BEING me is solitary
having born inside
cold reality.
How we move
hearts and eyes
— matter too,
that revelation:
in solidarity.
:: 02.20.2022 ::
Daily Archives: February 21, 2022
BEING ME IS SOLITARY
THE BASTARD CHILD
THE WORLD was meant devouring mouths
dead burnt fields of March
Or if it were, as bearing beauty’s name;
now awaken is leviathan of deep ocean
many dead sailor’s hearts torn wide open
Being born in His Image we are WAR
and frightful power/Jesus was an only
Son with a distant Mother: her eyes
as jewels from some rat in a cage
and her Husband not of Earth
: beauty lacking a tower
Oh Son full of desire to understand
even those tears fall burning dirt
Each yearning suited for slandering
creation with a false esteem
so the world forgot.
:: 02.20.2022 ::
O MOTHERS GIVE UP FOREVER
O mothers give up forever
to hold horses in corrals.
When we stood the sun lowered
into a neighboring hamlet
quivering.
Can’t fight the tears
or the truth or lies
When standing towers stand higher
i, too, exist no longer; my heart beating
my general mouth forcing lips apart.
And i want you to know who i am —
as god from a lofty shoulder sees where
we are going.
Where there’s nothing to believe
and life as fantasy is nothing more
than mysteries — your name.
While we are thinking about tomorrow.
:: 02.20.2022 ::
DRAFTS OF A MENTAL POET DREAMING CLOUDS
So, feeling awake then a falcon of
emotions
*
As feathers grasping mid-air
believe me believe don’t believe
how you forget secretive lips bleeding
: as even animals betray what they
can be — Gabriel screams: god made you
heavy and we carried
*
HOW LONG this human contrived
a dissembled love of chilled heart
true, thus feelings here on earth
apprehending for, oh, what mystified
feelings — I FEEL cool walking upon
a cloud — apprehending beautiful
face OH misty New Orleans cobbled
streets in 1899/
*
that joy mutually comprehended
and raised our love within
the incomprehensible 2020’s.
how i had to tell you how i feel
as time flees / told you once \
provisional feelings encompassed
the surmised beyond.
:: 02.20.2022 ::
DRAFT FOR THE CONTINUATION OF ‘A MAD POETWRITING BY CANDLE LIGHT OF ALL NIGHTS’
WOULD YOU dance a fugue behind
the outhouse / under the hands of beautiful
things that bloom, Oh! upon sacred plains where
shepherds go.
That once i loved Jessica the Nun! Within
her silk nun’s habit i saw her pendulous breasts
(i prayed to the cult of Virgins then) and stuck
my tongue within her mouth for penance
: God forgave the lesser angels as they are from
a different order. The rest of them congregated
as horny vampires and ate me while I held their
heads below the Church Steeple.
:: 02.20.2022 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 