WITH thin fingers
(my love) who knows
worlds of than great;
a summer’s glint
more as eyes, love
as a disguise unknown
were victories nameless
beside their glories
Stood cold so damp
memories of
or
goldenly floating
inside my youth i
sang dreams penetrating
space over time
washed away all glint
of light within my mind
Well, we dare — escaping
alive silentness gods
to kiss “most beautiful
o most beautiful” hearts
her, my life, as liars
kill their kind.
:: 01-24-2019 ::
I am not the i of the world.
The days of life did some thing
that my self does not approve.
Their veiled eyes lie —
of no light that i (me of me)
hide my face within the dream;
Now the world is alone.
Does it still exist?
For no other reason than
pain it may but then not me.
Most have gone this way;
all met with rage, with
caged souls, beside humanity
isn’t that their most?
A dirty word: hello.
A nerdy bird: i feel stupid.
as if accused.
Life offers gifts
blessed are the meek.
but not for you.
Not for me.
i am not the i of the world.
:: 01-23-2019 ::
TWO inches deep within grass
prolonged but not old
There i can find, as old as
Victorian Letters, the days
of all my dreams, a breath
away from Death but held
as the Silver Legend of Life.
Orbicular seas of blue and white
soaring bird dots and breeze
the moment takes me to another
life that’s wide and timeless.
So i am as the moment frozen
held within my heart —
passion-glow embraced of one
who lives deep within the
Spirit’s roots kissed.
no dream dreamt no song sang
no rain ranged among
The Paradise of Silver Legend.
:: 01-23-2019 ::
There as still and quiet as dead.
Sleeping. ?
Yes.
The walls had grown used to the scene. The dreams tired of the same actors with different faces.
The dead take care of their own.
The corpse lit the room’s lamp and in the gray dark began to work.
It bathed the perpetually sleeping body that lay in bed. Trimmed the hair and applied blush to it’s cheeks.
The sleeping know nothing of the awakened world; the dead know nothing of the sleeping but that they sleep the deepest of all. Dripping, the legs were dried.
The sleeper’s eyes opened.
The corpse closed them with the coldest of fingers.
Placing the stiff scrub brush upon the nightstand the corpse was pleased with the Sleeper.
And smiled.
:: 01-15-2019 ::
WHETHER morticians wear
the makeup of cadavers
or madness is the friendliest
voice makes no difference
you are sick
to believe loud colors
have no mouth
and the trunks of people
grow deeply rooted roads
that have many toll booths
the rich pay for free things
and the poor steal dreams
those dead envy the living
and those alive
feel so dead.
:: 10-27-2018 ::
No longer a thought
within my brain,
the mortician lay me
down to sleep
a scream i refrained
surfaced as white
within my eyes
that none had bought
my vitals he checked
and thumped my nose
as a creep
then:
a bath and massage
no dance but song
two strong hands
then set my face
arterial embalming
then drain/eject
it’s all the same
the cavity —
aspirate and concentrate
The humming thrumming
burning desire
escaped as soon as with
a pop I fled my skin
and faced the choice
to do it once again.
:: 10-23-2018 ::
IF it all ends with you I shall extend my hand
and pinch time into two butterflies.
Do you see the orchestral skies? It is teaching
the stars a new dance for the world’s coming
funeral and the eyes of mystery are now weeping
for the blue-white jewel. The Sun knows and she
is aching. and every bird. Sings one less song
each day.
The phenomenal gift called death.
:: 10-06-2018
scream your thoughts
into the void
and bring some flowers
crowned in thorns
and hold your thoughts
for the parade
of sad mannequins
they all limp forward
toward the grave
and all i know
and all i pray
and all i see
is a forever now
and all i taste
and all i feel
and all i do
is live forever now
and the weight of flesh
is best held in contempt
and the worst of us
is the best of all
and it’s always been
so it always will be
and to taste a smile
is the flavor of life
so pray so beg so needed
and today of all days
is the forever now
the forever now
forever now
now.
:: 06-01-2018 ::
The town buried her beneath peach-red skies: less than several days ago.
All the while in the distance, gravel-filled caws in the distance measured a
thickness of time; the casket lid, rained with tears, sank beneath Earth’s longest wave.
Everyone had dirt under their nails and a heavy weight of guilt. Then,
at night on the 1st of May she returned to town on an errand so vital
that she had come unannounced and entered
into the cafe where she last had cried– while holding the hand of her lover,
she sat down at the chair with red eyes and again watched her fiancé bleed
from a wound within his head; his blue sapphire eyes melting as their dying hearts.
THE gunman was wrestled to the ground
on top of a love poem she
had penned to her fiancé . In part it read:
“The town buried her beneath peach-red skies…”
:: 04-25-2018 ::
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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