"deconstruction" poems
Now I ask you to join me
Now you celebrate
Not being me. Not being you
Only Us for the great
UN
load!
DIS
arm!
EN
large!
OUT
side!
Some steps I will take
Be my guest
Pull your anchor
Out of the lake
We're
In the room
In the building
In the crowded city
In the country with thousands of cities
The country shares the continent with an enemy nation
The two rivals are carried round and round by the Earth's endless rotation
The Earth obeys the master’s magnetic line, burning since uncountable clock time
The sun is blind to his insignificance too, ignoring billions of other star mates, it can’t see through
Immeasurable it seems, magnifying! All of them such tiny little parts in one of Miss Milky’s arms
Some light years away there they are: Pinwheel, Cartwheel, Black Eye, Andromeda and Cigar
Unmeasurable it seems, humongous! All of them such a fading little part of the cosmos
There you are
Floating from a distance
Feel the empty ground
Drink from the fountain of existence
Still blind to insignificance?
Still convinced about the rightness of imposed beliefs?
Still judging others’ defects according to our pretentious and vain mind?
Still punching away the different, protecting the mold?
Still reinforcing illusory antagonism and insignia?
Still seeing only two sides?
Still holding to the pride?
Still
In the ******* room
Am I? Are you?
Let's try it again
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
The nature around us
Provokes to think!
The geometry of nature
Creates coincidences and intersections!
Coincidences of creation- destruction and re-construction!
Intersection reveals the connectivity,
Connectivity between deconstruction and reconstruction!
Geometry portray the commonness and uniqueness,
Commonness and uniqueness between
‘image and number’ and ‘shape and number’!
It leads all relation to number relation!
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
Dimension beginning of vile ****** exposed,
And the Emperor has no clothes,
While helplessly strut a mighty walk without a shame.
Course of history repeating itself,
Like the flow of water meeting in the river of streams,
But recycle through the clouds and back to the ground it flows.
Are we so blinded by the glimmer of the mirage of oasis in the desert,
We toast with sands of dune to quench our thirst of our plight,
And all is but a fickling light ducktaped by words of unintelligible muddled murmur?
This is truly the flawed design of our time,
When we no longer promote arts and crafts of philosophies,
And religious cults of zealots condemned the science and Academia by berating it's achievement.
Likes of ancient times of Agora and the height of it's human enlightenment,
There are forces of deconstruction of society of choas ensued by hateful fear mongers,
And systematic inward of national fevor of berserkers leveling progress.
Maybe another dark age is inevitable,
But little seed of hope I feel tangible,
And sometimes event maybe a phoenix.
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 1:11 AM UTC
What's this phenomenon called love,
That remains a puzzle no one can solve?
Love is the caveat for many broken hearts,
And the byword for many gracious acts.
Love has the characteristics of a witch
And the coldness of a vindictive *****
Love, the greatest of human emotions
Has many different variations.
The good book talks about agape love,
And Beyonce sings about drunken love.
Its nature nobody really understands
Yet men have worked with their hands and paid bride prices with cows.
Some have proposed to women at the super bowls.
And on talk shows, jumped on couches
leaving a few to walk on crutches.
Nobody knows love's true colors.
Yet many men have spent top dollars
To buy their women cars as gifts.
And later on, end up begging for lifts.
For love, Romeo committed suicide
And Juliet died right by his side.
Love is very irresistible
And unpredictable.
Love has many dimensions
and many complications.
For love, many people have died
And much more has lied.
For love, knots have been tied
many bank accounts emptied,
For love, wars have been fought
And many Diamond rings bought.
Love is a wrecking ball
I call it an emotional hall.
For love, tears have been shed
by many in their lonely beds.
Love is a mystery
But the reality in my poetry.
It's a kinda game in most men lives,
A game played behind their wives.
So what do we know about love?
Is it peaceful as caged doves
Or dangerous as wild wolves?
Is it contagious as a disease,
Or rumpled as a crease?
Is it blind like brother Steve,
Or silent as a grave?
Is it deep like the ocean,
and beautiful like Heaven?
Love can at times be as cold as ice
And at times, twice as nice!
IvanBrooksPoetry©️
21/8/2018
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 3:28 PM UTC
There are two images
On the wall of the room
Where I live in;
One is ‘Gandhi’ on his way to Dandi
Another is of a **** with his gun,
In between the images there is a
Sprawling spider web,
Networking peace with warfare
Or warfare with peace!
