"construing" poems
Teasing the beast
Looking for a feast
Hounds barking at our ears
Vultures flying up ahead
Circling a bald eagle's fresh corpse
Compartmentalizing symptom after symptom
To hide the great systematic sickness
Labeling the suffering, outcome from desire
We, wholeheartedly accepting being
Appropriated, labeled, discarded
As construing our own oppression and sadness
Enduring the **** of our minds
Being castrated of our consciousness
Before we reap the products
Of its bold liberation and grandness
Its the belly of the beast
And its hungry
Insatiable, amoral entrails
Hoping to salvage a feast
From the casualties of d(e)moc(ratic) wars
Hoping we feed our monstrous fear
Thirsting for the greed
Dripping off of accumulating wealths
Impatiently waiting, we keep parceling out grudges
Disfiguring our minds, our souls, and our bodies
Its misanthropic nature lashes out without conscience
Knowing we'll never realize we are masses
Disappearing the individuals who realize their suffering
Ensuring there's no collective opposition or action
Trying to reassure we are weak
Knowing at some point or another
We all act mute, deaf, and blind when anyone experiences:
Oppression
Pain
Silencing
****
Hunger
Fear
Violence
Repression
Retaliation
Discrimination
Torture
Negation
Alienation
All forms of mental, psychological, physical, and spiritual mutilation
Fearing death more than fighting for necessary abolishment
Preferring to live out our veiled miseries
Endorsing their continuance
Instead of risking our lives for everyone's liberation
Always ensuring the feast of the beast
By its very efforts trying to decree our very human nature
Ingraining greed, fear, animosity, and weakness as if inherent of us
All parts of its most damaging weapon: the seed of discord
Its implantation, a socialized deep desire for self-preservation
Sheep bleating painfully toward our ears
Vultures flying up ahead
Circling a bald eagle's fresh corpse
Signifying the impending recapturing
Of our true transformative desires
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
The carpenter sits in his rocking chair as he thinks,
as the sun drowns itself into the dark clouds, he waits.
Waiting for something to tell him that he is no longer a boy anymore,
that his maturity and humility have been masqueraded
Into a body that resembles him.
Every night, when he eats, he sits alone
His plate as round as the moon,
He lights one candle on his dinner table.
Most nights, when he is drinking heavily,
he walks to the back of his house,
sits in front of an old wooden bench,
gazing across the lake and he picks up a book,
construing ideas and proposals that he fails to recollect the morning after.
He reads poems to himself, poems from books.
Poems about the nature and history of the human condition,
about the muscles and the tendons in our bodies
that bend and crumble and shiver at our disposal.
Bottle in his left hand, book in his right.
And sometimes he switches hands to highlight his drunken dexterity.
Clinching his book of poems as if they were his children,
too afraid to go out into the soft fear of the electric night,
and he was the wild one to present to this world.
He feels abandoned, dismayed,
and he no longer sees a light at the end this tunnel,
like someone or something is closing it,
leaving a crevice wide enough just to test and to tease
his willing and purpose to escape from it.
He feels a burning in his chest
as he trickles down the last drip of scotch onto his lips,
tasting death like it was tapwater.
It's midnight and he has to wake up in six hours,
wake up to a routine where his work becomes unnoticed
because he doesn't have the ***** to stand up for himself.
So, he sits and he waits for something to happen,
something fantastic or supernatural to help him grow wings
so he could relieve the tension on his shoulders,
his bones realigned to fit the being of gods.
He closes the book, walks back to his house
and blows his one candle at the dinner table,
blackening the room to fit the clouds of the night.
He lies in his bed as he engulfs his body with his comforter,
hoping to never wake up in a world that will not hesitate to laugh in his face.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 9:28 PM UTC
Thunder birds
Feathers made of light
No crashing in the night
Heedless heals shatter the ground
Muskets silencing every warning
Thunder birds
Voices carry out songs
No silence in the oblivion
Hollowed breathing gasping oxygen
Bullets' sonic reverberations
Overpowering every whimpering
Thunder Birds
Witnessing every crime
No veils cloud the terror
Burning images through tears
Weapons of desolation spark
Smoke and fire to blind just eyes
With every burning desire
We were meant to love
But instead fell low
Construing our delirium
As if by predestined design
Without faulting the system
Facilitating issuance of our sickness
Restless voices trivialized
To demobilize their power
Appropriating oppression as ours
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
I'm a spy
A super hero
Of your enemy
Watching, analyzing, construing
I know your strengths
But more crucially
I know your weaknesses
I have a license to break you heart
To destroy your world
I'm disguised as your
Best friend, your lover, your confidant
You "are stirred, not shaken."
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 2:24 PM UTC
There were no last words
between us-
but you whispered "I love you."
Not acknowledging-
instead feigning prior pains
(acute metaphysical backache or similar;
poignantly posed silence construing that
I'd been wounded),
I told you goodbye.
