Author Archives: EPRobles

About EPRobles

Writer, Artist. I like to paint abstract acrylic images onto canvas. I love to read everything, and I especially enjoy science, philosophy, and the arts. I'm new to the blog experience and I very much enjoy it! I hope to learn as much about all the features that WordPress offers and thank you -- my visitor -- for taking time to read my words. Peace and love...

Strange Claims Adjuster

My Sweet Lover of ages / the Strange Claims Adjuster
of mysterious poses \ within a world so cold
making pink ice cream ponies,
How we scream sometimes at each other and spit in
the frozen air /touch me if you will upon my stomach
where all butterflies are tied
up \ —-> i met the corner
with the skin of my soft hip
and sanguinolency masterbation
spread outward into the castle
where we went || deep inside
the body of our MIND
ABYSSOPELAGIC lust! Oh okay,
the next morning we went hunting
(after that funky time) for panacea.

She took me within her arms with
more than two eyes burning inside
(the lights went out) I fed her
special green grass and she sang,
“Taradiddle” oh wicked __ nikki.

I spoke a word, “
Mercy” but i could never buy my
Life back with any money ||

Kisses mellifluous while watching
syzygy align!~ We grind.

:: 07.03.2022 ::

Honey Lamp

My Heart breaks the stairway of fire and mud
a decapitated museum of flesh and visual pain
transforms shattered life THERE WITHIN my
spirit crying of windows natural friendship
As ashlar of forest flees through low bridges
Eros much more flees from my loving heart
I hear upon a morning light a band of insects
that eat the kind Light of Love/ the head hears
aluminum letters of abc holding birds of insurance
\ emanation of carpets i hope beauty  are as burning
ashes from the gates of archipelago pursable fascinator
of enigmas.  Within the hands bleeding mirrors broken.

The course of this prose blinded but not for poets.
Whose arrows course blindly within a universal dream
connected to the honey lamp.

:: 07.02.2022 ::


On one of these laps of the fishing boats with their red sails that scour the island of the insane we look up.

The woman who was staring from the harbour is back there, in a sea of people.

We read about the great gap between the people and the colonialists.

The press that did not come here that shows pictures of half-naked women with white clothes and black teeth.

The madness of the man on the second floor is beyond the penetration of the purple arrow.

We read the messages of the leftist and the feminist struggle in Portuguese and Spanish and we do not know what it means.

The man who raises up the voice of union does not know the relatives who listen to the voices of the streets and of the flowers and of the trees the voice of the ascetic saying that does not stress the ear.

I clearly knew beyond this stormy weather within my head. I am the poet writing this prose.

The sailor sailing blindly — flying!

:: 07.02.2022 ::


a pity.

How hearts break
while causing each other harm.

We take each other’s heart
a p a r t ~ ~ to cause
each other pain/to take each
other’s love without thinking
any more\ isn’t it a pity.


Some days in haze without explaining
to people we’re so insane:
how beauty surrounds us like clouds
and green lands all around us.

Not thinking any more.

It’s a pity so ashamed
how we break each other’s heart
for the cause of pain.

How we take love to make it our own
but it’s getting bad:

bleeding out each other’s veins

Such a pity.

For the lovely people.

:: 07.02.2022 ::


I ate the dream of my head tonight
oh boy. i wrote the script of life
and the other one died for love
so i laughed because i saw the photographs
||| she had long legs as golden brown
and society stood and stared // –>
i directed a film called WAR and how
the crowd turned away saying they
knew the story having read the book
of Love and Death

\i wept beside a broken river
that never stops its tears \

Then i awoke. I grabbed my clothes
and went downstairs to retrieve my
bag of Dreams : the toaster spoke
saying how it destroyed a universe
when i placed bread inside it’s slot
— they burned the Werelings Inside.

That’s another story for another day.

:: 07.02.2022 ::


Behold the silver river of head juice
plumb line who is privy to secret love

i pierced the sight of diamond dust
kissing the white peacock as she spread
her tail beind the crust of acid lies!

it comforts me / so relaxing i smoke
her smile full of lip stick sketched
backwards to have never been sensed
but by me ~~~ an atonement for false
wittnesses / of pearl fishers whose
feet are full of beach sand
— their faces turned into a coral pink
their breasts swinging around the shop
window greeting men with coffee and no

i voiced two worlds and even without
purpose served a two-bit thug stealing
my verse —

A pendicle from the central chandelier of
the Earth.

