DEATH sheltered upon the spit of dying souls;
sun and heat a giant cat with one flat foot
upon a devil’s wing — the homosexual and
amorous spirits that cross a garden in dead
of night make scary sounds.
my throat an elevator from heaven descending
toward hell with every swallow; my non-
existent ring upon a broken finger as throbbing
sexual oysters.
to smell the clean spirit of angels are as hanging
clothes upon a clothesline within a Spring’s breeze.
:: 09.21.2020 ::
it was 1493 when i, the little boy, ventured across
the hills toward Anchiano.
there i was found being thirsty and asked an old
man for water. He was Leonardo da vinci — he
said. My father taught me how to fight: my mother,
how to be gracious for a kind gesture.
i had never met a soul as him and he showed me
a painting and some notes. Asked if I was schooled.
No. Just in life to survive i replied.
Thanking him i left behind a remarkable
soul.
:: 07.25.2020 ::
TOO! i am too tired for Love___i drained
my member silently this day: of no love,
fanfare nor beauty i did this to die again/
the sun was rolling upon my house’s roof
and all the neighborhood dogs howled
in joy at the large yellow bouncing ball
of fire and death\and me –alone.
:: 07.17.2020 ::
it is the brightest of nights;
the exceptional expectation
which fate has granted the every-
NOTHING. paradoxically enough
if one believes in Life;
kissing phenomena believing
science when flasks and
atom smashers dance together
and flesh/blood kill each other
the more paradoxical enough
today my lips bled when
i spoke just a word,
“oh!”
and a new element born!
:: 07-08-2015 ::
::
(c) ep robles 2010
With age the vine grows sweeter
but some liquor even sooner
a gallant soul to mix
produce potent spirits
:: 02-14-2014 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 