Just a peck of you
smudge kissMouth
I ate a rose roughTO-
Night — and hunger
for that pink tongueWish
tied to the knot of my
ManHeart deeplyNeeds
wounded bleeding —
sillyMe drama loves
romantic scenes —
stay here UP on the
wooden lit stage —
when the curtain falls
falls Falling below
your knees — I
should say this…
“…………….”
:: 03.15.2023 ::
In the depths of my mind, I spin,
Lost in a world of dream and din,
Where colors blend and thoughts begin,
A crazy, abstract world within.
The sky is red, the grass is blue,
The trees are singing, the flowers moo,
And all the creatures, strange and new,
Are dancing in a rainbow hue.
The sun is smiling, the moon is weeping,
The stars are laughing, the comets creeping,
The world is alive, but it’s not sleeping,
In my abstract mind, there’s no time for keeping.
The river flows, but it’s upside down,
The mountains dance, without a sound,
The clouds are soft, but they wear a crown,
And all around, there’s no solid ground.
I ride a bicycle made of air,
And sing a song without a care,
I float above a world so rare,
And dance with all the creatures there.
In this surreal world of mine,
There’s no limit to what I can find,
My imagination runs wild and divine,
A world of deep abstract and surrealism, so fine.
:: 02.28.2023 ::
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 ::
no one promised paradise
a thing ever imagined
no sentience no matter
just energy ink well
dipped words glistening
is black on white paper
became me due to you
my born imagination
fractured but never
broken | horror living
horror dying horror
if you had seen all things
i’ve seen you’d cry
is a flower dying for water
a world of never raining
societies of not forgiving
became me_______fractured
but never broken.
:: 10.27.2022 ::
DRAGON’S nightly border whose position in every layer of desire
AS man grasps only if he cannot cling to wings — die not after all –
while men weep.
I glance at a profusion of books, all but decayed, all quickly readied for callers.
-Oh what dying Lung AS fuck — \\it’s too late to die & you want him to die only
-but never as long as he can! her man turned himself into the toast of society.
Oh her man died as they say.she now lives with that man who may never die –
who when she left him said she could not go but not die with him.
call him a devil.
-I just now sent her my half-chocolate heart of lovEburst to be sure she received
it well.
nary a living man she’d even known – he had enough// clipped wings
to fly & ampersand a face to let his feelings show.
-What shall I do?
my Lord with that look in your eyes from your androgynous mouth \i took the sun
inside my pen and wrote cum in bright white and pink letters.
and gripped your hips and took myself inside your pink flower.
It’s not what he seemed to feel, not the least bit dismayed in his very busy life
to see all these very old people coming and going; neither did he wish to frighten them away.
How humans age. Even the youth. All their flesh decayed. Love burst.
:: 04.09.2022 ::
SOFT slipper, coffee, cat *fed*
reading sad news i laughed
how the world blew its head
And anchors held their breath
must ask Musk about Mars
they’re sending pointy spears
into that atmosphere soon
Noticed how the sun changed
once we ran under its light
now burn scorned at its white
yellow used to be a thing
dresses, glasses, cars
and flying machines
/then cern came\ …rewind
things happen before their done
walked from work to home before
6 am and fell into a dream that
couldn’t be seen : i can never
count from infinity to one
but could really turn it on
/phillip are you awake: sir,
the universe needs to know\
[in the basement waiting
for the white van to come]
:: 02.22.2022 ::
The boy is working very quickly now, Mariketa; very fast.
A blue light spreads through the garden, enough to make the plants wilt but not kill them.
He’s collecting knowledge so quickly, Mariketa, that we’ll lose our advantage.
He’ll get away, Mariketa.
Why?
He thinks that the white wolf can control a dark servant; and we’d lost our one such, the Butcher.
Can he?
We need to send the boy back to die.
She’s talking to me through the Wolf of the North.
The Butcher of the Red Brotherhood, the Butcher that should have been destroyed years ago, that he should have killed years ago …
The Wolf was silent.
The Trollocs have the field.
I feel them move on the far side of the river, not too far.
Can they turn that loose, to come on here?
No, I don’t think they can.
