Muscle-bound goons. The kind that rape the world. Self-satisfied, in no hurry to devote their remarkable faculties to understanding another’s mind. Such wise men. Stares as blank as summer nights, red and black, tricolored, golden star-stung steel: twisted features, leaden, pale, inflamed; hoarse guffaws. A grim onslaught of pretense. To hear what these kids would say about Cherubino in their rough voices and violent ways. They’re heading to town to get it from behind, all decked out in sickening luxury.

A violent Paradise of runaway sneers! But no match for your Fakirs and hackneyed theatrics. In costumes sewn together with all the taste of a nightmare, they strut through assorted laments, tragedies filled with all every brigand and demigod missing from religion and history. Chinese, Hottentots, bohemians, fools, hyenas, Molochs, ancient lunacies, sinister demons—they slip savage slaps and tickles into your mother’s old chestnuts. A little avant-garde here, some three-hankie stuff there. Master jugglers who use riveting comedy to transform players and scenes. Eyes ignite, blood sings, bones stretch, tears and red rivulets run. Their clowning can last minutes, or months.

Only I have the key to this savage sideshow.

:: EPRobles ::

i would sink if the moon left these shores!   picture of myself,
bright floods!   seeking shadowed roads.  Of yellow and green
cellophane hearts – into the willows of an old courtyard.
   O my dying quiet hearts of arts and wordsof black dog,
brown shepherd hungry formasters -bitter peaches upon the ground :  
while sulfur and evil drown in shallow swims.
Oh but Lord!   through amaranths and Sahara bluesas fire and creepers
seep through the widow’s cage!    i walked Guianan without shoes
and flew throughthe ducal window on such a moonlight as the blessed bindweed. 
Across ages of time and hordes cross our agedEurope.
Every soul crosses the moors -all warriors!

In the forest glade, the faun roams,
A creature of grace and beauty unknown.
His forehead crowned with nature’s gems,
His eyes like spheres, precious and unknown.

With cheeks stained by wine and revelry,
His fangs gleam, his chest a lyre in motion,
The sound of music between his arms,
His heart beating with wild emotion.

In the darkness of night, he moves,
His thighs and legs like a rhythmic dance,
The forest alive with his presence,
A creature of magic and mystic trance.

The faun, a creature of ancient lore,
A symbol of nature’s beauty and power,
A reminder of the wild within us all,
A call to embrace our true selves, every hour.

:: 03.19.2023 ::

sleeping dreaming
waking waking
speaking how they run
from Light

I’m sitting upon a clover
with 4 leafs — and i heard
I am the Walrus by Beatles

I’m crying

Dead yellow postman with
a letter from Lennon
he wrote it before he was
shot dead — we are walrus

It’s expert text-men
exploring futures government
and religion are egg – men
they cough | what do we do
when love is away? At the
end of the day we’re on our own
and we get help from our friends

Do you need anybody?
could it be anybody?
Somebody to love.

do you need anybody?
Just body to love
and i get by with
my friends

with a little help
from my friends!

:: 923,16,2923LL

And absolutely maybe if wings flew
without a bird’s body and the air lifted ground
as outer space filled inner spirits!
then all things might be
equal and if so then what?

Zero.

Which is arguably a ‘something’
less than 1 but greater than less than zero.

Words.

The devil’s insidious plot to madden the human mind with
intangible monsters that chip away at the glass floor we
all ignore and rarely look down upon
we might see the super-structure of reality then.

What then?

HORROR.

In spring’s sweet season, when the earth is drenched
With mud and rain, the little balloon-man
Hobbles along, and in a voice that’s clenched
He whistles far and wee, a curious plan

And Eddie and Bill come running from play
Their marbles and their games now cast away
For in the air, a strange delight does sway
And in the heart, a thrill that wants to stay

When the world is drenched in wonder-pools
The queer old balloon-man takes to his tools
Whistling far and wee, he seems a fool
But in his eyes, there’s wisdom, for he rules

Betty and Isbel come dancing along
Skipping and jumping, the world’s now a song
For in their hearts, they feel a wondrous throng
A sense of joy that nothing could go wrong

And then there comes the goat-footed man
Whistling far and wee, like he’s part of a clan
His voice sends shivers, like a part of a plan
And in our souls, we feel a change that began

In spring’s sweet season, when the world is new
The balloon-man comes, a friend that’s true
Whistling far and wee, he makes our hearts renew
And in his presence, all things become askew

:: 03.16.2023 ::