Tag Archives: #surrealism

OUR WORDS STACKED AS SKYSCRAPERS

THE world is committed to insanity;

our words stacked as skyscrapers

allow ants characters to escape
flooding water

as drowned bodies float

past the windows of office space.

:: 04-25-2019 ::
e.p.robles (c) 2019


The Silent Machine

OUTSIDE the silence the machine
E A T S my liver
screws my tender insides.
For all the failures wishing
i could not think of living
the beautiful memories
of yesterdays /i’m a failure
of tomorrows\ rolling dead
eyes in a river & thick
rooted hairs screaming |
THE END COMES so easy
watch the sunlight dim
in a moment all dream
time screams by(e)
dear___i knew not of you
but married twice believing
–>take/took my heart
and slung it around the sun.
OUTSIDE the machine
eats you & me. screws
our tender parts.

:: 04-20-2019 ::


Time Battles

UPON Dali’s lashes the clocks have
melted persistently as Time
battles weak waves of gravity
And then (that some whisper) a
name murmuring midnight we all
stand before the Cosmic God
who has No Name; maybe “Ah.”
As glass cocks turn to stone
the soft touch of skin burns
and then a charming strike
of lightning buries the lips
of ruins /my mother has hips
that born a grown fetus
through the strongest arms
of all forgotten women
And my heart drawn by Picasso
my face by Jesus and my Soul
by Space.
It is here
the engraving plate that
printed all humans /but the
hand of that apprentice
has left us for another
universe.\

:: 03-29-2019 ::


TO TOUCH THESE THINGS I GENTLY HOLD

FOUR blankets upon my skin
my feet horizontal off the ground
and still my balls ache like fire
like fire i’ve been away
from love too long /don’t make it a big deal\
Spectrophilia saves me at the end of the day
No sleep no dreams i’m attracted to ghosts
and the many images within all mirrors
and the love of a dead poet named Emily
Dickinson; come to me dear, don’t forget
me — i’m too sensitive And your body
is verse to the space inside the dying
heart of my bruised chest.
And only you could ever could ever
understand — its all within your prose;
to touch these things i gently hold.

:: 03-21-2019 ::


MAKING FLOWERS GROW

the mud between my bare toes have spoken: although i search
for someone as me in the world i am severely alone. My spine
sings a song by tonal qualities of pain; the burden of life
is heavy and it has curved my life. ? is its shape. Half
the shape of a voluptuous woman without hair. Her teeth
are enameled beasts with conquering breasts. Evil and Good
have confronted me but my reply: Go! I did not summon you.
Your friendship is not required. Death and Life are pure
concepts of biological construct. Flee. And the deepest
mysteries have been revealed. My brain has locked them away
for that singular moment when my original thought shall split
it’s atom for all to be revealed. Revelation. Like a kiss
within the cold that tears the flesh from my pouted lips.
…it comes soon.

:: 04-03-2019 ::


SWOLLEN SKIES

my life is and will be bitter sweet there on a road
and any road it goes. Waving hello behind me and
many goodbyes before me. When a child my mother rubbed
eggs upon my sick body. The mystery to the universe is
nothing more than ignorance. We are less than children.
And most born so deeply within sleep we never awaken.
Hello. Yes, today was cold and full of tear drops
from a swollen sky. The water broke and the child
was stillborn. It lays within a ditch next to the
homeless squirrel. The dead birds have been dying
mostly near a house close to my heart. My footsteps
are at least two feet from terror and one from
resignation. Humans. We are.

:: 04-03-2019 ::


SHADOWS IN THE MIRROR

i have eaten the face of god whose thick
body created the mega-verse. The fly upon
the dank wall accuses me of creating sin;
but only dark matter is to blame. It hides
within the jewels of Creation. My libido
murdered untold numbers of unborn sperm
and ovulating women conspired to hide
this truth deep within their vulva. We
are all murderers eating the flesh of
fallen innocent creatures that cannot
speak to their defense. Even a plant has
a voice if we only carefully listen.
The world of humans is an asylum of
demented souls. Do not visit us.

:: 04-02-2019 ::


THE CORPSE

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 ::


THE RA&&IT & THE HAT

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 ::


LIVING GHOST

EVERYTHING seems so real
the dancing trees
the talking clouds
and how you feel

When i’m alone i’m not here
everything’s gray
the world’s a memory
while you’re away

how does it feel
how does it feel
how does it feel

(to be)

a living ghost
within your skin
screaming in silence
while the world
fades away

when everything
seems so real.

:: 10-19-2018 ::