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...



OCTOBER 16, 2020

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 ::

A Cold Dinner

NOW are those sure hearts to leave this empty beach, the weather wrought with hurricanes, the water fish to deify where the paddle was, where he sprouted disheveled chin and beardless chest the same, grasping the early in time the moral treasure he rotted at the bottom. Is even now he rots. rose bob. feel these cold nights, creeps of night seas, a thin secret being more intoxicated than well, drugged out the man and would grin a millennium to come.
What a fucking idiot. an idiot. this turn of events his sudden focus. the woman who stole from him all his violent and sensuous fears despair. his warm arms now become impromptu ones. the ellipses here, but only in intimacy. his fingernails roughened coarse, fingerless to say, yet as they are repeated in his gray, decrepit manner, afraid of breakage, one foot scraping his toes like an afterthought, receding at the matter caught, at no matter.” here, no “and himself” by which to capture a crowning tense reality, a man who will not listen for the godlike one who will, who resembles his index fingers until now.
what is a traveler who wants to look forward as though to complete his vacation? what would that be like?
he must leave, but when he gets home, he wonders if she cares to know he came. what will she do to him when they finish sharing dinner? what will he do for her, will she report him to the media? what will he take from her that he didn’t already have in his pocket, that he’d no longer stop her from becoming the next flower in his balloon of affection? who am I going to tell when I want to leave him alone? this cop-out argument makes no sense. what a narrative.
a son wins that fight but can’t cross-train. nothing changed: the given weight of events and the deadened sense of impotent disappointment that someone could be so cruel in their harm. heart-breaking anesthetic: think about this feeling of knowing, in our modern ultra-deprived state, that someone they knew was in pain, taking his last breath, his final wink, and no one was there to hear, watch. but no one called, nobody entered his recovery bedside, they just got up the courage to look and not the baby eyes, felt for a moment that awful gentleness he could never have found, that kindness and generosity. and then this society of no empathy was the least of our problems? honestly, why did they do that? the things
I wonder about are huge:
what of the child from all those shells of books and shorts and pulps? what of all the talent that has stagnated in the slam. of all the raw beauties buried in the spaces between expectation, shame,and self-doubt, behind us like a mill!

10.14.2020 ::


Oh, by the by — oh my
how i wept upon a sigh
gently flowing on my side/
knowing emptiness within
my mind\  Oh, by the by —
creating worlds within my
lonely mind — never touching
tender female skin:  always
kissing empty spaces and
aching to die.

Oh, my.  

When death comes.  A deep

:: 10.14.2020 ::

Oh, my.  

When death comes.  A deep

:: 10.14.2020 ::


i see you in plastic eyes i smell you in stomach juice
ah! hahaha! would you tell me that you are a queen of my heart?
don’t roll over my stomach!
hahahahahahah aaaaaah
how could you smile when i die
how could you kill me when i’m dead?
would you believe me when I tell
you that you were the queen of my heart?
a boat drowning in the amazon
river — sheesh
hungry piranhas
tearing flesh from all bones
i ate the holy ghost
and Jesus died on the riverbank
And if you save yourself: God
took a finger and stuck it in your ass
— makes you happy now. You really
like to turn pain into sex.
I wonder why you cut yourself
to see red juice fall from my eyes
— your breasts bleed blood so you
fed aborted fetus Judas’ tears.
how I hate you. How many
children unborn die for your
righteous life. You really rock
and knot nightmares.
brings your evil shit
around. You really like to
knock and roll. It’s rude
but so true.

:: 10.12.2020 ::


Hello new baby born of this world. Lay your sleeping head, my love,
upon the lap of humanity. Upon my faithless arms; here we cannot eat
color nor hear emotions as where you came from — here time and fevers
burn away as any beauty; a curse and blessing. To understand one must
find their selves at the outer edges of the universe away from all humanity.
Dear beautiful baby, my thoughtful grandchild; the grave proves the
child ephemeral: but within my words and history i know how fragile
all things are.

So watch the swan upon the lake; hear the insects buzzing within the
deep woods — Nature; here tolerant enchanted hope.

It is all about universal love and hope.

The stars send their fossil light in grave vision of supernatural sympathy.

And I love you. I love you.

:: 10.12.2020 ::


WHEN the sky came down // when the wind left and the
oceans drained \ when the righteous sang, “by god.”
WE saw the creatures of life running to and fro
and saw how the machine held our hearts and eyes —
in chains.

When the sky came down.
when the night wept,
when the eyes of all creatures cried:
they hid from a perfect storm.

