Category Archives: #surrealism

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 ::


EYEBALL GOD IN MOUTH

Eyeball god in mouth

Ostara?…Dio?…Luna? …

Is light as hunger for colors?

Eros the god of eyes and the hidden feelings
shameful man with erect cock — sighing sex
in his heart — a crack, deep and wide!

Black Hole!

Punk rock for a Black Hole!

Rainbow and jubilee exploded in flood!

Like a porno universe all of our pornographic desires
moments of starving stars and porn stars!

An eyeless god living in a glass tube with hearts
like hot flashes in heat-blasted rooms!
Pulsing pimples — swirling while a midnight sky
brings forth a cacophony of cosmic screams!

More impassioned raw-animal! More barking!
more vibrations — more imminence!

More sinewy limbs on show — penis I’m looking at —
lifeless grey body but voracious pink face!

It licks and whimpers, suckles and sucks!

Shall I become a statue again? — glazed face with eyes
sheers-white in precession of Venus?

Hey! Taint! Milk it!

:: 11.12. 2020 ::


I AM HUMAN I AM MACHINE

    i   am    human
i am  machine
    i am biologically
INSANE___
   i    can  dance now
watch my dance:
    between
   00000000’s & t h o s e
11111111’s
    —-i can flip over
superpositions & hear my
girlfriends moan & some-
times Scream___.
   i am  human
i am machine
   i am biologically
 sane #

:: 06.30.2020 ::


SUN-STRUCK THOUGHTS

WHAT does it mean when the Sun strikes a thought
within One’s Soul? This i ponder while i walk
the path called Life. What of the thousands of
screams, untold broken dreams and weeping expecting
mothers? Do you remember them? Your mother, sister,
brother or father perhaps forgot to say, “I love you”
or the county clown made you shed tears when you were
eight.

Today I am walking down a path as the Sun strikes into
my Soul; spits them out as words___.

:: 05.10.2020 ::


ALONG THE SHORTEST ROAD (a treacherous journey)

along the shorest road ever (a treacherous journey) an opening appeared before me;

bright equations bleeding time squished all memory of what i was i am or might be–

A preponderance of suddenly)meets the long Shaman of My Thoughts. i lassoed upon

a moat of dust (cherubs swinging cherubs singing) & road myself)not that way(toward

a whole certain corner )_and touched mySelf searched mySelf…forget mySelf when i

think of who many broken Kewpie dolls cry silently foreverfully and mySelf and

myHeart and mySoul invent grand ideas of an Enormous Language

that touches all hearts.

:: 02.07.08 ::


OUR WORDS STACKED AS SKYSCRAPERS

THE world is committed to insanity;

our words stacked as skyscrapers

allow ants characters to escape
flooding water

as drowned bodies float

past the windows of office space.

:: 04-25-2019 ::
e.p.robles (c) 2019


The Silent Machine

OUTSIDE the silence the machine
E A T S my liver
screws my tender insides.
For all the failures wishing
i could not think of living
the beautiful memories
of yesterdays /i’m a failure
of tomorrows\ rolling dead
eyes in a river & thick
rooted hairs screaming |
THE END COMES so easy
watch the sunlight dim
in a moment all dream
time screams by(e)
dear___i knew not of you
but married twice believing
–>take/took my heart
and slung it around the sun.
OUTSIDE the machine
eats you & me. screws
our tender parts.

:: 04-20-2019 ::


Time Battles

UPON Dali’s lashes the clocks have
melted persistently as Time
battles weak waves of gravity
And then (that some whisper) a
name murmuring midnight we all
stand before the Cosmic God
who has No Name; maybe “Ah.”
As glass cocks turn to stone
the soft touch of skin burns
and then a charming strike
of lightning buries the lips
of ruins /my mother has hips
that born a grown fetus
through the strongest arms
of all forgotten women
And my heart drawn by Picasso
my face by Jesus and my Soul
by Space.
It is here
the engraving plate that
printed all humans /but the
hand of that apprentice
has left us for another
universe.\

:: 03-29-2019 ::


THE RA&&IT & THE HAT

WHETHER morticians wear
the makeup of cadavers
or madness is the friendliest
voice makes no difference
you are sick
to believe loud colors
have no mouth
and the trunks of people
grow deeply rooted roads
that have many toll booths
the rich pay for free things
and the poor steal dreams
those dead envy the living
and those alive
feel so dead.

:: 10-27-2018 ::


LIVING GHOST

EVERYTHING seems so real
the dancing trees
the talking clouds
and how you feel

When i’m alone i’m not here
everything’s gray
the world’s a memory
while you’re away

how does it feel
how does it feel
how does it feel

(to be)

a living ghost
within your skin
screaming in silence
while the world
fades away

when everything
seems so real.

:: 10-19-2018 ::