My soul mate said
“Spider web trying to network
Post-modern peace with humanity & masculinity
So, that everyone agrees to it before deconstruction
out of trepidation.”
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
practicing mental gymnastics
insipid memories
seeping their way past
defensive buffers
remembering repressed poisons
as a catalyst for making
wiser decisions
lackadaisical reactions to
sharply defined parallaxes
warrant an immediate shift
fractal spectacles
the labyrinth of my innards
inhale the cosmological smoke of suggestion
words become meaningless
when repeated exhaustively
semantic satiation
slicing away at true intentions
paving the way to
false inventiveness
shallow river beds are loud
prouder than their counterparts
insecurity overshadows
a lack of faith in the faint of heart
everything worthwhile
falls apart
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
When I decided to write my first poem, I thought back to the days,
when we were studying poetry and the teacher would amaze,
she'd make me write down words and things, I'd be chasing praise.
But looking back at my book now, I know what I should do,
and so here follows my glossary of things I'll write for you:
I have - Alliteration, Antagonist, Allegory and Anapest.
Characterisation, Complication, Convention and Connotation.
Elegy, Elision, Epigram and Exposition.
Free verse, Falling action, Falling meter and also Fiction.
Literal language, Imagery, Lyric poem and Irony.
Rising action, Resolution, Rising meter with Recognition.
Acatalectic, Anacreontic, Amphimacer and Amphibrachic.
Cliché, Common Measure, Couplets and Catalectic.
Deconstruction, Dispondee, Dialect Verse with a Dictionary.
Iambic Meter, Incantation, Impromptu with Inspiration.
Laureates and Limericks, Light Verse poems and Linguistics.
Metaphors, Mock-Heroics, Middle English and Movement Poets.
Oh gosh that seems a little worse, than I had it made to be,
I was expecting just to write a poem 'bout my cat and me.
I guess it's harder than it looks so I'll just give up now;
I'll let those big brave poet people, write them all somehow.
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 11:55 AM UTC
The world is full of shade and prose
And I don’t know what to do anymore
Audre Lorde said “silence will not protect you”
But I been weaving my silences into a survivor’s quilt
Because I’m tired of surviving
And I’m cold and want to use it as my blanket
Out there in that cold *** world
The world is full of shade and prose
*** workers on boulder highway
Wanna be poets writing in spanglish
White privilege, patriarchy and all
I kinda wish I’d write songs instead of poems
You know, songs about love
But no
Cuz the world is full of shade and prose
Bus stops/stop and frisk
Judgment day enthusiasts/Holocaust deniers
I am tired of “it happened before I was born”
And “I feel guilty but I did not ask to be privileged”
And when I say: Then do something
They ask me “what?”
I reply: NO
The world is full of shade and prose
The chicken never made it across the street
There is so much deconstruction
And so little relief
We will soon end up homeless
And will have to pawn the master’s tools
Or maybe just sell them at the swapmeet
For a dollar or two
I mean who cares as long as we’re in love
If at the end
The world is full of shade and prose.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 5:14 AM UTC
We drink to make each other more tolerable.
Whiskey washes over the painful memories of broken trust and promises.
I don’t remember the last time we didn’t fight.
It’s like I love you too much to care anymore.
I’d give you the world if I could,
but that’s easier said than done.
You don’t want me to be so kind to you;
and that’s something I’ll never understand.
Don’t forget who I was before you tore me apart.
I was a pieced together puzzle;
until deconstruction became your hobby.
You became my demise.
Tears trickled down my wrinkled shirt the day you left.
In our life wine rhymed with love
and water tasted like sacrifice.
There are only so many wounds liquor can heal.
New stains painted my shirts,
not tears or wine.
Red cuffs covered up memories of you.
Blood washed down the drain just before you came back.
Now it’s too late to save us.
Maybe we were doomed from the start.
But I’ll refuse to believe we weren’t perfect for each other.
Not until God tells me otherwise.
I suppose I’ll see him soon and ask for His opinion.
Your embrace has never felt more soothing
as my vision blurs to black.
You whisper sweet thoughts you should’ve said before.
We drank to make each other more tolerable.
I couldn’t think of someone I’d rather tolerate.
