"disassembling" poems
I am not a writer.
I am not good with words,
I cannot speak up for myself,
It is my pen that bleed words.
No amount of convincing can give me conviction.
No amount of clarification can make that distinction.
Please refrain from using titles.
I am not a writer.
I am just a dreamer,
Dreaming dreams of inverted galaxies
Where complexities are reduced to simplicity,
And maybe love wouldn't be so complicated.
I dream of a world where I'll be unchained and liberated,
Because currently freedom is hard to go by.
I am not a writer.
I am just another over thinker,
I stay up all night disassembling the world,
So I can put it back together.
Adding new features that I think will make it better
I get lost in thoughts, and day-mares, fantasies and others,
I obsess and I always suffer.
I am not a writer.
Though sometimes I am photographer,
Snapping,
Close ups and selfies of my terrible mind.
Giving glints of places you won't usually find,
All because I write sometimes.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC
the ghosts around your moist lips
clipping the sweet drench of our limp wish....
the spectral harlots of our far lit lamps
and the damp parlors of our damaged camps
pitched.
the pit of our peaches, fussing the cuff
of our sap. the honey bonds -
of our wayward damp
runes...
that
we caste to undo
any telling
of our demise, to save our precious
myth.
to keep our ruse
amused...
my darling... goodnight... though nothing is good
and we have only the night.... goodnight.
i will
trouble you no more
but labor to keep your sweet grief
mine.
to contend
with your unending medallions
of perfect regret, to pass your palm
with silver drek, the likes of which
your liking, may learn to kiss
with two lips
at dead
stop.
if this is the end
tremble and be
trembling.
our disassembling
locks
our open door
and nothing more than vanishing
remains, where our appearance
mocks the
same.
goodnight... though nothing is good, and the light is a darkness,
a trump of knives and a far thing,
up too close
to save a prayer for the plight of fools
and just too far
to pry our hands from live
grenades...
to live for.
but to die
yes.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
I sorta sleep in my underwear.
Another lie.
I sleep in the ****
when I have the energy
to remove the day's toil off of my
skin, which is not so easy.
No special creme, cleanser.
too tired to tirade, living life,
fall in to bed worn,
shoes et. al., the ones that need soles.
you already knew that.
wake up in the dark.
start to disrobe,
and soon enough, *******
another poem done.
the poem of course is me ****
so you get to see what
is under what I wear.
So I sorta sleep in my under-what-I-wear,
is not exactly a lie,
just me dissembling^
and/or disassembling
another day in this life.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 9:14 AM UTC
When Van Gogh cut off his ear
It was for reassurance that the rest of him could disappear
That illusion of ownership that nerves create
Should have faded with each baby tooth I lost
It didn't though, contrariwise I worried I would extend
Into roads or trees and then feel the tire's friction or the elm's blight
Empathy is a ***** of its own
I pray I never wake up with a Siamese twin
I'd have to care, lest we lapse into mutual sadomasochism
That hilarious territory of bored lovers
The Thalidomide kids might get a kick
out of feeling new arms attached to other people
but that's the exception that proves the rule
After the Vietnam war, some men believed Agent Orange
Had followed them home, alive in newly discovered nerves
Now what odd god must be behind that ****
Mengele often awoke from dreams sweating and sure
That his patients would learn a trick to generate biological anesthetics
He needed the feedback of sound to really understand the human body
“Prayer or pleading” he used to say with a wink to his bartender after work
Sometimes I worry that my nervous system
Might have a Mengelian agenda of its own
That I am woven into a potential torture chamber seems clear
but then I remember that I can always pull the tooth or cut off the ear
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
what is this love
for I have beheld it
cast in metamorphosis
a love that makes
transformations on the mind
permissible transformations
improvisations of the self
in ****** intensity
which emphasises the drama
of sometimes, dark, violent
and repressive potentials
vicious energies of hate and ambition
that propel the enactment
of intense and exhausting experience
of vigorous vertiginous chaos
indomitable in its desires
what is this love
is it a registered predicament
made memorable by vivid language
that would butcher in ritual
gratuitous memories and testify
to an urgency of unwisely relinquished emotion
what is this love
does it flourish in flawed
and unreasonable understandings
accumulated upon the mind
in vicarious thrill of sympathy
where traits are highly exaggerated
and eagerly anticipates
the oppressive weight of the past
that functions upon a common collapse
of distinctions