Their beasts can’t cross the river with their backpacks and soldiers and equipment.
The wolves are too small.
I can sense the other beasts moving in the distance, hundreds of them, coming to the caravan.
It’s a war party, a massive one.
The wolves, though, cannot cross the river.
How large is the caravan?
I don’t know.
I only know that the Trollocs are looking to turn loose a good many beasts here.
He makes a move with his head, as if nodding to her.
He’s saying, “We move the battalion, take these beasts and flee.”
So he’s gone.
I let him go, Mariketa.
He will take the unicorn.
I sense it.
His demise is only a matter of time.
The land is left over, the Grey-Jeweled Queen, and the River Raedah.
No others come to us.
The three armies turn and march back toward the tents.
There, the work starts all over.
The army camps downriver has retreated to the riverbank, providing a covering fire to turn back the Trollocs on the road.
The tents are ready, the tent troops and riding troops have been gathered.
Tales and councils are given to the men to get them moving.
The fires were taken out as soon as the supplies were unloaded, and the area is being kept dark.
That means this part of the plan is at last done.
:: 02/07/2022 ::
[winked the passerby
kissing a ghost only
seen by jaunt eyes]
below
Soul to Soul in heaven
body to body in mud
teens teaming furnace
creating new suns
ate the worm-word
killing the mind
of a poet/became a
butterfly of indescribable
color\kissing for the first
time is bigger than the
nuclear bomb.
:: 01.10.2022 ::
You can have everything
once you throw it all away
you can bring flowers
to your funeral if you never die
(like fruit cake)
Miss the train to everywhere
to travel the whole world
separate heaven and earth
to enjoy them both
You can bridge the gaps
to close the veil between
the worlds to cross over
and to meet your confessor
before you meet your doctor.
So stay fascinated with ideas
of love if you’ve never experienced
it truly — and lick the moon,
taste the air and rise to eat the sun.
:: 10.31.2021 ::
INSPIRED BY ANDRE BRETON
(1896 – 1966: Freedom Of Love)
My wife with the eyes of an archangel of the nude
asking me to come to bed.
with the eyes of a unicorn riding on the back of a dragon
whilst i am the beggar upon a donkey
with the eyes of a column without mortar and of hands
My wife with the eyes of a lake the ocean flowed into
With the eyes of a pen and with the eye of a child
telling me wonderful bedtime stories of Life.
My wife with the eyes of a butterfly
of a woman who is just stepping off her horse
My wife with the eyes of a fox of the panther’s head
with the eyes of a snake
hissing at the inequalities of life.
My wife with the eyes of a cold drink of water
quenching my thrist for love and life.
with the eyes of the beak of a dove
with the mind of a bastard twin
with the skin of a smooth-jacket’s boot
with the brilliant smell of a green ear of corn
speaking through Nature with her heart.
My wife with the mind of a simile
with the body of a handful of sea-pearls
and with the Soul of a sun with a tail of serpents
My wife with the eyes of a broken dagger
and with the feelings of a smouldering petrol-bomb
My wife with the eyes of a pain in her thumb
like the swollen member between my legs.
My wife with the eyes of an exclamation point
My Love with the eyes of a box of bottled messages
as the curves of a wheel of apples
My wife with the eyes of a ring-gargoyle
My wife with the eyes of the German eagle
My wife with the eyes of a cannonball dropped into the rocks
carving love into the mountain of my personal Life.
My wife with the eyes of a crane weeping
My wife with the eyes of a nightjar’s feather
My wife with the eyes of a sceptre
My wife with the eyes of an ice-bucket containing a koi
My wife with the eyes of a house-smoker’s chimney
feeding all who come to know her kindness.
My wife with the eyes of the olive and of the lotus
My wife with the eyes of an eel and of the slipper of a cow
My wife with the eyes of an abacus containing a scarab
My wife with the eyes of a seagull
is my wife is my love is my own inspiration in this Life.
:: 02.07.2021 ::
 | Damien de Soto on Could I Be |
 | EPRobles on Could I Be |
| Damien de Soto on Could I Be |
| Damien de Soto on Drowning in Fear |
 | romanticallyinclined… on A PECK OF KISSmOuth |
E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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