When I embark from dark to light I’ll remember you.
I love you too much to care anymore.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
why do we trap ourselves with walls of thought
that exist only in our heads, walls that restrict
what we can see and understand through our journeys
in life and love, good and evil, wonder and cynicism
What are we so afraid of in our existence that
barriers are created so strong built through belief
and ignorance, invented to keep so much from affecting
the way we think and act, as if the minute amount
we know is enough to live by without being
curious about this amazing universe we find ourselves
inhabiting, filling the area around us with out thoughts
How can we not be filled with an unquenchable thirst
to discover and understand all that is around us
surrounded in physical splendor and ethereal mystery
All things are there for our mind to intertwine with
to understand without deconstruction, to comprehend
without destruction to be a part of and with all
of life while being individually thinking, metaphysical exploration.
When will we allow our minds to expand beyond our
walls of mistrust and comfort to show our thoughts and
joys of living emotion to each other to let
the very essence of who we are to press against
each other in vulnerability and trust, to share without
expectation of return. Without empathy and understanding
our thoughts will remain only our own, locked
away and formless, unable to show the universe
the beauty of what we truly are.
Where will we be once we can share
with each other our thoughts mingling to be
able and ready to explore this fantastic existence
we will be human, at long last true to ourselves
and everyone else to realize the universe is a
thought in the mind of a child
and so are we.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 5:18 AM UTC
Poetry is universal.
Everyone speaks it, even if by accident.
Yet, hardly anyone understands it.
No one notices
The hidden meanings in every sentence,
And every word.
Sometimes, not even the poet.
There is more to every poem than meets the eye.
But deconstruction can only go so far.
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 7:27 AM UTC
The archaic Mythologies
Were well depicted ventures of Human
Spirit to verily present acts of the absolute Nutness
An astute of a compelling question Still
Much relevant in today's lmplicit
Deconstruction of Committing
A moral Excession.
Old Greeks came to a betwixt paradox when compairing
the two ulterior motives:
~ a completely mad passionate love
~ a sharp cold blooded oportunistic love
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
wandering
across
the splinters of
squandered
seasons
the Hajj
of the
lost ones
completes
a broken
circle
returning
with hope to
burrow back
into the safety
of desecrated
graveyards
welcomed
home to the
embrace of a
cadaverous cloak
and the kiss
of carrion
smudged lips,
Hajji's eye
the decrepit
visage of
criminal
depravity
germination
of this
Arab Spring
mocks us
aromas
of jasmine
elude us
emulsified
concrete
clogs our
nostrils
burning eyes
filled with
asbestos dust
form
grateful
blinders
to the
ruination
of reason
betrayed
arcane
remnants
of our life
lay inert
in the open
****** of
fractured
habitations
amidst
jumbled rubble
the decaying
carcasses of
razed buildings
boast grotesque
sculptures of
twisted rebar
cradling artifacts
of a past life
pink
hair curlers
splashed
with sickly
blood grown
mold
scavenged
bicycles
limp on
banished
parts
smashed
skulls of
dolls weep,
her
dismembered
limb reaches
for a lost child’s
nursing
hand
the charred
remains of a
Persian rug
maps the
scale
of a city’s
deconstruction
and a frayed
regions
disconsolation
electric luxury
flowing water
the friendly bustle
of the street
bespeak
expired memories
foretelling an
unimaginal future
sectarian strife
enforces a communal
solitary confinement
in cold blood
we willingly
murdered
compassion
we
butchered
trust
we
euthanized
our
common
humanity
constructing
buildings is
easy
rebuilding
ourselves
impossible
Music Selection:
Segovia, Capricho Arabe
Oakland
5/13/14
jbm
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
Smooth porcelain skin
lungs, a vibrant pinkish hue
The crux of the problem
enamored by the image of her
indifferent to the soul of her
unflinching in his deconstruction of her
a terminal case
without restrict
he breathes in crisp tainted air
exhaling in a roar of satisfaction
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
Touch
You cannot lift or load it,
over your shoulder, throw it,
to best assay its weight -
is it ponderous, full of big *** gravitas
or a snack, a parfait desert,
a haiku delight?
You cannot touch it,
but it can touch you,
It can grasp both your shoulders,
shake you from complacency,
put its hands upon thy throat,
gasp emit, a scream demanded,
paint whimsy lines on thy face,
from ear to ear.
