this static treatment of hyper light
–>th r us t : all mediums —
theater, cinema, drawing,writing,radio
streaming, on-demand /[dead; how can He
reach me? \]
All of my fits of term-rage are TERMS
in all literal sensibilities of WORD.
all borders of all mental space contain
the Soul bilocalty.
and your lovely and fearful emotions
are exquisitely horrifying.
The true image of Love.
:: 05-10-2019 ::
WORD is larger than
typist fingers
as emotions are as the
wealth of a single word
And as this mass of feeling,
when this thing is on point
of coming forth; our
fears, our demons attack us
with force
the word
the image
attacks the mass of feeling
life or death?
:: 05-10-2019 ::
e.p.robles(c)
poetry is more than words
it is a stage
it is a canvas
it is the sky
and more
by colliding objects
by smothering silences
by squelching shouts
there is the rhythm
of a post-language
with images
with idea
with signs
eventually born
in eternal force!
:: 05-10-2019 ::
e.p.robles(c)
No need! No deed. Just now the sun has
come to rise (and you are proud?) that her breasts
are spread upon your bed. The spider laughs near
the tightest corner of the room, but shameful you
forgot her name. To those that have offended me
none more than disheveled men who call themselves
gentlemen. Mother! Let us succumb to temptation
that brings us to harm.
:: 05-07-2019 ::
bits and pieces of my mind some inside
a thought and mostly in pretty clouds
this secret, through the bowels of waves
kept it until this now. i, i cannot feel
pity; strong waves drowning rocks
and breathing fish — through severe orbit
furious eyes wish to remain calm rather.
A halo of glittering gossamer obscure
the periphery of your third-eye and
i cannot speak but say intimate horror
is unbearable during daylight.
so i scream. without mouth.
scream deep inside my stomach
wishing this strange novelty
of isolated nobility stops prowling
around my Soul.
:: 05-08-2019 ::
the Dolls scream in laughter plastic tears
fall into fiery flames while i pass away
into a false floor beneath my Soul — the
cymbals clash with a grimacing monkey making
noise and the angels’ fingers pinch while
pulling me away from the madhouse of my Mind
— let me go! IF all my Love was a cult
of fake believers within me then sweet dreams
and what i know i face myself so go
erase my existence within your minds; all
you thought of me. All my intention,
brought to service of just cause, against
raging disturbances of insanity.
i love. i breathed. ate.
married. divorced. tried
against all odds to survive.
:: 05-08-2019 ::
 | Damien de Soto on Could I Be |
 | EPRobles on Could I Be |
| Damien de Soto on Could I Be |
| Damien de Soto on Drowning in Fear |
 | romanticallyinclined… on A PECK OF KISSmOuth |
E.P. Robles | Poetry 