IT is midnight; somewhere a storm has
overshadowed a Soul, in others, the storm
is a brilliant reprieve of false peace;
and words pour as molten gold.
A richness of undetermined wealth measured
by Spirit and not human needs.
I have become equal to fear and peace —
this i discovered with my never-closing eyes,
take away this discovery and many others
to share with all fellows. The proof of
existence is a blood-penned period at the
end of a written sigh.
And i write this previous sentence in honor
of Isidore Lucien Ducasse.
To discover your feelings have died and
the skin is a roof for a cemetery! This
pain causes me to pull upon my eyes until
they fall to the ground; and to realize
sympathy is a symphony of sensitive angels
who love us all.
To me; i love you. To everyone else, you
have been my teacher.
:: 04-16-2019 ::
e.p.robles (c) 2019
My neck has stretched above the clouds
the Adamic Apple tickling stars —
and my Love is here and there upon
every footstep i have walked.
Life is not just Pain.
Nor just Love.
But fear and Joy
Morbidity and a shade of nudeness
IF the Soul is inclined to explore
God’s backyard. Cowards! Most of us!
To shade your shame within religion
or a sense of higher ground for weak
voices. Shame. Shame upon the lot!
The Sun is brilliant.
and still your mystery!
:: 04-03-2019 ::
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 ::
f a me is self-immolation one’s lower lip s t retched
over a brain absorbed in self.
it is the itch within a brain
only satisfied by a serpent’s
tongue licking the inside of
your ear with it’s fanged mouth;
only then can it enter your
Soul. And dead popes know.
My chest knows the gravity of such horror: the earwig
crawls up through my armpit into my throat and passes
nasal cavity into my Mind.
Chasing these ephemeral ghosts i avoid food; to starve
is godly — as death. My anus dots the exclamation mark of
my spine and angels cause me a dull pain.
:: 04-01-2019 ::
Of course! It is apparently
— so, do you also know?
and how did you realize it
— too, by two’s, four’s
or even more?
And now it’s written
so there it goes!
A dream, a thought
as a bird does soar
of course! And now,
–now, aren’t you glad.
:: 01-06-2018 ::
SQUEEZED is my brain so i think nothing like no thing
stitched partly into vengeance and frozen time Madness
i can hear the poisoning troop of deception cloaked behind
lies calling me
ooh oh ooh aah ah aah
so show me ruin show me evil
show me unsee-able things
i will show you armor
i will show you strength
i will slay you from now
until the very end of time
some call me nothing
some call me conscious
some call me love
I AM HEARTBREAK
:: 10-06-2018 ::
I have become the exiled
in sleep i have become
not the disappeared
but one who shrinks into
a height of awareness.
An awareness as sharp as
And within the silky-touch
moments of suffering inner
journeys my soul rejects
all coherent reason –
Exiled consciousness slips
from subjectivity into a
gaping eternal void
of abstract form; The First
Land where numbers, thoughts,
and intangibles are born
and return to rest when over-
And tonight as in all previous
nights it is sleep which has
exiled me from body.
To shrink into pure consciousness.
:: 04-02-2018 ::
A tongue like Excalibur melts into mythically steeled words
and ends up tearing hearts with all its magical properties.
Then the universe collapses into a final ending with nothing
left but the, “no thing.” It continues to breath and all words
move forward as zombied penguins with many semicolons standing
whimsically awaiting the next coherent thought.
And the deep dreamer asks, “So let me get this straight Jack”
to the Police Doctor on hand. “You want me to take my pencil
and right every wrong for those patients in the mechanical
ward of broken minds?” Just then a portal opens at the foot
of the deep dreamer’s mouth and the little blue clothed
munchkins drag him out of the ward and into a bread truck
and say, “You’re coming with us to settle a bet.”
The bread smells a wonderful Jesus-like body but there’s
no blood-wine to go with the screams.
:: 03-10-2018 ::