or does it manufacture artificial precepts
pretending in attractive collaboration
to associate fiction rather than fact
what is this love
is it that by treaty or inheritance
with loving ferocity would embalm all tears
and hide all those collaborations
in flared conflagrations of the heart
and yes create a turmoil in the mind
hotter than a thousand summers
and vividly stamp upon a twisted body
a moral viciousness of fathomless malice
that wouldst close its ears
to the admonitions of conscious
and thus through an improbable
incantatory verbal rite
touch the hidden order of all things
in disassembling nature
what is this love
if only it was known
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
Yes I am a beautiful disaster
In my wake leave a bittersweet taste
A special kind of love in soul
Most of it goes to waste
I long to stop disassembling
Pieces one by one
My demons have spoken
They warn I've just begun
Hiding in the silence
I am too afraid to share
Do not like the way opening up feels
Like winter branches laid bare
Pages of heart are torn
Many stained with tears
Can judge this book by it's cover
As dark as it appears
As whispers flow throughout mind
Uttered from lips of memories
Wishing my residual sorrow
Would be carried with the breeze
Suffering rising into air
Dispersing until completely gone
Hard as I try to blow them away
Miseries keep clutching on
My words lie at bottom of my lungs
Too tired to crawl out
They weigh down my shaky breath
Until every one turns to doubt
I retreat into the shadows
Cloaked in grey and black
Waiting for happiness to return
My colors may never come back
Jul 21, 2021
Jul 21, 2021 at 12:24 PM UTC
Dennis was a citizen
A denizen, a resident
Of somewhere near a motorway
A hideaway most opulent
Ensnared amid the railway
And trail ways for motorcars
A haven from the modern day
The takeaways and trendy bars
But shattered in the summer morn
His rest was torn by hammering
Invading what was once inert
So to his curtains clamouring
He banished each to either side
He threw them wide with knuckles white
And saw in front of his abode
Across the road, a building site
A certainty within his mind
Did slowly wind his purpose tight
And with a grim determined jaw
Across the floor he took to flight
Descending stairs without a care
His morning hair resembling
A dandelion set to seed
In need of disassembling
He strode across his dining room
And snatched a broom which lay by chance
Against the table by the door
And held before him like a lance
He mounted his beloved bike
A cycle like no other made
And on a builder set his sight
With all his might and unafraid
He charged his foe at quite a rush
And with his brush, the builder smote
And leaping from his trusty steed
He did proceed to stop and gloat
Before resuming in his spate
The builders mate did turn and run
To raise the dragon, JCB
It roared with glee and wheels spun
So Dennis, though his ears resound
With just the pound of noble heart
Did firmly stand and face the beast
His brow was creased and feet apart
He struck the creature savagely
And stubbornly with just his head
And that, according to the news
Was what the paramedics said
The End
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 6:30 AM UTC
ANGUISH,
a wicked, deafening drum
synced with the brutal,
monotonously thudding rhythm
of my own jaded,
bitter heart's sickly beat
each throb of my
pulse rips savagely
at my seams
the wretched sobbing
of a crumbling soul
trickles and weeps out from me
and darkly cloaked
within the furthest reaches
of my disassembling being
secrets spun into silky
spider web strands
ensnare any shreds of light
holding truth and hopes
captive until they can be
drained to lifeless husks
****** to infinite suffocation
struggling with an unconquerable battle
a war, the likes of which
no human has ever,
even just once,
managed to have won
there's no cure,
no remedy to mend
what's broken, breaking,
shattering all around
I'M CRYING and begging at
an unseen God to come
come to my rescue
pleading for an intangible,
omniescent being to
destroy the tower built by
my own sinful nature
my own deceit
praying to a Creator
whose very existence I
still can't help but to
question and sink in doubts
but for that miniscule chance
He's real and might
maybe help me...
because the very reality
of such mercy and grace
could bring this
otherwise undefeatable
curse crashing down,
down, down, down...
THE DRUMMING,
banging out its mad rhythm
of anguish
changing, changing now
changing its infuriating tune...
with the final
dying grains of
my imagination,
I'll shove aside my
terror; my unholy fear
of the relentless
force of disappointment
I'll indubitably feel when
I reach my finishing line
clutching onto a
hideous fail
such an asinine act,
this allowing of a bitsy
fragment of hope
to creep and crawl
inside the walls
of my mind
but I've nothing more
left beyond this
bleak black floor
sagging beneath my feet
and a hope,
regardless how quiet,
no matter how
pitifully dim,
could quite easily be
the absolute final
spark of light that
my eyes shall ever see...
