THE MACHINE HICCUPS
We drove ourselves to hurt
so sit down in sinister wheelchair
outside greasy road like Mannequin
has to wave our way from genetically
MODIFIED INSECT;
my lover drives blue scarab across desert
land and leaves surreal disturbed dirt
Perhaps someone creative has ice tea
can i sip to quell parched heart you see–
all Inevitable. Please, can I have drink
for rollercoaster aching heart?
And those hot air balloons are too low toward
the ground & watching Golem reaching upward
to knock them like geeks out of the Royal Azure skies — and
they call me a freak//i believe the G.O.D. forgot his umbrella
before he fell from our skies\\ and so who is the freak?
E.P. Robles | Poetry 