Dust only stifles the already forgotten
The dead breathe
Their gaze perforated
Their mouth stretched by the electric play
Of the immense yawning
Of the final sneezing
By the suction and sobbing
By the hiccup and the last burp
If love is the son of the eye
Fire the son of wood
And wind the son of void’
upon my knees Baracuda
Even forests can hope for the brush fire
Is there a pain more in love with its prod
Than mine?
Vinegar revives old wounds
Insomnia sharpens the star`s branches
A breath too abrupt and it evaporates
If God were a kite
Who the hell is King George Sand
[From the collection Faire signe au machiniste (1970)]
There Are Intersections…
There are intersections where the night
The joy jumps on the back
Of the passerby
Such the lonely dawn in the acid wind
The decapitated dies standing up
Below Body to body in the mud
Teeming furnace| The worms
Whips with triple straps
Caress the tip of the roots
Of flesh
Meat of sacrifice
Gem of the putrefaction
With no burden other than its arms
Tied elbow to elbow
Behind
Bundles of blood on the promised land
Prospectus of fertilizer
There are spittings in the very depths of the mirror
Scratches in the snow
Perjuries languish
In the eyes of our companions
Steam and sweats of the authoritarian woman
Naked on the floor Vibrating from hatred
“Move along” screams Evangeline
Too late
The well is dry the flies gone
In the jumble of greenery
A slight scent of underarm hesitates
Still
Petticoats from the bark of the phallus
Serve as extinguisher
Setting sun
Dust only stifles the already forgotten
The dead breathe
Their gaze perforated
Their mouth stretched by the electric play
Of the immense yawning
Of the final sneezing
By the suction and sobbing
By the hiccup and the last burp
If love is the son of the eye
Fire the son of wood
And wind the son of void’
upon my knees Baracuda
Even forests can hope for the brush fire
Is there a pain more in love with its prod
Than mine?
Vinegar revives old wounds
Insomnia sharpens the star`s branches
A breath too abrupt and it evaporates
If God were a kite
Who the hell is King George Sand
[From the collection Faire signe au machiniste (1970)]
There Are Intersections…
There are intersections where the night
The joy jumps on the back
Of the passerby
Such the lonely dawn in the acid wind
The decapitated dies standing up
Below Body to body in the mud
Teeming furnace| The worms
Whips with triple straps
Caress the tip of the roots
Of flesh
Meat of sacrifice
Gem of the putrefaction
With no burden other than its arms
Tied elbow to elbow
Behind
Bundles of blood on the promised land
Prospectus of fertilizer
There are spittings in the very depths of the mirror
Scratches in the snow
Perjuries languish
In the eyes of our companions
Steam and sweats of the authoritarian woman
Naked on the floor Vibrating from hatred
“Move along” screams Evangeline
Too late
The well is dry the flies gone
In the jumble of greenery
A slight scent of underarm hesitates
Still
Petticoats from the bark of the phallus
Serve as extinguisher
Setting sun
Dust only stifles the already forgotten
The dead breathe
Their gaze perforated
Their mouth stretched by the electric play
Of the immense yawning
Of the final sneezing
By the suction and sobbing
By the hiccup and the last burp
If love is the son of the eye
Fire the son of wood
And wind the son of void’
upon my knees Baracuda
Even forests can hope for the brush fire
Is there a pain more in love with its prod
Than mine?
Vinegar revives old wounds
Insomnia sharpens the star`s branches
A breath too abrupt and it evaporates
If God were a kite
Who the hell is King George Sand
[From the collection Faire signe au machiniste (1970)]
There Are Intersections…
There are intersections where the night
The joy jumps on the back
Of the passerby
Such the lonely dawn in the acid wind
The decapitated dies standing up
Below Body to body in the mud
Teeming furnace| The worms
Whips with triple straps
Caress the tip of the roots
Of flesh
Meat of sacrifice
Gem of the putrefaction
With no burden other than its arms
Tied elbow to elbow
Behind
Bundles of blood on the promised land
Prospectus of fertilizer
There are spittings in the very depths of the mirror
Scratches in the snow
Perjuries languish
In the eyes of our companions
Steam and sweats of the authoritarian woman
Naked on the floor Vibrating from hatred
“Move along” screams Evangeline
Too late
The well is dry the flies gone
In the jumble of greenery
A slight scent of underarm hesitates
Still
Petticoats from the bark of the phallus
Serve as extinguisher
Setting sun
E.P. Robles | Poetry 