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
i imagine her
beautiful and weary
damaged in the ways
that allow her
to sink down into my soft places
and fill the puzzle-piece gap
someone else left her with.
i imagine her
lovely and flawed
striking a match in my chest
and starting a flame in my belly
a forest fire of disaster
and absolute perfection.
i imagine her
soft and destructive
disassembling me at her worst
caressing me at her best
i imagine her
lonely and strong
a being built from
i-don’t-give-a-damns
and let-me-help-yous
i imagine her
there
quiet and beaming
imagining what i might be like.
i imagine her
thinking i’m the beautiful mess
that i think her to be
i imagine us both being wrong.
i imagine that
being the best part
about it.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 1:36 AM UTC
i have given hearing
to deaf ferocious monsters
with well meaning incompetence
i have disturbed the reality
and illusion of human identity
where i am enmeshed
in insoluble confusions of difficulties
where i find strange images
touching on the grotesque
and ask what is myself
what are the guarantees
of my identity
by what right is a name possessed
by what means is my individuality secured
these questions in my mind
have a curiously derivative quality
that pretend to govern themselves
where they collaborate in their own oppression
and make assumptions upon
ethical behaviour and social institutions
which represent fictions rather than fact
function in a world of collapsing distinctions
of artificial precepts
where these now hearing monsters
with vicious energies of hate and ambition
that propel the enactment of intense
exhausting experience of a mind
spiraling vertiginously
toward an inner chaos that proclaims
I am myself alone without moral constraints
yet register vast predicaments
with the memorability of vivid language
but with an individual rapaciousness
that creates an amalgam of narratives
with the oppressive weight of the past
designed to induce this evaluative vertigo
with such ferocity to produce a turmoil of demons
monsters of evil, whose viciousness is vividly stamped
upon their bodies that declares
their fathomless malice sending my mind
into a cruelly disassembling nature
where i have given hearing
to deaf ferocious monsters
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
I'm disassembling my skeleton and rearranging the bones. Building myself into something that will be immune to sticks and stones. replacing my eyes with glass, so that there will be a mirror-effect. so no one gets the chance to see the soul that I protect.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
Hot water,
immerse me.
rid me of any and all impurities,
replace them with tranquility.
Give me the strength to pick up a razor,
without the temptation of,
disassembling it,
and sinking a blade into my skin.
Help me,
give me the strength,
that is needed for me,
to help myself.
Hot water,
I beg of you,
please,
save me tonight.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 8:25 PM UTC
Please,
Pass me the straws of hay I have dropped along the way.
I cannot create the bale I once envisioned.
There is no structure to build or shape the person in my blueprints.
I’m fumbling with the straws I now have left.
It is not enough.
I can only create a feeble braid,
One that will not hold the shape it makes.
I need help to find the parts that have blown away,
Grasped by the wind out of my hands,
The pieces that fell onto the path,
Ones I walked past and never acknowledged.
The breeze continues to blow,
Ripping at my hair,
Tearing my screams of loss from my mouth,
Disassembling the last of my straw,
Leaving nothing but empty palms.
Holding emptiness.
Knowing only emptiness.
Jan 4, 2022
Jan 4, 2022 at 6:50 AM UTC
finding small reminders of
lips seeking ears to whisper into of
hands wishing you were here of
lost scents on the floor of
migrating sounds disassembling in mid-air of
words being spoken without touch
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 11:15 AM UTC
I was her boredom
As the monster cut up the city
We ordered food. and sat to wait out our imminent destruction
Disassembling art installations that had grown out of my hair
Going to and from.
There will be no Magical girl transformation sequence .
There will be no battle. And triumph
I was the summer.
Burning other people. while we stayed inside
For most of it
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
at first a few drops
becomes a raging torrent
bursting from my eyes
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 9:33 AM UTC
Henny-yussly mischeevyuss
He orfed growshurries irregardless
Of the rawshussness and disgustment
Of the masonairy surrounding him.
We consistiountly tried to keep aholt
Of his mumbeulizing narrativation,
But he was dissensibly non-coherent
With a naturalistic talent to devaricate.
He was consistively disassembling,
Misindicating his intellectuality
And his irreality noissomely aloud.
Of his malapropicisms he was proud.
His crassy disaparagements reeked
And his ununderstandments peaked
They pointed out his misconstumblement
About his privates and the government.
His blabbermouthedness notoriastic
Rerendered him atombombastical.
His practicication of the irradical
Was mostly piraticalish; nastical.
His pernowncements so disapplaudable
Too bad his words were so megaudible
Unpossible, hyperdisgustisizing,
To the point of indisguising.
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 4:58 AM UTC
Rekindling magic and wonder
Seeing the world in a different light
With a different kind of sight
A perspective turned upside down.
Creating, disassembling, learning
New ideas breaking through my shell
Sparking a revolution of improbable dreams.
