THE urine color odor of your health
confuses a taste-smell of influence
A pleasant mystery of maple syrup Kisses
I die a-beat us!
A DIE a-BEAT US!
We didn’t think of it —
the sweet smell of Chocolate like
cabbage and beef upon a finely spread
sensonic mapping brain.
Maybe it originates
from alpha case-in love
of my never-dying sweet
love for you: overdose
of sweetest life.
:: 12-08-2014 ::
so god is not a he
so tell me
so tell me
so go-diss notahe
so go-diss notahe
sogodisnotahe
sogodisnotahe
so tell me
so tell me
…
whatarewetobe?
whatarewetobe?
that god is not
that god is not
a goddamn “he”
peace
o’peace
peace
bye-bye
bye-bye
all we need
is to feel
human again
:: 03-30-2017 ::
O’BlueDark why lasting Ever
splish-as-echoic budded by
her beautiful i’s is wise when
upon bleedings last drop light ~
my life Chord shivers burning icePass-
shouldn’t we kiss each other’s fireBornMoods
before d r i p p ing Time
drops squenchPinch this moment.
IF.
by fire!
:: 04-16-2017 ::
PLAY DOUGH MY love
so pretty so smooth
within my expressive
hands i sculpted love
and wrote poems
sang songs
and stole Cupid’s
girl friend while
making ramen noodles
cause i’m a poet
living inside my head…
yeah. Eat healthy
they say to Humans__
i want to say more
but have a date with
pubg.
:: 11.12.2022 ::
THE cat with three eyes
saw the mouse with two
said the mouse to the cat,
“i’ll gladly give you cheese
for an eye”
whisker-twitching thinking-cat pondered,
said, “if the toy gets trapped
under the refrigerator, was it ever a toy
at all?”
AND the mouse wept knowing
a third eye is god-like.
:: 09-11-2015 ::
CYctors of Myrtle-Brilcy,
Of wong with blIes strewn on the shore
was not all that heard me then;
The manly roar of battle,
the deathly war cries of my fellow-men
then wandered we round the bower
of Myrtle, Archon by my side,
Clad in armed wreath, standing on the heddles,
Each armed with a sword
With Orchil, the pitch-plant,
with Herms, the samesid rose,
with VassilIa, Laurel, with the laurel
with YneriId and with Boulstas,
Each was criomo~us bower.
Tolemn still I tr~rised before me in mind,
giving my voice and speech through my breast
great thou sound was, with nobler speech,
Thou dost remind me of things long past,
Profound and blissful are thy echoes.
There I was weared down ere nightfall,
where Tiresias had feasted before
Now to cannot recall or see I came at noon,
where this spot was, which I remembered,
of which Siolphon I sung as he spoke
before, with the 8 oak leaves bent
at ere, with her child’s blood,
in this house I fell to live a beast,
or else to die at the stake.
We bore it to the penae,
bought it with our lives, and took it,
lengthened now the dreadful holly’s gaze,
that had casted on us a dark ray
of ill omen;
yet, as another walked with arms loaded
And this party not minces their flesh,
Despite its frozen grove, its verdure
Which once had been verdure
To all I say: Nenth transiMos stand
There, with others, hade the sword unsheathed,
Where the legions cowed, and the Ionian broils
Had spoken their pure words:
“Now in all Delphi had sprung a new fell
Womb of life and birth, which had ro
retroced them, or at least lessened their foot.
:: 11.03.2022 ::
I’D give up heaven to be close to you / but sooner
or later fate decides \
How i never wish the world to see my heart’s so broken
INside my Heart a forever rain
that never seems to dry
so every moment of truth & lies
can never understand but understand
i wanna know when i fell down the rampart of
horror’s unknown )inside + out( to strive
hard my angel wings so bruised from this day
Who i am
Who i am
is the
No One
within
Life.
