Surazeus Simon Seamount

But I like that most Christians worship Apollo God of Reason and Music on Sunday instead of the Jovian Sabbath.

When Rain Unfalls Itself
© Surazeus
2026 03 03

Orpheus paints face of Ophelia on the door that is not there in the woods of infinite impossibilities.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2026/03/when...

I eat peanut butter with apple sauce
at the small round table in my brick house,
then drink angel-blood milk of calm belief
that beautiful songs are born from mute grief,
so I open the door to everywhere
to visit each world in the multiverse.

Their long-forgotten gods wake from strange dreams
and gather in the ring of humming stones
to complain about faithful worshippers
who never seek to become their real selves
because they all wear same mask of their god
with desperate fear that life will be destroyed.

During total eclipse of the blood moon
billions of people assemble in halls
and sing hymns to their great ancestral god
depicted by the idol on the stage
that never opens divine eyes of truth
nor ever speaks to grant their fervent prayers.

Behind the door that is not by the sea
I observe the waves that do not unscroll
vast tapestry that depicts nothingness
embodied by people who have no names
while they wander bridge of forgetfulness
till they get tired of losing every game.

I cannot describe what anything is
because words entangle my heart with lies
so I meditate on the hive of bees
while discarding my thoughts on summer breeze
that wafts my fragile body among clouds
above colorless realm of ideal forms.

I walk forever on the signless road
and think about events that never happen
to fill my basket with never-bloomed fruit
while waiting for the world to never turn
when rain unfalls itself to empty skies
that reflect featureless face of Ungod.

When I look at people who are not there
and ask them questions about nothing more
they never explain the rules of their lives
so I make nothing with tools of my hands
and fly without wings on breath of false hope
to map the houses that are never real.

Before the door that is not in the woods
I listen to the voice that does not speak
about painful sorrow I cannot feel,
so I walk without moving nowhere else
till I arrive at the town by the lake
where no one builds houses with garden walls.

When Rain Unfalls Itself
© Surazeus
2026 03 03

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

Twilight Zone Of War
© Surazeus
2026 03 03

Orpheus secretly films Phoebus and Cassandra as they meet for their first date at the Green Dragon Tavern in Boston where ghosts of revolutionaries sing anthems of bravery.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2026/03/twil...

Since no one believes her dire prophecies,
Cassandra walks down crowded city streets
with analysts and programmers who wait
in long lines for sandwiches and fruit tea,
till she and Phoebus stop by fountain pool
and stare with love for eighty thousand years.

Through turbulent expression of true love
Phoebus explains to millions of mute souls
method for singing hymns to movie stars
disguised as corporate spies of formulas,
winged with aspirations of global fame
that leaves him stranded in the city square.

Positive energy of fragrant shadows
teach losers how to forge petulant hope
from dynamic flash of authentic pain,
reckless with redundant contingency
till Phoebus lies paralyzed by the sea
that sings enchanting melodies of faith.

Insomniac angel with fierce lizard brain
leaps laughing in void of expectancy,
yet steals delicious fruit from Tree of Fear
with graceful passion to defend his bride
despite expendable mission to wage
cruel peace against aggressive gangs of thieves.

Starved for new language only children speak
from dictionary of the scarlet moon,
Phoebus waters purple geraniums
while asking ghost of Cassandra if light
reaches her heart in her riverbank grave
where ravens whisper secrets she conceals.

After years of exile in northern lands,
attending to strange business building lies
from bones of angels stuck in factories,
Phoebus returns to twilight zone of war
with bullets forged from misremembered words
that violate eerie beauty of the moon.

After years of exile in northern lands,
attending to strange business building lies
from bones of angels stuck in factories,
Phoebus returns to twilight zone of war
with bullets forged from misremembered words
that violate eerie beauty of the moon.

Aspersed by sorrow of the Absolute,
whose laughter defames beauty of despair,
Phoebus scatters broken words of false faith
against harsh slander of honest contempt,
yet glares with bitter angst at screaming trees
that curl roots around unexploded bombs.

Twilight Zone Of War
© Surazeus
2026 03 03

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

Urgent Game Of Badinage
© Surazeus
2026 03 02

Orpheus flips through pages of the dictionary to translate arcane code of the ancient scroll he finds fallen behind the last shelf in library of lost tale.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2026/03/urge...

Convinced I will hear astral voice of God
through austromancy of unspoken thoughts,
I write my quest with aurigraphic code
to warrantize my frame of reference
through secret cabotage of treasure chests
since I cherish caducity of faith.

Concealed by grim torfaceous attitude,
I focus on bibliogenesis
to maintain state of burgensic respair,
revived from fear with mentation of dreams,
because through morphallaxis I transcend
morient process of the errant seer.

Protected by my arborescent heart,
I express feelings with torrentine verse
through cluttered anguish of tautophony
to perform role of facinorous clown
with brave abduracy of mute contempt,
yet prefer to obambulate through Hell.

Proud of my honest rurigenous ways,
using eromancy to fix my soul,
I preach weird anecdotes of human fate
to nubilate the obvious facts of love,
derived from codex of kalology
because I apricate my weary heart.

Diffluent time of arbitrary gears,
contrived with urgent game of badinage,
saginates my sabelline heart with pride,
so I progress through life with uberty
to hyalograph events of great import,
preserved through raucous rubricality.

Abacinated by dream of strange truth
that twists my heart with maliferous hope,
I ride tantivy over rugged hills
to measure love with geomantic tools
by drinking from the sparkling winterbourne
that meanders with lacertilian grace.

Another day in land of Zathamar
provides new opportunities to grow,
so I rise up from comfort of my bed
to walk in dream land of my throbbing head
and build expanding castle from blue snow
that gleams with sacred light of the First Star.

Through apricity of my elder years,
enchanted by sweet petrichor of dawn,
I savor clinomania of my heart,
yet dare no more perendinate my quest
from brave intention to peregrinate
with tarantism of ephemeral joy.