Everyone ran fron the wars and left the
desloation of Nations — when the purple
color and red became day when love screamed
we cried…for a god that never came.

Now, afterward we live life in the drifting horror
of dust and sand.

From the cruelty that defines
the small mouths of what humans are: let it be known
when the sky came down when the sun went away
and the Earth screamed and those who claimed
in God’s name he’ll save our skin; the light
burned our sight and killed our kin.

When the sky came down/ when the sun went dark\
and the universe wept and the righteous sang
to a dead god — we survived. Again.

:: 10.11.2020 ::


SHE is young.  

The one who roams amongst pink roses, oh crush
oh must of doves;  the fortress of a high ceiling sun, and then
she speaks through a flute of wild wind and separates the clouds
from the rain.  

    My skin, my heart, my eyes are filled with cherry blossoms
and only then and only then I realize I am spurting from my heart.

  i smell the smell of fallen water as drops upon thirsty dirt;
i hear i feel the thunderous hoofbeats of raging horsemen,
dreams filled with velocities and misfortunes.

    i see i see the bloody roses and thorn knives cut flesh
who rides a beast of Love with an apple and goblet of wine
   because i am a poet of words and words and emotions
that can never die.  Broken wings that are twisted charis
waiting for a winter, and the dead dove, with love.

:: 10.10.2020 ::


IN the depths of thoughts we go as we are in night
of long lists, in the night like a pisces; your slient
silence-sign screams — come // lodge me in your back
\  in your mirror, suddenly, memories, solitary,
nocturnal pane: bleeding from the knife in  the dark
behind you.

  Flower of sweet summer wind
total light bring my calling
upward to your mouth of kisses,
  bleeding from separation
(silent private) words.

  Now, then I breathe your breath
as though we made sex catching our
heartbeats.  It is what the dark night preserves.
  Welcome me, broken hammock in a threadlike evening
when at dusk the sun surprises a sky star eye
within my skull — twinkles filled with win.
  No surprise.  Substance glues my eyes.
Madrigal thoughts inside music — an invitation
what the last breath of Love preserves//inside
a cedar box\ deep substance down to me,
smothering my eyes, your hyperExistence cuts
across me, wondering if my human heart is destroyed.
   Little baby feet patter across the garden of
your Highness \ and an exiled mouth bites the flesh
and the grape, i lick the blood from the cuts of
baby breath:  my hair made of madness and from sun’s
depth — the tick-tock clock face, of systematic
              sings the fallen angels:
“Madrigal as baby Feet.”

   within a cedar box.

:: 10.20.2020 ::


The taste of your skin and the color of your heart

i’m crying
i’m singing

when we touched our lips in twilight
i see blue eyes weeping
tell me, when we hugged goodbye
was your heart always beside us
in memories of vain; through years
and journeys and moons and suns,
as children cry out for joy when
it rains when it rains

Love as a dry earth burgeoning that
it did not know// someday when we
met younder the gallop of horses,
the infinite perfume of a dusty earth
that everything you spoke, everything
from your skin that everything comes
back to my mouth.

i’m crying
i’m singing

like newborn bread:
and with you i become born again
in the rain.

:: 10.10.2020 ::


Oh my goodness gracious let me tell you the news:
  My head’s been wet with the midnight dew //   I’ve been down on bended knee:   Talkin’ to the man from Galilee.  He spoke to me in the voice so sweet. I thought I heard the shuffle of the angel’s feet \  He called my name and my heart stood still.

When he said, “Phillip, go do my will!”
Well my goodness gracious let me tell you the news:
My head’s been wet with the midnight dew — I’ve been down on bended knee.

Talkin’ to the man from Galilee.   He spoke to me in the voice so sweet
I thought I heard the shuffle of the angel’s feet.

He called my name and my heart stood still.

When he said, “Phillip, go do my will!”

I’m a-listin’ to the gospel man
I’m a-listin’ to the gospel man

Well my goodness gracious let me tell you the news:
my head’s been wet with the midnight dew.

I’ve been down on bended knee.
Talkin’ to the man from Galilee.

He spoke to me in the voice so sweet:
I thought I heard the shuffle of the angel’s feet
He called my name and my heart stood still
When he said, “Phillip, go do my will!”
Just a whisper in the dark
Just a whisper in the dark
Could have been by any other name
You can run on for a long time
Run on for a long time
Run on for a long time
Till you hear the trumpets and all the angels
marching.  It’s alpha and omega’s Kingdom

:: 10.10.2020 ::