See
With yours eyes, by a mere glance,
true reveal its length,
stanzas multiple or an itty bitty ditty,
but this gives no value clue,
Ogden Nash vs. Tennyson,
in two minutes make you laugh,
in twenty, make you beg, mercy!
Smell
Some Poe poems do stink,
befouled mushrooms in
a dank place, some require nerve to read,
but your olfactory be ill suited for
poetic deconstruction and criticism.
Hear
Wake you with kisses upon thy face,
inject love poems into thy ears,
straight to the brain verbal crack *******
yet even the hearing the whisper
of words from my lips,
is an insufficient,
sensorily speaking methodology,
of how a poem, to best comprehend
How then?
If touch, vision, smell and cursory hearing alone
can't essence capture, what then, weary reader,
is the supposed Laureate's approved analytical tool?
Taste
Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member
in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction
with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows, and the one that follows.
Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....
Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.
Feel the light pressure of the tongues tip
upon the roof of your mouth
and the exalted exhalations of
air rushing past thy cheeks
as you messenger breath from
your chest to be shared with the world,
over the poem's interpreter, your tasting lips.
*As I lay each word down,
a brick by brick edifice construct
of mine own design, I am sated, fulfilled only,
when with I see your lips move
as you savor my words,
my taste you share,
and we are closer for it.*
***Deaf, dumb and blind,
all such travails can be conquered, assailed,
but when I cannot, no longer anymore taste
my poems upon thy lips, then I breathe no more.***
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
It doesn't always Happen.
Even though it hardly stays still.
Some don't realize its presence
Some will never see that it's passed
Some seem to have no recollection
It's the unbecoming of a star
The deconstruction of a song.
Dec 17, 2022
Dec 17, 2022 at 5:42 AM UTC
Occasionally, I feel like,
I’m being buried by a landslide,
So I go into my room and turn off the lights,
Play music to drown out my plights.
Suddenly, I feel a bubbling,
Deep inside my soul.
It’s been bottled up,
My dam isn’t enough,
And I’m about to lose control.
The truth is,
Sometimes I cry.
When I’m tired of bottling it up inside.
A deconstruction of pride,
Fractured fragments left behind.
My dam can’t hold back,
The tsunami that’s on the attack.
Sometimes, it’s overwhelming,
It can feel like I’m drowning,
In a pool of sorrow,
Of my own making.
It’s hard to stop it,
So methodic,
It keeps on coming back.
Pathetic, sympathetic,
It’s difficult to control it.
Cathartic, ironic,
How do people deal with this?
The waterworks are a virus,
That everyone’s contaminated with.
Can’t show weakness,
Got to keep a straight face,
A mask from the pain.
Let the pillow be the bucket for my sorrows.
Let the tears dampen the fabric of the case.
Let my blankets cool me off, calm me down,
And help me change my frown.
Sometimes all we need,
Is an emotional release.
Perhaps, that’s the way,
To inner peace.
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 9:42 PM UTC
disillusionment.
deconstruction.
liberation.
the breaking of bones.
a knife
stabbed me in the back,
and i cried, **** you!"
a boot
kicked me behind the knees,
then pushed my face
into the dirt,
and i thrashed
until i could thrash no more.
i became sullen.
hopeless.
bitter.
so i climbed into a spaceship
and shot
through the earth's atmosphere.
w e i g h t l e s s
liberated
i felt beautiful.
i could see the whole,
and it made sense.
i felt the relativity
of unfocused thoughts
the importance of calm
of simple togetherness
pleasure
the pressure of time
the shortening of days
and then i fell,
plunging to the earth
to break my bones.
movement made slow
just when the sun shone
standing uncomfortable
in fear, in pain.