I refuse to feed them!

:: 07.02.2022 ::

A Beautiful Fire

Love weighs as much as the dream that dislodges a swinging door in the high and the low mark is furthermore, the gold coin that vegetates in the forest of one night as a single night gives us the sense of yes and the contradiction of the no of that coin; a swinging door every night gives love to the intermittent stars — two contradictory shadows make love the most splendid flame and establish forever the golden principle of love.

The lamp that the text of the shadow has broken into a thousand fragments of dawn lets out alchemical words and a million shadow-years we respond with a million woman-years each woman is an alchemist syllable.

The mirror and its minute waves deliver us to life that part of simultaneous high and low tide with great power we cross its burning chest more demanding than the cyclothymic toche and we go out into what they ambiguously call life attracted by the reflection of a twinkling of feathers while at our back the mirror thoroughly erases its images and we unarmed do not find the entrance, we who find the exit luxury that groans in the night the lamp has cut its wrists for love to finally know what darkness is Love weighs as much as reality that dislodges that swinging door opens inside closes outside exteriorizes a specter the puberty of sleep internalizes a world that swinging door camouflaged as a jungle and only one tree is enough to dissolve its mystery the phoenix of love throws its ashes into the air!

Love can ignite the eternal fuse and it flies from the X in an ever-expanding poem as ephemeral and lifelike as the Moon is engulfed by an abyss in that same ultimate solitude Love is burning and it glows through a beautiful fire.

it is not the sound that makes you cry // it is not the sight that tears your eyes \
it is not the touch that hurts
it is not the feelings that make you cry
it is the scene of the moment
and it is the moment of the perspective that makes you cry
and you cry with your whole being as if you have never cried at all
and the other minute waves carrying the alchemical fire in the silence
awash with words like hidden tears
then return that reduces you to a mass of loathing

It is that once that sound has passed you, that one expression that sends you into mourning that begins to tarnish the form of love and make it hollow, its hero, once human, becomes contemptible, quiescent, and unconscious.

Only then are you in proximity to nature in a phenomenal intimacy.

:: 07.01.2022 ::

A Lace Torn

He had a good family but didn’t mind that his cold sister didn’t allow him to sit in the crescent at mealtimes.

When he entered the school, a louse was implanted on his chest. He climbed the tree, and when he descended the watermelon was a louse.

His life was diminished by the fall of a pin.

They called his aunt from a neighbor.

He found that from the savory overripe taste of the urine,


There had been a flight of cymbals.

“It is still winter, just think of it, today is winter.

It was so beautiful for two minutes.

And you, you are speaking about winter, and I am living.”

He noticed her blouse, her shoulders, her beautiful legs.

“What are you looking at?”

“You. You are something remarkable. I love to have you in my arms. And your stomach is so fat, no?


They took some rooms.

The lace was torn, and the bride had a headache from a bash, it had been a jilbab he put on and the veil of the crucifixion.

The bride was in a pajama, and she lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

He took his glasses off, and gave her some water.

“There. Now you can put on the sunglasses. They are there. They’ve been there.”

They lay in bed.

She stroked his head.

She kissed his lips, and he closed his eyes.

“We’ll be there in a minute,” he said.

When they arrived at the party, some people said that they shouldn’t go in the library, but in the next room.

They went into the corridor, and a woman with a small head came out of the library.

“Are you new?”

She put a finger on his lips.

“Are you asleep?”

“Yes, I am very tired. I had trouble sleeping. I was thinking about the problem of God.” he said.

“We’ve been talking about this for a long time. She looks a little suspicious. I know that she does not approve of me. I am very sure. I’ve met her twice in the park. You are so much mistaken if you say that she is my wife. She is a very good friend.”

They went to the room.

The music was terrific.

He remembered dancing with her in the school, with the knife strapped upon her thigh, and with a knife in her mouth. She threw herself to him, and she began to cry.

