"dissembling" poems
I admit the briar
Entangled in my hair
Did not injure me;
My blenching and trembling,
Nothing but dissembling,
Nothing but coquetry.
I long for truth, and yet
I cannot stay from that
My better self disowns,
For a man's attention
Brings such satisfaction
To the craving in my bones.
Brightness that I pull back
From the Zodiac,
Why those questioning eyes
That are fixed upon me?
What can they do but shun me
If empty night replies?
8.1k
1271
September’s Baccalaureate
A combination is
Of Crickets—Crows—and Retrospects
And a dissembling Breeze
That hints without assuming—
An Innuendo sear
That makes the Heart put up its Fun
And turn Philosopher.
7.3k
one more for Joni and the one who accuses me of
"owning the courage to care so blatantly."
<:>
accused of writing with blatant courage,
a 4 credit requirement for caring
blatant is a word of merger -
open obvious unsubtle and unashamed
and a dissembling misleading one!
it is all of these and yet can be a contradictory mask of
opposing, differing faces
my blatant is none of these
but appearance only
**** muses keep me coming back
to a particular lyric,
keeps seeking me out, so successfully, wherever I go,
I hear it
it’s invading my both sides now
the dizzy dancing way you feel
you think I have my own blatant courage, untrue!
so oft you mistook my dizzy dancing,
all fluff all humbug so obvious so ashamed,
a cover up, a most subtle cosmetic pretense of the truth -
of
no courage at all
and yet (they mock)
you do care...
just another of my peculiar
life’s illusions
(self-delusions)
I really don’t have blatant courage at all
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 9:18 AM UTC
1330
Without a smile—Without a Throe
A Summer’s soft Assemblies go
To their entrancing end
Unknown—for all the times we met—
Estranged, however intimate—
What a dissembling Friend—
3.8k
Ingénue, Ingénue
mellifluous intonation;
within my ear
intangible embrocation!
Emollient to my inure
lithe and lilt affections-
A panacea, a talisman
fetching provocation.
Ingénue, Ingénue
Why must you fall
into such fugacious
dalliances?
Becoming and comely
are you
The cynosure of men
dissembling by demure
Ingénue, Ingénue
how easily I imbue
sempiternal scintilla
into naive little you
Lo, during my brooding-
arrive in halcyon gambol,
Dulcet or Saccharine
Is it me or you?
Ingénue, oh Ingénue
an epiphany, so true
a furtive labyrinthine
past the offing of you
None so opulent
cast more than penumbra.
T'would simply be Pyrrhic
to go on, continue.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 12:14 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
I've a sinking friendship,
Torpedoed by the ********
And listing.
The first mate mutinied.
Once a blood brother,
Like no other;
An intimate
At an imminent end,
An alter-ego
More than a friend.
I've been too patient,
Veered off course
With understanding.
I'm quite sure
This Pythias
Would run and leave me
Hanging.
I'm on a cliff
And won't hang on
To a blade of trust,
A fawning pawn.
He had my back,
I turn,
He's gone.
This partisan
Must part
A homeless homeboy,
A dissembling fraud.
No longer a mainstay,
He's insecure,
His equivocations
Make lines blur,
I don't believe
Him anymore.
He really needs a soul-mate,
Classmate, playmate,
But he's become a reprobate,
Lying prostrate,
Lying up straight.
I'll drown my Boswell
In my inkwell;
No longer
An advocate.
The laughs have left,
Yes,
I'm bereft,
But I'll catch the wind.
My course is true.
This friendship
Can't be salvaged.
It's scuttled,
And I won't
Sink with you.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
You cringeworthy, evil pismire;
Your father did surely miss-sire
This personification of flatulence,
The embodiment of self importance
Overflowing with abject peccancy
Devoid of any sign of respectability
Replete with gross odoriferousness
Horribly and infamously unscrupulous.
You have reveled in misrepresentation
And tried to elevate your calumniation
Disinformation and deception exists
As capitalistic dissembling persists.
You’ve collected an evil government
Built mostly of human excrement
And have such a lack of veracity
That you speak in constant mendacity.
