Category Archives: #analogies

April 23, 2021

THE SILVER AXE

By EPRobles

He wondered with horror how so many memories, so many forms to be branded on his skin and engrave there.

Then the wet rattle of a twisted throat, and he beats his last breath to his knees, gazed on from above as the wheezing thing sagged, and began on his shoes.

One God looked in that one eye of him, took in the whole writhing weight of him, and, from the spine of that beast, blew the darkness that will not let me alone!

It is yet again where we find the Poet’s Muse. Her eyes are green, and they pierce backward and forward even into his head and his heart, his brain and his soul.

I have been chained to this post for six months and now I am to be hanged, it’s a winter morning, half-light.

The axe’s face is pale; its teeth are ready to cut; the poet stands slack-jawed; and waits with a satisfied grimace.

She smiles with blind malignity; I am hanging here, she begins, and her voice gears in his head, makes him mad with every anger and whimpers sound with a silver-sparkle, It is another wish shattered, this one made to whittle the Golden Ace’s life down to a ring so narrow and brutish and pale and inhuman.

The writer cannot see her but his ears are mad With unspoken sounds.

She has left dark-green circles.

He had tried to fill them with wonder and beauty; she: they’re her, only more so, every blot and abrasion cunningly and by dark cunning by her own hand, ever more revolting; why the hell did you bring that creature with you?

There is nothing for you to do, (the axe growls). You cannot even reach me.

I told you that I wanted the axe.

Then are you sure you’re not just nervous?

I am telling you nothing.

The truth is harsh.

This is not true.

Well then stop worrying.

I am telling you nothing!

The Poet looks up in alarm.

The axe comes down, it makes a hideous, brassy sound.

And it is still: I am telling you nothing!

Her face is as white as that of the blade.

He is sweating.

I do not want the axe, he says finally.

I am coming down!

A chuckle.

The axe’s blade is laughing.

The Poet spins in place, does a somersault, lands on his feet.

He moves fast.

At the touch of his right foot he has snatched up and spun into the air, caught, dangled over a canyon by the thin tip of his finger.

There is a rattle in his head.

Okay, okay, he whispers, I am coming down.

He lands and slumps, panting.

His face is flushing red, his hair disheveled.

He grins through the tears running down his face.

Just me, he tells the axe.

You are alone in this awful place with all the stupid, insane weirdoes.

Where is the fun in that?

This place is for people like you, not me.

He is in a mood.

The axe slashes through the air, a silver blur.

The Poet leaps into its path, somehow knowing, somehow having seen what it will do before it happens.

He leaps back and the axe cleaves the air, then comes down to strike his left foot, where it clatters on the ground with a dull clatter.

He starts to bend over to pick it up, but the axe’s weight is too much for him.

He stumbles to one knee and falls to his left side.

The axe rests, not quite pointed at him, but ready, at his right leg and stares at it, mouth slightly ajar.

The blade is warm against his right leg, the handle warm against his cheek.

He gets himself up, he bends over, picks up the axe.

He kicks his right leg up, the axe goes flying past his body as if to his left, and he stretches his left leg out to catch it.

He pulls himself to his feet and does not bother with the blade and bends down to retrieve it, and reaches, but there is nothing there.

The edge is dull. Within his mind and he frowns, picks it up, holds it up in front of him, glances behind him.

The axe is nowhere to be found. But it is mentally within his hand.

He looks at the blue-gray sky, frowns, turns to walk along the canyon wall, head down, watching for the axe.

He waits.

The axe sits on his shoulder, blades jutting up into his neck or so it feels.

Yes! he thinks.

The axe.

It is not true.

He is all alone in the world.

And an old man.

What do you expect him to do?

He thinks about the little old lady he saw in town today, and starts to weep.

:: 04.23.2021 ::

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January 25, 2021

NOW MY GOWN AND TULLE

By EPRobles

Now my Gown and Tulle
feel the Wind that weaves a Shade –
and on the roof i cannot tell
since the picture there is –
because Time, a Form, stood a-hiding
and well It did.

Words and Music (my own)
Performed by James Dale
and Love.

“He is oft-injured by his men
or with their Menages,

‘I think I hear him say:
“His Portents are the Dews –
His Words the Dews – and Mine –
His Ends are Ieya’s.

“I wish this next Scene were ended
with the Destination of my own Fate –
“The Flight of Orpheus, I suppose,
“Off the Coast of Homer’s Folly –
Or Death – to Eternity.”

Futility was King in the play, under the pen of D. H. Lawrence.
I hope he was a reader of Shakespeare.

Well, I cannot write about this.
It is really too late.
There was an early book, and there is always another.
The fact that Lawrence is a poet is very well known;
and many of his poems have been put to music.

i have heard those – sometimes for many times – though
i should hate to go against the dead.

A great deal is being written about D. H. Lawrence
in the second decade of the twenty-first century.

:: 01.26.2021 ::

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December 24, 2020

FOURTEEN

By EPRobles

i wish I had more time and opportunity to explain my disgust to your rust-stained sarcophagus. To offer a calm palate of meditative colors for our feelings (why not) — you seemed so surprised to be called from a glass prison.

