E.P. Robles | Poetry

In fright of voices she spilled a torrent of tears
of a frozen sun, like new born babies so,
today a mysterious desert day: we serve the servants
in the end with a body by eyes of excidium sweat
an aroma imparted within effervescent hearts.
Painters, poets and politicians
; gods, demons and angels —
we pull the fish from our nets
and our own spears of terror —
hey my accountant forest green
fans of longing death attracts
divided thirst and i love the
sound of morning birds singing
over my cold grave of stiff
drinking paper signs.

:: 08.24.2020 ::

BORN into a hot summer
of discontent
abandoned by gods
and souls
was the new born fetus
now senseless
; heels upon a skin
so pure as snow
everywhere and everyone
who saw him smelled an ocean
salt and blue skies
: humans always choose the house of
the murdered — stale smell of perfume
and used cigarettes absorbing the idol
of going in and out of skin
broken water
birth pains
sadness uses
and pleases an immensity of the eagle.
of introduction to the love
of poetry and terror — we choose
to ignore the songs of nature
and her beauty.
WE
distrust wheat that talks.

:: 08.24.2020 ::