“There is a man. He wants to send me back to the mountains. He has not given up. The man says that the mountains are more beautiful. I like the mountains very much. It’s very sad to have him look at me like that. The woman says that I am going to die. She says that I am going to die.”

“The laws are different in the mountains,” she said.

“And where are you going to die? And have a problem with the disease?” He asked.

“A lot of people have the disease. They are buried in the mountains.”

“And you are going to the mountains to die?”

“No. In another town.”

“And where is the problem?”

“You cannot live as a lesbian. It is not good. It’s very bad. Yes? A beautiful woman like you, it is not good. It is bad.”

“How do you know all this?”

“The women who live with their women are beautiful and happy.

But the woman who has a man is not.

He goes to the mountains to die, and the woman has a fat belly.

She is unhappy.”

“Didn’t you say something like that before?

You said that if the woman has a man, and her belly is fat, then it is bad.

But this woman is fat.

She is not happy.”

“I told you that I cannot have a man, no?

I am a bad man.

It is not good.

My father was a good man.

He was a member of the Orthodox Church.

He was not happy.

I am happy because I have a man, but he is not happy.



She was holding her head.

She was crying.

“Are you tired?”

He said.

“You have been crying.”

“No, I am not tired.

The woman told me.

I am happy.

I love him.

I love him.

He is strong.

I love him very much.

She tells me that if I have a man, I will die, yes?”

“What does it matter if it is a man or a woman who dies?”

“Because I can not have a man.

He is good, but I cannot have a man.

I cannot.”

“Is it possible to have a man?”


When I was a child, I wanted a family.

My mother told me that I was a man.

But I cannot have a man.

You can not kill a man, and a woman does not want to kill a man.

I want to be with a man.

It’s beautiful.

I want to be happy.

I want to be with a man.

If I want to die, it will be good.”

“If you were going to die,” he said, “what would you like to have?”

“I would have a fruit tree.”

:: 07.01.2022 ::

Cricket and Bee

The cricket woke me!

As it scurried by, I noticed it was wearing a cloth (as if it were a tail!).

I had no sense of what time it was, but I noticed it was (after all!) about daybreak.

(This was later told to me) that many bats are nocturnal, or else they are so easily startled, they flee to cover their heads and hide.

In their defense, I suppose it may well have been mid-afternoon, for there was a palpable somberness in the air.

But, I felt there was no time to lose. I was to find EROS and leave on my mission.

With some haste, I left the dark streets, and headed south. I walked along a dirt path, although I did not really know where it went or to go.

The area was shrouded in darkness (though there was just enough moonlight to see) and as I walked through a hedge of willows I felt disoriented and was careful to go very, very slowly (if not all in terror, I would surely turn to cactus!).

When I reached a “Road” I noticed it had a layer of pebbles on it, and walked past it, just in case there were some venomous snakes on that road. (At that point it would have been more like trying to get out of a sheet of plywood than to a mat of tinfoil!).

As I walked, it became more and more foggy, and though I could see quite a distance ahead of me, in all other directions it was pitch dark.

When I reached the far side of the light of day, I happened to look ahead of me.

In that brief moment, something fell down in front of me!

I saw it laying there, spread-eagled, but before I could move, it rolled right up onto its feet and began running towards me!

It had been a mosquito — and it had died — just because of me!

I was trapped in a painful searing haze of irritation.

I reached for a pocket knife from my pocket, and slowly began inching backwards.

I must not get trapped by the mosquito (i)n that maze!

I was already avoiding all sorts of vermin (e.g. earthworms, centipedes, snakes, scorpions etc) that night; why did it have to choose me!

So, I crawled backwards, very slowly, back to my camp spot.

I stood up, and in my irritation I drew a cross on my heart.

The mosquito landed on a rock, and I quickly looked around. There was no one around.

Then the mosquito’s wings swept over my head, and it disappeared down into the gloom.

I turned around, and began to head back.

But, as I walked, a dim, red light began to grow larger.

The light grew steadily, until it became a helicopter.

As it hovered in the sky, my exhaustion from the previous night began to grow.

The mosquito had chased me all the way to my spot, and was now guarding it!

And so I did what I had to do: I ran away, in a panic, back to my camp, where I found myself comfor(ing) again with the cricket.