Sycophantic eructations of dogmatic bile
Issue from your unsympathetic smile
And your inauthentic glad-handed gropes
As if we all of us are unbright gullible dopes
That buy your fabrications completely
While you pilfer and prevaricate indiscreetly.
You are a Vaudevillian villain miscast as star,
But most of us know exactly what you are.
Deceit, deception, dishonesty; a tragedy
But not for you, for us and our country.
Distortion, evasion and fabrication the rules;
You despair of any other kinds of tools.
Falsehoods, fictions and forgery are your tricks.
You demand we build with straw-less bricks
Your erections that are planned to be palaces
Filled with your giant golden carved phalluses.
Those monuments, inanotomically correct,
Established to celebrate and somehow protect
A mountebank on the way to an overseas bank
Claiming to eradicate the scoria he creates
That decades of privation will not quite alleviate.
But you, the Great Prevaricator, will always blame
Other players in your sick, unconstitutional game
Instead of admitting your complicity and guilt
About the disgusting, putrid swamp you built.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 2:32 PM UTC
Blessed are the love-less
for they shall suffer no deep sighs
Blessed are the love-less
for they shall never have sleepless nights
Blessed are the love-less
for they shall never have to watch empty roads
Blessed ar the love-less
for they shall never know any pangs of anxiety
Blessed are the love-less
for they shall never have to re-arrange themselves
Blessed are the love-less
for they shall be free of dissembling
Blessed are the love-less
for they shall never be seduced by con-artists
Blessed are the love-less
for theirs is the security of ignominy
Blessed are the love-less
for they shall inherit the estates of the heartbroken
Blessed indeed are the love-less
for they shall never have to chase after rainbows
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 7:12 AM UTC
What is it about love that makes people so obsessed?
Love is a dangerous addiction
once felt entering your body, nothing can replace it
But was that love?
Or child plays dissembling ever puzzle piece inside of your body
He'll tell you he loves you
Just so that you won't feel guilty inviting him in
Body on body
His hand on your skin
Was this love?
Blinded behind what romance means
He took advantage because you were just a teen
Small and innocent
Craving affection from one who could provide
Not knowing he'll be the one to steal your precious innocence on the inside
He'll never know he is the reason you cried
He'll never know that every night you died
You felt like you were stabbed in your heart with a blade
Drowning in blood from every part of you body
From your toes to your brain
You felt betrayed
He never loved you
You had been played
Regrets were made
Not that you loved too much
But because he was an unwelcome, uncontrollable love that never stayed
-AB
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 11:02 PM UTC
1390
These held their Wick above the West—
Till when the Red declined—
Or how the Amber aided it—
Defied to be defined—
Then waned without disparagement
In a dissembling Hue
That would not let the Eye decide
Did it abide or no—
1.4k
Who is this man of which you speak
A hallow man, with a set of theatrical masks
That project grotesque shadows upon the world
A monster of evil, a creature ,yes a creature
Whose moral viciousness is vividly stamped
On his twisted body who believes
He has been cruelly cheated by dissembling nature
Yet has with skill a fathomless malice fashioned
Aye and calls for the closing of ears
To the admonitions of conscience
And to vicious energies of hate and ambition
Yes and gives to the eyes coordinates locating an illusion
Whilst he would still the lips with distance
That evaporates in a poignant lament
Of shrouds and gaping graves
Of deformed and emaciated children
Forced to hide in the darkness
The darkness that shadows his words and actions
Gives to us the unbearable fear of abandonment
That would mutate and change places
With the frequent futility of human endeavor
Who is the man of which you speak
It is a man who tosses pebbles
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 4:41 PM UTC
When I said “I love you,” I lied
with a drifting and dreamy head
across the velvety sea
I imagined
resting and narrowly defined
in the nakedness
at the edge of your lap.
I have a history
of over-indulging
mixed-up senses.
I tasted the sight
of a gently curved nose.
I caressed the scent
of a lightly perfumed neck.