loneliness,
but wanting no one
(please just leave me alone)
i'll live in my fictions
i'll grit my teeth through the pain
and keep moving
i won't allow tears
until at least one foot is out the door
i'll play songs on repeat,
and subsist on cocoa krispies if i want to
i'll draw cells
and i'll write and i'll write
liberated and disillusioned
liberated and lonely
liberated and in pain
liberated and in fear
liberated and frustrated
liberated in chocolate
liberated in red wine.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 5:53 PM UTC
After reading my first love poem
And misunderstanding my first love story
Romanticizing your bleak hope
I knew I was ******
And in trying to explain this
I am left feeling like a schizophrenic Walt Whitman
Scrawling poems about your beauty
As if love is something you can actually seek outside yourself
While inside you there are walls
Mine fields
Trapdoors leading to deadfalls
All to keep you from it
I want to stand at the entrance to myself
And be baptized in my own sweat
From the work of this deconstruction
There is heaven and peace in the rubble
Blueprints for a home without safeguards
A simple place you can rest your head at night
This chest
Love is not something you seek
But you tell that to these hands
This pen
This mouth
Tell these eyes without losing my gaze
That it is not hiding somewhere behind you
It is not
I know this now
I know that love is this
Your heart is this
Your body is this
A spare room in a small house
You had intented on living alone in
And everytime someone comes to your door
Know it is always nicer inside
And be grateful that someone came to it
Let them in with your smile
say
"I have been expecting you"
Then let them leave if that is what they must do
They might
Just remember to be grateful for their presence
Everyone who sought your door
Sought it because there is something good there
There is always you
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 5:07 PM UTC
Guess I'll be postponing December's reconstructive surgery
There's nothing like being delayed from your own burglary
It had potential too, well maybe if it wasn't so ruthful
I'll still tentatively deem it as successful
I started to shed the lingering fatigue
I began to think of my completed protocols
Triggered the realization I need the reconstruction after all
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 10:05 AM UTC
American
Whiteness
the greatest mental illness of all time
even before they were diagnosed
the world has become safer
because the world finally
has funded a wall around America
a padded room institution
where the dissociative disorder
can destroy itself
and not everyone else in the process
the casual crisis
is an emergency
whiteness the coup d’état
is wreaking havoc
on the human soul
domesticated whiteness
riskiest to do business with
spilling blood all around the world
quarantine the biohazard
whiteness on its journey of impunity
when my family was most vulnerable
to the morbid lust
of the mental illness of whiteness
we gently genocidally refer to as social construction
which is really the deconstruction
of the black human
and the origins of humanity
American
American built by the pieces of my family
glued and mortared by the blood and sweat
spilled from them
the most dangerous deconstruction site
in the world
biological warfare
spewing
leaking
uncontrollably
contaminating humanity
polluting its evolution
at war with symbiosis
for the purity of fascism sake
a coup d’état called American whiteness
which is also been a long
untreated dissociative disorder
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
When Jacques Derrida's Mother
Embraced the concept
Of 'wholly other'
She loosed her hold on life
In the past tense
And gave herself up to
The 'Metaphysics of Presence'.
How I love this new-found euphoria
Now there is no more aporia.
If only the world would grasp
The concept of deconstruction.
So she put down her knitting
Logged onto the internet
And signed up for a course on
Basic Moxibustion.
Such a great invention
This internet
But life is even better
Without unresolved tension.
Oh for a mother
To understand her son.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
I lay one night under a wan lamp-light
Thinking of the pursuit of absolutes.
I couldn’t find the needed time
To analyze what I wanted to.
So - This thinking slowly turned to dreaming
And later these few things I did recount,
- A vacant view of wasting progress,
A reversal of streams to their fount.
A deconstruction of action, some cosmic reduction,
Some flight of things that mattered.
The inexorable picking of lock-step existing-
Dreamfields broken. Syntax battered.
Then this slowing movement rose
To some crest in my mocking mind;
And in horror, I met the morrow
with new respect for the conceptually refined-
For the march of progress, the passion in potential,
The power of merely thinking!
For in our discourses of absolute forces
What could be worse than the erasure of meaning?
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 12:08 AM UTC
I know now. Redemption hangs in the balance between the fertile crescent and the great pyramids.
The Genesis and the deconstruction.
The dowsing of the flame and the re-combustion.
We're all promised what we won't find. That's why you build up hope and waste your time.
Your position as protagonist will have you looking for exceptions, but we're all just clay living in the third dimension.
Clocks twirl and sing to remind you to keep doing what you're doing, but you would anyway, so who are they fooling ?
They're just as useless as the dollar or the president, or the concept of rules to our residence. And you can't shake the feeling that removing yourself would be best.
Though you're probably right, because our stagnant plight is leading to the roots and dirt. (It's clear as day)
But no one can stomach this, frightened and ****** so with new ideals or meanings we will flirt.
Be free.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 12:06 AM UTC