I may have forgotten the sun was up that morning, for I was greatly exhausted.

But it was about that time I began to feel hungry, so I sat down at my cooking fire, and, while I ate, I watched the giant stone (that I had almost stepped on), turn slowly.

Eventually, it disappeared.

I then called out in triumph (albeit slightly in jest)

“It’s gone! I can go home now!

I can go back to sleep for the rest of the day!”

And the cricket replied:

“I’m so glad you could finally see that stone. I’m just happy to be here with you. Be sure you come back again and visit me some time!

(If you should find a bug in your hair, don’t scratch it, it will die! Just take me to its hiding place!).”

It may be hard to believe, but each and every cricket inhabits a different cave; though some are inside of rocks.

Some live in the stream that flows nearby,

and some live inside rocks.

But they all love to hang out together — all the insects in this area!

It’s a great group of friends, we spend all day in the cool of the cave,

and the nights are filled with nature’s best.

(These days the cricket — who I now know to be Augustus Insecta, was the only creature to come to my aid, and stand guard over my hut that night — and many nights thereafter.)

And, while I was happy to leave that place, I still took many souvenirs of it with me.

I used bits of it as walls and ceilings, and anything else I could take, and when I built my home at the foot of that giant stone, I built my roof out of it!

And, to this day, whenever I go up to the “Cockroach Tunnel,”

I still look back, and remember Augustus Insecta, who, I suppose, was the real hero of that place.

I know, I know, there’s a lot more to talk about, but I’ve only scratched the surface.

Those are just some quick observations about that particular cave.

There’s plenty more I could tell you, if you care to know.

But you have to start at the very beginning — where it all began —

and you have to come with me now! I’m happy to say I made it all the way!

That’s right — I can’t believe I’ve made it this far, but here I am.

It was a beautiful morning, and I was ready to escape the heat and sun and I figured I’d just walk around, open the gate, and take a look around.

I’d noticed some new flowers in the past days and wanted to see if there was anything interesting around the creek.

I headed up to the rutabagas, and there was something very strange about one that had suddenly bloomed, while I was gone.

I was flabbergasted by it!

Then, I heard a strange sound. It was coming from the pines!

I was so shocked, I forgot what I was looking for — and, it was too late to go back, so I went to see what I had found. I found it quickly, and it was indeed a bee.

But I could tell it was not a normal one. It was not fat, and there was no veil in its wings — I was amazed by its size! It was no bigger than the tip of my finger, but it seemed much, much taller. And, it looked almost as if it might fly away, but it sat on a leaf near the creek’s edge.

It sat there patiently, and then, it began to walk down the side of the hill, as if it was walking to meet me.

“Hi! Hi! I’m the Bee,” he said!

“I know you, I know you!” he said.

“I’ll tell you what I am — I am the longest living creature

who will ever exist. We share this earth with the other

creatures, but, only in relative terms, we have a lot more in common,

and they’re quite nice and useful.

// //

Engraver of My Soul

From as far away as she can see, let it come to her as a hand’s span of her whiteness. Even so is she without color and not wholly white— everywhere, without color at all. when she lifts her veil she sees— let it come to her as a hand’s span of her whiteness. The third definition, one almost completely made up of related but incompatible concepts, has also inspired a certain amount of speculation, from thousands of artists over the centuries. Of course, the representation of all of these concepts (white, black, pale, dark) would be exceedingly difficult, though the distinction between “polished” and “lame” façades seems particularly interesting to me.

Who is the Malay in the sky? …it is not he who remains seated. The one who sits there is the wind; It does not recognize this? It will not recognize. He is the Great Ocean! She is the loyal girl of a house on a plane; the goddess is the daughter of a King— She is the goddess of luck!

The one who sits there is the Star! She has no name for this! No Name! The name of the one who Might be a dragon-god is a brown stick with ink stains and scratches, which she gives to her faithful. When the maid ’s back begins to move, a sleeping; when the hands of the god begin to move, the Girl of Flowers, many-faced, comes into his possession and is made his wife.

How much noise there will be with what she will say! How much nonsense — If the moment comes when they cannot shout a thousand echoes of this shall roll up into, a hall of destruction! It is not he who remains seated— the sky is the dragon! For the god, if it does not recognize his Self, for the mysterious parent, and for the spirit of the mother’s the deity will manifest as a day.

