BRUISED LIGHT i am so sad that i never
gave but a few morsels to my art
just an afterthought
but these few bits fed me a light
that kept me alive .I am so sad to say
this. it hurts something more than
me. like my soul.
i bruise my light.
i choke deeply inside that i am so cheaply
sold on an idea. I am so low that I
could never even
walk in the shadows of others who gave
to art.
:: 04-10-2015 ::
A tongue like Excalibur melts into mythically steeled words
and ends up tearing hearts with all its magical properties.
Then the universe collapses into a final ending with nothing
left but the, “no thing.” It continues to breath and all words
move forward as zombied penguins with many semicolons standing
whimsically awaiting the next coherent thought.
And the deep dreamer asks, “So let me get this straight Jack”
to the Police Doctor on hand. “You want me to take my pencil
and right every wrong for those patients in the mechanical
ward of broken minds?” Just then a portal opens at the foot
of the deep dreamer’s mouth and the little blue clothed
munchkins drag him out of the ward and into a bread truck
and say, “You’re coming with us to settle a bet.”
The bread smells a wonderful Jesus-like body but there’s
no blood-wine to go with the screams.
:: 03-10-2018 ::
IF love took me
take me my love
when breathing is
you breathing with me
and life is at
it’s most loving.
And nighttime:
my hand upon your
breast keeps time
as an arm of the hour
stealing moments
within our dark.
As jaws of Cupid open
my priest of pain
begins to sing:
“Ruby heart, padlocks
and all, deployed by
angels smiling
thunderbolt-lust;
and i, too frail.”
Drowning in wishing-
like sea swells
like if love took me
take me my love
across the night
into the dews, and the
‘give me everything
i wish/give me everything
i love/where life is at
it’s most loving.
:: 08-27-2017 ::
i can never tell you how displeased readers
It’s been some hurting time: I lost it in a dial of fountain garbage youth — catfish mouth hooks and I never saw you sorry inside
Boreas is colored freezer pain! I haven’t had a hand job or pie Since the government gave me opportunity or more chances than churches where Jesus hangs on solemn walls while
flesh bags cry and pray for all their sins in a covered wagon somewhere in the 1950s black and white television. Gee I never knew ancient ones wore makeup and butterfly Lips like a hungry flower in a whore field. The sky gave me her scars like purple vaginas missing periods for months.
And Billy went to the store to pick up a jar of fat pickles. She never reached behind the curtain but I had my dummy and a fist beneath his cheap shirt making all the moves of a failed life.
11-03-2014 ::
[image courtesy of Google Images]
Quite simply, the macabre fascinates me
my readers know and perchance the future too
My words are the actors and your mind the stage
As my parents I too ventured to entertain
albeit in a more sadistically tortured way
The life of a writer is indeed isolation and
the fantasies and cravings of fear and hope
intermingle into a tapestry of literary lies
But therein a nugget of truth between things
as fiction and fact — what is life if not
fact and fiction? We proceed along our path
as though only truth resides on the corporeal
plane. To defy light-of-day reality is to
exist in a world of one’s own fashioned by
bravery, instinct, and honesty.
I wish the future the very best but feel
the cloak of humanity shall do us all in
eventually.
Am I right? Tis so I do believe, yes.
I do.
:: 02-14-2014 ::
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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