i have eaten the face of god whose thick
body created the mega-verse. The fly upon
the dank wall accuses me of creating sin;
but only dark matter is to blame. It hides
within the jewels of Creation. My libido
murdered untold numbers of unborn sperm
and ovulating women conspired to hide
this truth deep within their vulva. We
are all murderers eating the flesh of
fallen innocent creatures that cannot
speak to their defense. Even a plant has
a voice if we only carefully listen.
The world of humans is an asylum of
demented souls. Do not visit us.
:: 04-02-2019 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #poetry, #surrealism | posted in #brilliant wordsmith, #monster, #poetry, #words, Uncategorized
IT is by pain within my Soul
that i hardly know you
by sight or by taste; i grow
at night by dreams and wishes
within imaginary throe
— i weep for love my love
by love for love all love
and then the rift
within my heart of reality
the closer i come to you
within solitude
practicality always, always
i know — comes knocking upon
the unknown room’s door /
the light so bright
upon all nights as stars above
we love we love we love
the elusive angle of our hearts
and fate that gazes as fields
of jasmine raising dawn and
her brilliant warmth — is love,
the love all love sang by Queens
and Kings and Surfs and Peasants
; are as the angels.
Our Souls, as love!
:: 04-01-2019 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #fuckOFF, #poetry, #poets, #right, #words, #writers | posted in #poetry, Uncategorized
f a me is self-immolation one’s lower lip s t retched
over a brain absorbed in self.
it is the itch within a brain
only satisfied by a serpent’s
tongue licking the inside of
your ear with it’s fanged mouth;
only then can it enter your
Soul. And dead popes know.
My chest knows the gravity of such horror: the earwig
crawls up through my armpit into my throat and passes
nasal cavity into my Mind.
Chasing these ephemeral ghosts i avoid food; to starve
is godly — as death. My anus dots the exclamation mark of
my spine and angels cause me a dull pain.
:: 04-01-2019 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #ink, #paper, #poetry, #thoughts, #words, #writing | posted in #poetry, Uncategorized
MY poetry,
fractured.
Not unlike me.
:: e,p,robles,(c),2019 ::
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my death(sentence) –> dies
singularly learned (stiff)necks)
scrutinized by prose(police)
a formality of academically
dusty halls; the light that
never falls —-
but my prose-eat sunlight
unstructured for the soul!
:: 06-12-2013 ::
E.P. Robles (c) 2019
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tonight the storm:
fierce lightning as
a thought struck
and split a tree
that beauty deformed
my love — nature
that kills
what it loves
:: 06-12-2014 ::
E.P. Robles (c) 2019
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MY heart in hot summers have I
rejoiced while heat has spiked
my chest — as watching the sun
sink below purplest colors
of pink and darkening clashing
tears of mightiest strength
and the joy of love and
children’s laughter do always
save my soul and heart
gives me defying peace
and erodes scorn — my
lone might against darkness
opposing!
:: 03-10-2019 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #feelings, #life, #pain, #paper, #poetry, #words | posted in #poetry, Uncategorized
ENERGY speaks words
like mathematical screaming
discretely hiding its origins.
I (this human writing) is
NOT science. I am flesh and bone
physically but my brain tells me
that the thoughts I have come
from so far away that there is no
number to describe its distance.
Infinity does not count. It only
says that ‘something’ goes on and
on (a way to cheat the thing we
cannot clearly describe) but some
how it all works out with pencil
and a blackboard.
I suspect. A greatness so grand
we cannot even begin to touch
the lips of it’s truth. But still,
I wish to kiss it with my own
lips. I wish to embrace it. To
become engulf within the unknowable
truth.
:: 03-10-2019 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #poetry, #science, #words, #writing | posted in #poetry, Uncategorized
WHO can fathom universal mysteries
and those cosmic eyes of pulsars;
a child’s laughter | a bottle
of flickering ray caught inside
any throat;
then when dreaming our Soul sheds
weight by squeezing light from
our tipped toes
as a kangaroo jumping
like a thought through
the needle of some mysteriously
unknown being familiar to our selves
there is no fine line between
understanding and obliviousness:
you either understand or not.
They watch as a spot of an eye
fixed upon each of us. My lips
are dried from the winds of torment
and my heart is a locomotive whose
clenched wheels ride the rails
from South to North. East to West.
We all have a seat there —
with assigned arrivals and
departures.
:: 03-10-2019 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #poetry, #writing | posted in #poetry, Uncategorized
MY heart rests upon a
mote of dust
not forgotten but
still for us frozen
as though love absent
bursting full of sorrow
as though HistoryLand
–i forget my name//
but poplar within
the fields of my Heart.
:: 03-06-2019 ::
E.P. Robles (c) 2019
Leave a comment | tags: #expression, #poetry, #poets, #words, #writing | posted in #poetry, Uncategorized
E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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