Daily Archives: October 26, 2022

October 26, 2022

Poco Purido

By EPRobles

i have parched lips dripping on a highway mind
besides your heart
i dreamed and see cotton-candy
buzzards so drawn into your love

i forget i cannot go there into your dead
soul-cage heart ~ Gay! Captivating word
for this priceless Age ! A world now known
for renowned investigators of cellophane
purple umbilical nooses .

A dictum of a new world!

And a priceless Miss(believe it or)loose souls are a certain young
(fe)male confused in our society to betray the noose (oh hum)
give me a gun! So Miss(believe it or answer did (s)he meet the libido or cut that soul of baby breath
or the highness of a higher mind? So time slows down and i give you a poco purido to contemplate your
Pieces out-of-water-fish dancing dry death — so they sing, “we don’t know what it is…
don’t know what it means.

:: 01062016 ::

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October 26, 2022

Dead Girl’s Smile

By EPRobles

Not that anyone cares.
In the lightless hall striking scores with hands, toes, thighs, waist,
the gesture becomes language itself; surgeons wear masks, the women wear masks.

Mirrors on the walls
Reflect glasses on eyeballs
As heads, arms, hands, feet,
And legs are moved and erased,
Draped in skin-tight gowns
Which hang from feet,
In corpses’ striving twists,
Untransfigured hands grasp pillows
as they are pushed back to lift dressings,
as they try to fold clothes which flutter to the floor like bared breasts

As heads are pressed into pillows, like soil into seed.

And he is no doctor.
A vampiress is there, and she fixes her eyes on him, her mouth curling
to cast a dead girl’s smile when she speaks to him in Her foreign tongue.

When he leans over her to press the mirror to her forehead
as she is being lifted for transfer to Healing care, It is a mirror
Of life, and he asks his patient

What she sees,
And she responds,

“You see?

You’re dead.”

And now her stories and poems appear in public space, best poets, prairie Schooner.

Too.

:: 10.25.2022 ::

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October 26, 2022

Quietly Unseen

By EPRobles

QUIETLY UNSEEN

Forgive me, father!
In youth, at country fairs,
I didn’t seek out boring shooting galleries where every shot hits,
Rather, those loud places where donkeys
With weary flanks unfurled long bloody tubes
I still can’t comprehend!
And my mother too,
Whose slip smelled sharply,
Rumpled and yellowed at its hem like fruit,
My mother who would climb noisily into bed
-A daughter of toil-my mother, with her
Ripe womanly thighs, her heavy hips
Creasing the sheets, got me hot in ways you shouldn’t talk about!
A rawer, calmer guilt came
When my little sister, just back from class,
Her clogs worn down on the ice,
Pissed, and I watched a mawkish thread of urine!
Escape from her tight pink nether lips.
o forgive me!
Sometimes I would think about my father:
At night, card games and bawdy talk,
Our neighbor stopping by, me shoved aside, seeing certain things …
-Fathers can be frightening! -The things you imagine!
His lap, sometimes cuddly; his pants
My finger wanted to pry open at the fly … -Dh no!-
To touch my father’s dark, fat, hard head,
Whose hairy hand had rocked me!
I shouldn’t speak __|

:: 10.25.2022 ::

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October 26, 2022

All My Love Turns to Glass

By EPRobles

i LET the tears fall down my face   beneath the shame of living weak
i told Gabriel take me all   inside my heart is a Sun
mostly never seen — and they   burn away |  oh yea yea

i FORGET the summer banks   of French shores
but brothers died there   so i relate

all for war
all for whores
all for personalities
who hate

Sliding like dead souls   on the malaise yesterday
shivering whirling   yet i move o — somewhere
deep inside like an old soul crystalling so i jump
too much i blush   i sharpen my rage
you left me so never to be the Goliath of your Word

citizens bragues trampled   by traps of cracked minds.
Their dirty hands cleaning   the gout of urine on the war-
spread sidewalk where bodies   lengthen in the sun’s heat.

Poltergeist activity continued   at nuisance level — a coke can
returned time after time to the top of my burea inside my bedroom.

  Fork and spoon hiding rather shyly in   the sink — children’s characters all
me dying.  And Bill and Ben of the Flowerpot
Men, coming back to check upon the child
i am.  I jumped inside the car of my best friend
from the 16th century and we rode out screaming
“alive alive!”

:: 10.25.2022 ::

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