Of course, it was a train
and a girl scenario-
her off-white handkerchief trailing
out the window, itself
saying an extra goodbye
(saying surrender).
I punched the dirt after,
because love
felt false- especially
coming from me, an unkempt
young actor.
You're a newly colored
kaleidoscopic green,
an old film repainted
(it was still relevant;
strong cast- a beautiful female lead
needing submission, to be tamed).
I am solipsistic graphite smudges
forming a halo
around the ordinary providence
of bold characters
erased from an inelegant diner napkin-
I wrote I love you I wrote I love you I wrote I love you.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
moon over head
the streets of the barrio
cracked side walks
and loud music
construing
the eager young mind,
he was about nine.
El barrio, I write to you
an open notebook I fill
of memories
black and blue.
El barrio, you didn't
think i'd make it.
for only the forsaken
make it.
El barrio,
my neighborhood
flooded with dreams
of other places
names
without faces.
life
and all else
you will find
between these city walls.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
It feels as though
You're peeling away layers
Of me.
With just your stare.
It's disconcertingly invigorating.
Having the awareness
Like someone is
Tracing my insides.
Like you're painting me
By numbers.
Erasing tiny fortresses
I've unwittingly constructed
As years went on.
Oh how it makes me want to stretch and scream...
I would parade in front
Of you.
To get a small thrill
From the exposure you don't know
You're causing.
What you must think
When you look
At me.
Your mind turning out
Notions.
Construing ideas
Of what pieces
Of what I am
Fit into what spots.
Am I a puzzle to you?
Do you secretly want to lay
Me on the floor
And find
All my edges first?
Seeing the whole of me
Come together.
Figuring me out but
Still needing to place that last piece in
To be satisfied
By what you discover.
What a way to waste some hours...
Dissecting a persons' ego.
Knowing someone's dreams
And spirit.
Would I be fascinating
To you?
I would like to hope yes.
© NDHK
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 3:55 AM UTC
He couldn’t take his eyes off of his living room’s mirror.
His own reflection was staring back at him.
Mesmerized by his self’s own image-re-presentation as he was.
Wanting to see himself through an-other’s perspective.
Desiring to be seen as somebody else.
He went on to become one with the famous imago.
In an endless arms race, an endless metonymy, drifting as it is called,
He tried to achieve the unachievable.
He tried to attempt the impossible.
He wanted to do the non-doable.
Always, from a young age, feeling inadequate and insecure.
Because he deemed himself incapable of stretching his own existence,
To make it fit with the family’s ideals.
So he spent the rest of his life trying to be recognized as something.
As something which he wasn’t at all? Yes. (How tragic. How sad.)
That left him with nothing but rage, hopelessness and despair.
A bipolar marionette of somebody Else’s deadly painful pleasure.
Powerless as he was, he went on living while construing ******* solutions.
So that he could just "get by". A coward hiding behind somebody Else’s wants.
And then one day having said to everybody, everything that made him upset, he left this place.
He never came back.
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 8:55 AM UTC
Cosmic consciousness can consequently convey cataleptic conditions...
captured calamities constantly cascading, careening, colliding continuously...
continuity, congruity, catalysts construing clarity, confining confusions...
concluding; causality creatively conducts constructed concretized concordance.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 6:30 PM UTC
Construing from shades between rainbow streaks
grew to
reading in between the lines
Reached comfort zone of no name
But its worth the wait
Life’s journey has only
halts but not
… ……………. ……
….. ………………. ….
the destination
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 4:21 PM UTC
You ripped me open to peer inside;
find the secrets you were locked out of
You turned and thought nothing of it;
did not even try to learn from what you discovered
Instead you turn it to place the blame
on me since I made it too tempting for you
So I had no choice to stand before you
naked and vulnerable and soon I ran
And for all your mental tallies
construing yourself to be the victim
I want you to know that I have forgiven
you for betraying the little trust I had
You always wanted our relationship to
be different when you took the time to look back
But were never willing to put in the
daily efforts that it takes to get it there
So you started taking short cuts
after all you mind is a tangled mess of lies
Cheating eventually collapses upon itself
and here that mask you made us
create is unveiling itself as just that –
a lie leaving you alone in a pool of hate
In forgiveness you are mistaken;
it does not mean a fresh start nor see you;
Hear your voice; have your fakeness
pollute the air I’m trying to breathe
Someone who was ***** can
forgive but would you blame them for
Never wanting to see that face again?
And yet you are back in my life
You don’t understand where I’m at
or who I am; but that does not concern you
As long as your shell appears nice from afar
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 9:22 AM UTC
From spark to flame
on a cord
Flame to smoke
a bed of wax
construing from
a breathe
of air in the dark.
synchronicity
friendship
energy
love
all the while
A flame can be a passion
or a raging fire.
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 2:48 AM UTC