Tag Archives: #dreams

THE SILVER AXE

He wondered with horror how so many memories, so many forms to be branded on his skin and engrave there.

Then the wet rattle of a twisted throat, and he beats his last breath to his knees, gazed on from above as the wheezing thing sagged, and began on his shoes.

One God looked in that one eye of him, took in the whole writhing weight of him, and, from the spine of that beast, blew the darkness that will not let me alone!

It is yet again where we find the Poet’s Muse. Her eyes are green, and they pierce backward and forward even into his head and his heart, his brain and his soul.

I have been chained to this post for six months and now I am to be hanged, it’s a winter morning, half-light.

The axe’s face is pale; its teeth are ready to cut; the poet stands slack-jawed; and waits with a satisfied grimace.

She smiles with blind malignity; I am hanging here, she begins, and her voice gears in his head, makes him mad with every anger and whimpers sound with a silver-sparkle, It is another wish shattered, this one made to whittle the Golden Ace’s life down to a ring so narrow and brutish and pale and inhuman.

The writer cannot see her but his ears are mad With unspoken sounds.

She has left dark-green circles.

He had tried to fill them with wonder and beauty; she: they’re her, only more so, every blot and abrasion cunningly and by dark cunning by her own hand, ever more revolting; why the hell did you bring that creature with you?

There is nothing for you to do, (the axe growls). You cannot even reach me.

I told you that I wanted the axe.

Then are you sure you’re not just nervous?

I am telling you nothing.

The truth is harsh.

This is not true.

Well then stop worrying.

I am telling you nothing!

The Poet looks up in alarm.

The axe comes down, it makes a hideous, brassy sound.

And it is still: I am telling you nothing!

Her face is as white as that of the blade.

He is sweating.

I do not want the axe, he says finally.

I am coming down!

A chuckle.

The axe’s blade is laughing.

The Poet spins in place, does a somersault, lands on his feet.

He moves fast.

At the touch of his right foot he has snatched up and spun into the air, caught, dangled over a canyon by the thin tip of his finger.

There is a rattle in his head.

Okay, okay, he whispers, I am coming down.

He lands and slumps, panting.

His face is flushing red, his hair disheveled.

He grins through the tears running down his face.

Just me, he tells the axe.

You are alone in this awful place with all the stupid, insane weirdoes.

Where is the fun in that?

This place is for people like you, not me.

He is in a mood.

The axe slashes through the air, a silver blur.

The Poet leaps into its path, somehow knowing, somehow having seen what it will do before it happens.

He leaps back and the axe cleaves the air, then comes down to strike his left foot, where it clatters on the ground with a dull clatter.

He starts to bend over to pick it up, but the axe’s weight is too much for him.

He stumbles to one knee and falls to his left side.

The axe rests, not quite pointed at him, but ready, at his right leg and stares at it, mouth slightly ajar.

The blade is warm against his right leg, the handle warm against his cheek.

He gets himself up, he bends over, picks up the axe.

He kicks his right leg up, the axe goes flying past his body as if to his left, and he stretches his left leg out to catch it.

He pulls himself to his feet and does not bother with the blade and bends down to retrieve it, and reaches, but there is nothing there.

The edge is dull. Within his mind and he frowns, picks it up, holds it up in front of him, glances behind him.

The axe is nowhere to be found. But it is mentally within his hand.

He looks at the blue-gray sky, frowns, turns to walk along the canyon wall, head down, watching for the axe.

He waits.

The axe sits on his shoulder, blades jutting up into his neck or so it feels.

Yes! he thinks.

The axe.

It is not true.

He is all alone in the world.

And an old man.

What do you expect him to do?

He thinks about the little old lady he saw in town today, and starts to weep.

:: 04.23.2021 ::


WHEN IN DREAMS ABNORMAL TRUTHS BECOME CHANCE

WHEN in dreams
abnormal truths become chance,
your heart opens trees
to find the seed that grew
the universe.
As your legs that spread
taking in the morning skies
moaning to the sun and your
pursed lips are above your
poppy feet, each arm contains
the arrows of each hand pointing
towards all directions as steeples
of churches do; at times naked,
foulmouthed, and questioning heaven
and hell — okay it is: i am with
you facing the bitter soul with
our smiling mouths and the taste
of terrible salt. Our tears grow
a new flower, so resolute and
full of vibrant Life.

