.
We are all fragments of one divine soul.
Come dance with us around the spring May Pole.
The Cosmic Clown assigns us each our role.
We are all children of the Cosmic Clown,
who guides us to live in moneyless town."

"We are puzzle pieces in one whole frame.
We are all different, yet we are the same.
Come play your true part in the social game.
The Cosmic Clown grives us each a new name.
We are all children of the Cosmic Clown,
who teaches us to swim so we do not drown."

"We are all puppets of the Lord of Death.
We are all spirits of one divine breath.
Come wash your soul clean in communal bath.
The Cosmic Clown chooses love over wrath.
We are all children of the Cosmic Clown,
who shows us how to smile instead of frown."

"We are all angels who spring from Earth stone.
We are together and never alone.
Come chat with Jesus on God Telephone.
The Cosmic Clown gives us our life on loan.
We are all children of the Cosmic Clown,
who welcomes us home in a rainbow gown."

"We all travel one road, looking for home.
We play game of love in the cosmic dome.
Come journey with us on our quest for home.
Wherever we roam our heart is our home.
We are all children of the Cosmic Clown,
who leads us through the waste land to his home."

Robert plays solo guitar melody,
fingers twanging electric strings of light
that weaves elaborate web of bright sound
rippling on waves that lift boats of their hearts
as he leads the wild dancing crowd of hippies
over high rainbow bridge of eerie tones
far out across the galaxy of dreams
to swim into the streaming Milky Way
that vibrates surging waves in sea of souls
and sparkles fireworks in sky of their eyes.

#Ballad #Song #Poem #Sixties #Hippy #HaightAshbury #SanFrancisco #SummerOfLove #Psychedelia

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True Love Lives Long
© Surazeus
2017 03 22

Star woman, come twang the strings of my heart
and you will hear in music of my eyes
how much your love is an integral part
of this immortal spirit that we share,
woven into the fabric of our dreams
for true love lives long after we all die.

Star woman, come dance with me on the beach
where fruit trees laugh with our salacious joy
that rose reborn from the anguish of pain
when we lost each other in blinding rain
so we exchange our refreshed hearts to feast
for true love lives long after we all die.

Star woman, grab my hand with visceral trust
whenever you are falling in despair
since my heart aches with anguish of cruel hope
every time you suffer sorrow of loss
so I empty my heart to refill yours
for true love lives long after we all die.

Star woman, follow me on road of life
that leads from waste land to our paradise
since I now understand your aching heart
enough to know where you will want to go
while I sing the true faith I see in you
for true love lives long after we all die.

#Ballad #Song #Poem #LoveSong #Romance #TrueLove #TogetherForever #YouAndMe #BrokenHeart
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