onlyLiving organs ever care
colorful laughter from their scars
tell the terrifying tale
of them all
of them all
they tell us what to do
explain to us what to do
so tell us so tell us
whatcha want to do
To be a bright reason that burns the sun
(can you help me in?)
Rock the storms who rock the ravens
on high; onlyLiving ORGANScream
on the EdgeOfNight.
:: 03.06.2020 ::
if the sun announces her heat is waxing i shall gather up fire from the four corners of the universe and feed her stars by the dozen.
the world is moving. skies caressing the soft and sometimes abrasive contours of Earth. An entire carnival of spectacular events announcing their presence to any and all who are aware.
That my pen never dries is no reason to fear insanity.
It is how the mini-cosmic froth of ideas are born within our kind.
Stay true. Stay firm. Stay within that which provides you love and warmth. Write.
:: 03.07.2020 ::
THEN the skies bellowed a frothy glitter and d o w n became up &sideways
turned horizontally truthful said the vegan Aardvark. THE Policeman chewed his
side and a Red Ant crawled out from his nostril damn-us (Quatrain 173) &
my pillow has luscious lips from some disembodied woman who once cared
for me. The rest of this deliriousprose is buried in an unmarked book within a discount store on the far side of the Moon.
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
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 ::
ENERGY speaks words
like mathematical screaming
discretely hiding its origins.
I (this human writing) is
NOT science. I am flesh and bone
physically but my brain tells me
that the thoughts I have come
from so far away that there is no
number to describe its distance.
Infinity does not count. It only
says that ‘something’ goes on and
on (a way to cheat the thing we
cannot clearly describe) but some
how it all works out with pencil
and a blackboard.
I suspect. A greatness so grand
we cannot even begin to touch
the lips of it’s truth. But still,
I wish to kiss it with my own
lips. I wish to embrace it. To
become engulf within the unknowable
:: 03-10-2019 ::
WHO can fathom universal mysteries
and those cosmic eyes of pulsars;
a child’s laughter | a bottle
of flickering ray caught inside
then when dreaming our Soul sheds
weight by squeezing light from
our tipped toes
as a kangaroo jumping
like a thought through
the needle of some mysteriously
unknown being familiar to our selves
there is no fine line between
understanding and obliviousness:
you either understand or not.
They watch as a spot of an eye
fixed upon each of us. My lips
are dried from the winds of torment
and my heart is a locomotive whose
clenched wheels ride the rails
from South to North. East to West.
We all have a seat there —
with assigned arrivals and
:: 03-10-2019 ::
MY heart rests upon a
mote of dust
not forgotten but
still for us frozen
as though love absent
bursting full of sorrow
as though HistoryLand
–i forget my name//
but poplar within
the fields of my Heart.
:: 03-06-2019 ::
E.P. Robles (c) 2019
W O RD S
i, as me if “i” am One
as though, when child
greatest mysteries revealed
there as then IS one
as alone as none —– we
confused // the gulf of mis-
Thinking: –> surpass
fleshingly aches of Life;
Kiss and knowing ALWAYS
this one of ME
out of any reach.
W O RD S
:: 01-24-2019 ::
JUST once I have a dream but the day flees quickly
And the roses within my hands wilting
Prickly the thorns begin to bleeding; —
And gulfs of space filled with time are speaking;
As One Soul from darkness to light so weakly
Quickly come and rest your tears within my heart
That beats in measure to the parts of slowest moments.
Spilling hope and painting thoughts,
And lovely memories of yet to be’s;
A timely utterance to thought’s relief
My love, the fairest feathers and song
By the beach or the brook o’babbling notes!
And sunlit a lighting stroke across my breast
Leaving me to myself and all I am;
Dreaming a chance just once to be with you
And not within the hand of bleeding rose!
:: 06-24-2017 ::