:: 03.13.2021 ::


BRASS BAND

the carnival-like brass band
performing songbird miracles

of you, worn within my heart
all life; never quitting
until dead

sunrises as torn muscles
amorous and petting a cat
that adores thoughts

through the crack of heaven
i slid toward burning hell
all my thoughts —

and now fate kisses me and
we love each other is called
Life.

:: 08.17.2020


PAINT JAR

i INHALED a summer bug
down my dry throat
— so lovely its okay \
so happy because i died /
and reborned years ago
within a paint jar —
Firefly heart; hot night
booked for years & every
day i was scared; lit my
candles until I found God.

:: 08.15.2020 ::


LOVE-LIKE DREAMS COME TRUE

LOVE like dreams come true
as i am thinking of you

SWEET sleep like every night
that;

i go through
not forgetting of you
but having love-like dreams
all of you

Then at times i am dreaming
of why i cannot forget you
Because of you

that i shall never meet you
no, i could never hate you
instead i have sweet dreams
of you.

:: 05-07-2019 ::
e.p.robles (c)


THE TIRED DREAMER

Climbing away
from the dream
went a dreamer
who was alive.

Climbing away
from the dream.

He spoke aloud,
with a tired mouth
which was numb
from his sleep.

Climbing away
from the dream.

In the dark of night
he spoke:

“Awake from the dream!”

He climb away from
the dream into
another.

:: 11-25-2018 ::


NEAREST IS CLOSER

Nearest is closer than furtherest dead

will you walk with me i am stepping
over tomorrow into my wonderful-est
dreams over and beyond nearest
further than furtherest within my head

and of my heart are melodious feelings
will you walk with me i am stepping
over tomorrow and into a bliss
where tenderest is softest as love

As nearest is closer than furtherest dead

:: 10-07—–2018


LIGHT MY CIGARETTE WHILE I CUT MY WRISTS

absolutely maybe if wings flew
without a bird’s body and the air
lifted ground as outer space
filled inner spirits

then all things might be
equal and if so then what?

Zero.

Which is arguably a ‘something’
less than 1 but greater than
less than zero.

Words.

The devil’s insidious plot to
madden the human mind with
intangible monsters that chip
away at the glass floor we
all ignore and rarely look
down upon
we might see the super-
structure of reality then.

What then?

HORROR.

:: 09-21-2018 ::


FLAT SHADOWS

i birthed one of my famous dreams
last night and invited the
whole town. every inconsiderate
thought came and the flat shadows
of my dearest fears.
the Child with no face on the sidewalk
outlines in broad strokes
Despair. a piece of dove of peace
smothered in regrets on a wooden table
served on a terrace of blinding terror.
only the smallest of facts carry
the greatest stories of which this one
is condemned to 3 o’clock each mourning.
before heaven awakens.
before sizzling strains
of gravity prove awakened
minds are too heavy.
as the rest of the town hides everywhere
that sanity has escaped i press
hard into my eyes by thumbs to forget.
manifested dreams is a sidecar
of my mental vehicle. again at sunrise
to find that one last star yet devoured
by daylight. a wish upon that remaining
survivor — allow this to be me!

:: 09-10-2018 ::


Gonzo Poetry

I had run out of it i’m out of it
mind you my mind that ran away
first by feet then by train
paxil was her name a rotundish
hard skinned pink pill of a pimp
so sleeping a tossing flipping
dreaming dream i witnessed a mess
messing up a dream:

this slot of sliced land jutting
with clapboard housing a shouting
with roaches a toasting the best
of a meal they boasted
the strangest of stranglets in
a land of stranger piglets;

two step eddie backed up to a window
owned by a rider, says he with
back to a drive-thru widow, ‘take
this shotgun, won’t need it, take
this broad sword too, and take this
forty-four again won’t need it,
i’ll keep this grenade cause it
needs me more — see that man there
, snagged my lawn cutting his own
, watch me walk over there.

Two-step walks over there and pulls
the pin and once again they do like
they do the owner of that window
was a copy-cop over 44 and says
to eddie, ‘don’t pull that pin you
sons of guns, sons of burning suns!”
Pin pulled, trigger pressed two slugs
in the valley of the deepest cracks
of two buns and all is done.

And the female dog under the oak
toking-tree says to her male friend,
‘your banging will wake up the
recently dead if you don’t stop
banging and start more slapping instead;
no-step eddie tells the devil he
needs to brush his tooth but forgot
his teeth brush under the bush.

Never cold turkey Paroxetine
and slip to sleep on a Monday.

:: 06-26-2018 ::