:: 11.01.2022 ::
WHEN i write of sleeping/lives Christ, i see him at midnight
in a crucified way, love wrought-out with grace:
the blood on the walls, the lusty grief,
the artist lying on freezing pavement,
like a drunk in an apartment.
Always?for whom
in whom: for the Lord.
Over it, dreams are made, then screams are made, grief, pain, loss, longing, fierce promises of life; a skull.
i try to create a shield, clinging to the truth of prose, where every word can express with precision an unreachable.
For how can i say?
THiEF!
A sharp wit?that haunts me, rattles the prophet.
i should write poetry. At first, i thought that a rhyme might distract my readers.
Then i thought it might frighten them. This thinning armor
is the price of the art of memory:
i go to my poems now like refugees crossing a flooded
river.
What is the music of the poet?
Nothing, a voice, the absence of a voice, as i write, the sound of a key in an empty door, the charmed silence of an oasis.
Even this room where i try to be alone, tortured, longing to die, might fade away into a memory, and this empty room with my dead dead body.
My childhood was warm, it was a long summer. i stayed indoors for weeks. Until the evening sky weeps, a smell that is sad and sticky, my brain yelling my mother’s name:
Hoelun!
Hoelun!
Father crosses to the bank of the river –i drown, he swims to the other side.
i leave this world with the stench of paraquat.
it kills all my green and the flowers die.
:: 11.01.2022 ::
beauty once was the creation of all
before and again once then ~~
bewitched me by love’s powers
i saw Love which has no skin
or blood nor body
t h e purest Love of All
. How exquisite!
:: 10.07.2022 ::
What is true and what is false? They are a mirror in which each is reflected.
What is real is just as true and real? As the falsity of what is false.
Time past and time future ~~ are a mirrored window through which each man sees what he is.
Go, go, go, go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, hidden excitedly, containing laughter. And the table on the gravel, beneath its fat gourds, dropped its fruit to the ground, and we, its guests, found The fat swollen gourds had become red and juicy, and the fruit was bright and delicious to the eye.
Hear our story, then, the story of time past and time future. The story of all centuries since and the stories yet to come. About to fall upon us is the nettles, The nettles, with their soft white stems, there is in each stem a sharp blue spike, Comes upon its prey with a sudden point
And pierces the flesh as the teeth of the nettle Pierce the ribs of a potato. Here lies the rat, struggling, straining, dying, dying, fighting to rise up. A thousand small bites from the nettles have enveloped the flesh of his body, we will strip him, pull him, tear him open, eat him, cut him in half, make him into soup,
burp out his meat and eat.
But this is time past and time future a story of all the centuries since and the stories yet to come.
The nettles, with their soft white stems, their poisonous spikes, are an imposing gate; I walk around them, looking through the glazed surface. From within, the grass is dancing, the flowers are darting.
They change color in the sun, their faces are blue, they change color in the rain, their faces are red and full of color when the last glow of the sun is gone.
They love and the flowers love and the insects love.
I can hear the birds in the trees fly to the nettles and sing to them with beautiful songs so sweet and true and loving.
“Go,” said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
“Go, go, go,” said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
The wind came, snapped the nettles, ripped them up. The flowers shrieked, and they all came running, all the flowers, the flowers fled in all directions, they scattered like fire. The little girl came, singing with a smile on her face, chirping, babbling, gathering the scattered flowers.
Her face was blue in the sunlight, so was the flower face and her blue eyes looked at me and I followed her into the forest to find out all the greatest secrets of the universe.
:: 09.29.2022 ::
 | EPRobles on OWL MILK AND INDIGO SMOKE |
 | Adam Fisher on OWL MILK AND INDIGO SMOKE |
| EPRobles on ECSTASIES OF THE REPULSIV… |
 | R. Marshall on ECSTASIES OF THE REPULSIV… |
 | Stefan on ECSTASIES OF THE REPULSIV… |
E.P. Robles | Poetry 
You must be logged in to post a comment.