Oh, blessed crystal, what do I have to do to kiss your hand with a succulent kiss for you have forgotten the grain of truth to your rust-stained sarcophagus!

To offer a calm palate of meditative colors for our feelings (why not) — you seemed so surprised to be called from a glass prison.

Oh, blessed crystal, what do I have to do to kiss your hand with a succulent kiss for you have forgotten the grain of truth and your heart could only love the person who feeds it for nourishment — is a difficult task; so you resorted to Cupid’s slingshot!
But here’s an alternative: follow my heart down the garden path, until my sticky feet block the entrance of Cupid’s grave.

Here — get me the jar of colorful paint and I will show you the
sparkle of love.

Here — get me the fork and I will show you the flavor of our love
that came from one man.

Here — get me the ball and I will smash it across my canvas of life.
Here — get me the pencil and I will draw you a gentle, tender picture.
Here — get me the jar of colorful paint and I will show you the
sparkle of love.
Here — get me the fork and I will show you the flavor of our love
that came from one man.
Here — get me the ball and I will smash it across my canvas of life.
Here — get me the pencil and I will draw you a gentle, tender picture.
Here — get me the paint bucket and I will lay it on a canvas of life

It was exactly 14 days since you told me you left the store early.
14 dreary days and I do not think you’ve been here once (not that I
would blame you for believing it).

14 days since I was mean to you, and then you said you’d be back
by 14.

:: 12.24.2020 ::

Leave a comment | tags: #abstract, #death, #hearts, #ink, #life, #love, #paper, #pen, #pencil, #poetry, #romance, #skin, #thoughts, #wonderful, #writers | posted in #1800s, #abstract, #aching, #analogies, #confession, #depression, #fascination, #poems, #poet, #poetess, #poetry, #poets, #prose

July 31, 2020

GOLD

By EPRobles

SHE will say what love is:
and yesterday told me so.
doesn’t matter if the sun
is bright or the longest
of rainy days — i could
never know/mentioned how
a few true men are:
doesn’t matter if the sun
is bright or of darkest
days their true hearts are
as good as gold.

:: 07.31.2020 ::

Leave a comment | tags: #few, #gold, #hearts, #love, #men, #poetry, #prose, #true | posted in #1800s, #abstract, #analogies, #analysis

July 20, 2020

EMBERS & STONE

By EPRobles

EVERY night of every day i take my love to bed
yea; Leave my heart upon the
dinner plate for the cold
, oh ;
at night its must worse
oh how these lonely tears
fall away screaming
all within silence
So I ask God, “what do i do?”
and listen to the song of
a bird dying each note
all within the long-time
backyard inside my head___
so i’m coming Home now: no need to leave
my heart upon the alter of pain & sorrow.

:: 07.19.2020 ::

Leave a comment | tags: #birds, #feelings, #hands, #heads, #heart, #hearts, #ink, #melody, #minds, #paper, #poems, #prose, #skies, #soul, #sun, #thoughts, #words | posted in #1900s, #analogies, #analysis, #angst, #anguish, #antics, #decisions, #evenings, #lonely road, #please, #poems, #poet, #poetess, #poetry, #poets

July 17, 2020

JOURNAL: 07172020

By EPRobles

TOO! i am too tired for Love___i drained
my member silently this day: of no love,
fanfare nor beauty i did this to die again/
the sun was rolling upon my house’s roof
and all the neighborhood dogs howled
in joy at the large yellow bouncing ball
of fire and death\and me –alone.

:: 07.17.2020 ::

Leave a comment | tags: #abstract, #amazing, #butter, #butterfly, #fly, #mind, #poetry, #prose, #soul, #souls, #spirits | posted in #1800s, #analogies, #analysis, #angels, #angst, #anguish, #antics, #Fridays, #kindness

July 15, 2020

EYES OF IBEX

By EPRobles

WATCHING the animal within her cage;
eyes of ibex and look too closely
into an eye –> it is the sound of the class
you are / e v e r y t h i n g is where
it belongs\ all inside
and all — right where it
belongs as if everything
around you aren’t quite as
it seems )( negative reflections
: a l l you wish to be | but if you
could look right through Christ —
would you find yourself afraid?
to see as Narcissus staring and
hiding within a tree — so everything
around you are not quite as it seems
and the world you used to know
was an elaborate dream.
hey! wait! i have a new complaint
dressed myself within angel’s hair
and baby breath /broke your hymen with
-in prose-purple noose.

:: 07.15.2020 ::

Leave a comment | tags: #end, #hungry, #ink, #poetry, #prose, #starving, #words | posted in #abstract, #abuse, #alone, #analogies, #analysis, #angels

May 20, 2020

HONESTY & CONDITIONING

By EPRobles

SOMETIMES honesty is heard as:
“blah blah blah blah wee blah!”
we are familiar with that
fake voice
— we People have been a part
of a process that has existed
for a great while now; it is
the psychological conditioning
to not even know the Truth when
it stares you straight in the Face.

:: 05.19.2020 ::

Leave a comment | tags: #eprobles.com, #hearts, #ink, #paper, #poetry, #prose, #souls, #words | posted in #abstract, #analogies, #analysis, #broken, #broken soul, #broken verse, #poetry