The rule is to have a day?

A day, he will say, the gods create when you look into my sky—I frayed by the water of my heart I am and even if you build me a heaven, are scattered to and fro, which I must If any returns to this world to say that the earth is firm in this, what do you In spirit declare? Or what do you say? If anyone says that the heaven is firm, the earth is like its “skeleton,”

What do you say?

No—it is very clearly this:

When it is the Earth’s sky or any sun which he has made solid, it is like a day to the god of night; when the sun is at its zenith it is no longer a day to the god of the night. But once there is a day for him he tells, when he sets the “sky” against the “earth,” as it were “like a hole on the back of my head,”
It is like a day to the god of night. Or he breaks the body of his father’s house—
“It is not as you imagine!” he says/ And once, as when someone, for whom we are paying in advance, tells us to go/

“How much he owes me!”—he stresses that much.

If the day which does not recognize him is like “a child’s drawing” the night— from as far away as she can see let it come to her as a hand’s span of her whiteness.

And if she lifts her veil she sees— let it come to her as a hand’s span of her whiteness. Is there a gesture or a facial expression? There will be, shall there not? What can be a look? Her head will shake for a moment—she can neither speak nor breathe as all her ears hear.
She runs, has no way of knowing how ro bow down and be moved by the peace. With what language can she come to you? If it is not through you and through your ears? You desire to hear her dream, the storm not come—let not the rain, the lightning, the storm, or the wind: will come to you, and should you hear the shrill sounds of the night-jungle and so strange

The dragon that has risen from the soot, you would not want to go back into the Earth and not the old Earth.
THE WOMAN’S SPIRIT /// in the beginning, after the virgin egg was laid the Mother of Paris took hold of the fertilized egg and, suckling it, held it in the darkness between her thighs. when the egg was filled she laid it before her Sucking and smiling and laving She called it as it was coming to life:

“Morning Star!” “Great Fable!” she sang.

Then, when she’d stopped her work, it was deep-Came out of the ground, and as it appeared It was
looking down at her with opening Smile, and the sound of it, and the light: The clear breath—he said, “It is Morningstar!”

The World’s Greatest kiss- no :://}|| THE NOBLE WIFE AND THE NOBLE GIRL — “He is someone who is beautiful—one is surrounded by someone. For him the truth exists, when it does not belong to his will. When his the warm breath of him is flowing. He puts everything else aside and The word “beautiful” no longer pleases him.
‘And I shall not agree to serve you, dear wife, B ut I shall be your servant, woman.” As long as I am the bearer of your children, I shall suffer the scorn of others. I will not stop long in my calling: ‘Those who despise me are the ones to envy; Those who praise me are the ones to fear; All the difference, if I am honored, Struggles not to get at me. Of all the groans that cause me pain, the least is enough to make me rejoice. If I am the bearer of your children, I shall suffer the scorn of others.’

Is there an idea there that needs breaking through, something that should be beaten down with nails,
A thing that would last and give strength to your will and make you see with your whole being that it is true? The man’s wife: nothing is the sum of itself, what he thinks of her has nothing to do with her,
Her mind is something in itself that’s ever here in the seat of his thoughts.
So you should believe in her—speak her name like the apostles of Christ; you should shout it, like the Jews in the desert; you should think of her, like the French, the day after a liberation; you should admire the last flowering of the human species. When they approach a woman; when the head of the table is lifted to receive the cup of life, when the name of a woman is humbled by her history, when all the chains of the past are broken and thrown aside. So you should love her, so that your heart and mind are awakened by the beauty of her existence and show her the warm smile of it.

“I can keep time; I can wear everything.
“I’ve learned how to hold something up and it goes in a circle. I can come to each house in the town and if they are a poor family. We can eat for less than the cost of a meal. If they have dirty clothes or not, or they have to walk— We’ll do it in a half-hour.”

“I will wander through the forest, thinking of the empty street, where there is nothing; will come to a corner and there will be a lady and her children.”

“I got a big experience when I was studying

In a medical school.

“I couldn’t go. So the universe died.”

:: 10.16.2020 ::