Growing with self-love
Planting seeds of kindness
Loving myself unconditionally becomes my truth
Cultivating compassion for all is a continuous practice.
Rain cleaning the air and my lungs
Glittering sun breaking through storm clouds
Clearing my mind for new beginnings
Stepping forward with less weight
Moving slow with intention
Brimming with big ideas
Big ideas are coming.
11/2017, Leah Oviedo @ImpowerYou.org
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 7:04 PM UTC
Dizzy and melting in the moonlight
That shone right through me.
A world picking up pace;
Spinning faster than ever before
And off its axis gravity let go;
But your heart beat stopped
For the first time in a while
It slowed and the thoughts
Ran out after moving faster than
A thousand miles a minute
For too long.
For too long
You've been bashing the cages in my mind
Disassembling structures I never thought would break
and instead of bleeding...
I breathe.
Each time we touch
another part of your insanity
Is carved into my skin...
I'm shaking but its exciting
Let me defuse you
With the venom in my tongue.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC
All of us treated them like lovers,
meticulously disassembling
them as if hypnotized,
caressing each part
with special lubricant
& laying out the pieces
like a rock collector.
We'd take our
own sweet time
reassembling them,
part by part,
snapping & sliding,
building
our killing machines
to completion.
Then to test our work,
we'd **** and release
and squeeze,
to hear the distinctive
click of a dry fire.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
The ax is blunt
but sharp enough to help with the job
on hot and sticky mornings like this
when my dad has me working around the house
few things so satisfying
as sinking blades into drywall
disassembling the mistakes
the previous owners laid down
Still, the ax is blunt
and makes me swing harder
so the muscles beneath my soft arms
jiggle and pull taught
I always wanted to fix the goof ups of the past
but work?
I didn't know I would have to work
I'm sweating, sticking, coughing
more than what I bargained for
This ax is too blunt
and I retreat inside
to the comfort of the air conditioning
that the last generation installed
I want to make a change, I do
but come on!
the tools are too weak
or maybe I am
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 10:51 AM UTC
Friday night.
I feel my bones forgotten
Disassembling character.
Ghostly lungs still breathing,
Shallow.
Heartstring,
Hanging from the gallow.
Gone
Before the morning sun.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 5:34 PM UTC
So I was talking a walk the other day
The ground seemed peculiar
Reality seemed to go away
Or maybe it was more secular
Regardless, I came across my innocence
Cold blood dripped from my mouth
Haven't felt the same since
Disassembling the ardence of my youth
I met a lady as I walked
She seemed lonely too
For a while we talked
Until she said, "it's only you"
That night we wed
Underneath manipulated stars
Mutual innocence dead
******** pleasure of scars
Jan 10, 2021
Jan 10, 2021 at 12:34 PM UTC
There’s no true newness
In renewing traditions.
If we as a people are called to accept change,
Then such gatherings and conventions as church
Should ponder anew
The possibilities of conforming
To accepting that a deity like the Holy Spirit
Cannot be contained to a breviary
Or even within walls for that matter.
I’m not necessarily promoting any sort of evangelism,
But elevating ecumenism
And a grand renewal of what it means
For those confined to the guilt and shame
That can come from church catechism, church magisterium,
Church this-and-that
To have their own way of approaching spirituality.
Let’s all be Richard Rohrs and St. Francises,
Not rebuilding a church,
But disassembling a building
That separates believers of faith.
If we are all friends,
Why do we hide behind walls?
Can we not bear
What other brethren might believe?
Let’s combust the world,
Scorching sameness,
Fueling newness.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 9:02 PM UTC
today i drew up a
crime scene
out of my thoughts
which sounds
perplexing
unless you're someone
like me who can't think
one thing without thinking
about another
so i drew lines on paper
connected people to events
places to regrets
circled notations
and perhaps little
is relevant
*if i wear my heart
and emotions on my sleeve
which i do
can you possibly imagine
what kind of things i don't
admit to thinking?
and for awhile i thought
i didn't have any hidden
feelings but then again
the deeper i dig the more
i find that i do
once i get past the fact
i don't want to admit
they're there*
my gut response is
to wait until the
wound itches
grab the
band aid and
rip it off
but this is a much
slower process
of hot steam
and stinging
soap and water
peeling bit
by painful bit
trying not to let the
crime scene thoughts
take over my life
but slowly snipping
color coded threads
until things begin falling
learning to live my life
with less explosions
less catastrophic
breakdowns to push past
and more tears that wash
off in the morning
and less that drip
into open cuts
letting
light in
disassembling my
crime scene thoughts
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 11:16 PM UTC