Category Archives: #emotions

THE SILVER AXE

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 ::


EMBRYO’S SKINNY FISTS

THE embryo’s skinny fists reach the skies
and hides a face yet born
in this summer of burning children you
call a name and the world is asleep.
the fitful swings the stuffed animals
the tired friends called warm winds
have long thoughts of buried snakes
and within the many undreamed thoughts
of a lost world the embryo’s skinny fists
tear the skies apart — the revelation
of new nails grown for 2 months that never
had a drink of the blood you spilled //
some hang their hand and drown within fear
yet, and, with unborn eyes very open, to pretend
a gently passed hand over a baby’s head —
THIN new hair that does not die, long nails
within a soft chest — licking the bloodless
wounds of survival.
The sound of the surgeon’s scalpel.

:: 06.20.2020 ::


DYING MEat

We’re dying meat all inside
unexpressed confessions so,
kill me /dark deep dive
all for your pleasure re-
gardless of type of weather:
we guard your dying MEat
always dying for your meat’s
car-crash weather/we live or
die is not a question for any
Soul\

:: 03.22.2020 ::


TRYING TO PULL JESUS FROM HIS CROSS

i have walked within your
thunderstorms & broken nails
upon the wood of your maple
casket — makes me sad

called a dove the vulture of
all hearts (oh my)
hauled dirty stares within
the sack of my brain we all
refrain from bruised egos OH HEY
says the middle finger of my MOUTH
you can only lose
what you never had
and i broke nails
trying to pull Jesus
from his Cross//+\\

:: 03.11.2020 ::


MY BRAIN BEGAN TO PONDER

MY brain began to ponder
if ‘It’ was ‘He’ who
perhaps was ‘Me’ when
suddenly
the coroner decided it
was not the three.

‘It’ set ‘Me’ free
for all of Eternity.

:: 08062019 ::


PRIME DELIGHT

IT is midnight; somewhere a storm has
overshadowed a Soul, in others, the storm
is a brilliant reprieve of false peace;
and words pour as molten gold.

A richness of undetermined wealth measured
by Spirit and not human needs.

I have become equal to fear and peace —
this i discovered with my never-closing eyes,
take away this discovery and many others
to share with all fellows. The proof of
existence is a blood-penned period at the
end of a written sigh.

And i write this previous sentence in honor
of Isidore Lucien Ducasse.

To discover your feelings have died and
the skin is a roof for a cemetery! This
pain causes me to pull upon my eyes until
they fall to the ground; and to realize
sympathy is a symphony of sensitive angels
who love us all.

To me; i love you. To everyone else, you
have been my teacher.

:: 04-16-2019 ::
e.p.robles (c) 2019


PENETRATION OF SPIRIT

these feelings bleeding
penetration of Spirit

these emotions swimming
indecision is winning

help me —
i’ve got no mission

help me —
i’m full of rivets

i’m all broke within
my insides

these thoughts crawling
further away from god

you cannot help my situation
you cannot lift the skies
you cannot breach the walls
of where my Soul has
gone to die

help me —
i’m waking up drowning
help me —
i’m too complicated

And these feelings bleeding
a penetration of my Spirit

:: 09-28-2018 ::


ACT (of) TWO

THAT in my fever while sanity has escaped by baluster
i continue to gaze in daze across the sea of white-
capped madness

Each o-shaped mouth
Each Black-bead eye
and all the ears
all the chins
teeth

speak an infinite story of nothing but sadness.
And within the orchestral pit finely dressed musicians
they shed b-flat note tears; their mannequin powder-white
skin a color of pink’s sunsetting murmur.

Simply, the true story is off stage toward this
improbable army audience; the finely carved polychrome
citizens start to move; half-bodied and more alive
than the flesh-kingdom.

Last night. Last night i felt.
That one’s life can be as real as one’s imagination
if you sinerely wish it.

:: 08-23-2018 ::


FEAR AND TYRANNY

MOTHER, all the monsters are now gone as Love and Spirit have \defeated them;
and what is left is a gaping holethat can only be filled by Light and Soul.

Gripping my throat / gripping my soul / gripping all life;

Is my fear\is my fear\is all my undying fear

AND my lover, the other; a woman who stole my heart — i gave her all
that of good & bad; and my heart — always one too!

Don’t you breath upon me my fear!
don’t you tread upon me evil one!

If I could cry and I’ve tried
If I could sleep and I would
I would never belie this fact:
that many hearts are darkly lit
but never within my own heart!

:: 12-01-2017 ::
Rev: 02.24.2020


WELCOME MY GHOSTS

THAT I have tried and succeeded is only in great measure

That you have been there with all my fears and displeasure.

Holding my cramped heart and swollen hands is how you have

Saved both my mind and spirit – the soul; still intact down

By the emptying rivers that lead to unexpected consequences.

And to weep while watching the death of a perfect day and to

Realize that birth was only half that day ago is sobering:

We watch each other’s eyes while laying on our sides and

Breathing in cadence I tell you that I am a fortunate peasant

And you the Queen who has welcomed by Ghosts.

:: 07-12-2017 ::