I’ll speak but not hear again
of the salty, savory, sweetness;
all bitterness has gone.
It’s not that I binged
so much as feasted
after a prolonged period
of self-deprivation.
And now I’m caught
between two urges:
To shave, to shear, to no longer
shabbily make shrift;
Or to revel
in the sloppy temptation
of recalling you.
Powerless I'll watch
the dissembling
tomorrow makes.
Before it comes, whisper-soft,
I repeat my mistake,
and unreliably say,
“I loved you.”
Oct 29, 2010
Oct 29, 2010 at 8:27 AM UTC
*dreams in colors that don't exist,
and 'mares re dear sir, deadlines missed,
wrestle~arrest poet,
instant awake
in the wee time,
pouring liquidity,
fluids and words,
puddling, stinking,
coming,
from the
always dangerous,
always interesting temple inner inside,
sanctimonious no more sanctum*
this particular sleep,
shortened, irretrievable,
bookmarked "closed,"
chapters,
hours too soon,
this rest business,
arrested
filed in an ugly
grey metal file cabinet,
in an unfinished manila prison
with your other unimportant poems
*the dark room universe
populated by
hints, shadows, voices,
waiting, welcoming,
mirrors on the walls
unified in one voice
deep, obtuse,
demanding recognition
"hither hither come"*
forced march
to a visitation,
to the the parition,
of your reflection,
clearest ever seen,
in the black pitch,
uncovered by guise, feathers
the clothes of normative pretenses,
the man-made borderlines of
preservation falsehoods
*seen your own semblance,
parts rearranged,
uncanny,
the mirrors are screaming:
shameful lovely,
this, our artistry,
your apparition,
now accurate,
reflecting your under-
lying
condition,
at last,
an accurate portrayal,
of your inaccuracies*
do you find yourself attractive?
this new balance,
the unregulated pieces
of you
before your dissembling,
discerning,
dissecting eyes?
*feeling the valence,
an introduction,
a physical magnetism
any attraction
any resemblance
to the semblance
that writes
this s.o.s.?*
answer us thus,
do you up
and like yourself
unvarnished,
grunge, swag,
truth trammeled,
don't you want to kiss yourself
goodbye,
or better yet,
fare thee hell?
*go ahead,
ask yourself now,
that one question
that prevents conception,
from your inception,
what is it that
makes you exceptional?*
don't you realize,
everything about you
ends in a question mark?
*how dare you write poetry?
you are the false poet,
you live on the division
tween artifice and self-deception,
this, your only precept,
and now that you are
clarified,
answer this,
knowing you know
nothing
but artifice,*
how dare you write poetry?
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
We sit together and talk, or smoke in silence.
You say (but use no words) 'this night is passing
As other nights when we are dead will pass . . .'
Perhaps I misconstrue you: you mean only,
'How deathly pale my face looks in that glass . . .'
You say: 'We sit and talk, of things important . . .
How many others like ourselves, this instant,
Mark the pendulum swinging against the wall?
How many others, laughing, sip their coffee--
Or stare at mirrors, and do not talk at all? . . .
'This is the moment' (so you would say, in silence)
When suddenly we have had too much of laughter:
And a freezing stillness falls, no word to say.
Our mouths feel foolish . . . For all the days hereafter
What have we saved--what news, what tune, what play?
'We see each other as vain and futile tricksters,--
Posturing like bald apes before a mirror;
No pity dims our eyes . . .
How many others, like ourselves, this instant,
See how the great world wizens, and are wise? . . .'
Well, you are right . . . No doubt, they fall, these seconds . . .
When suddenly all's distempered, vacuous, ugly,
And even those most like angels creep for schemes.
The one you love leans forward, smiles, deceives you,
Opens a door through which you see dark dreams.
But this is momentary . . . or else, enduring,
Leads you with devious eyes through mists and poisons
To horrible chaos, or suicide, or crime . . .
And all these others who at your conjuration
Grow pale, feeling the skeleton touch of time,--
Or, laughing sadly, talk of things important,
Or stare at mirrors, startled to see their faces,
Or drown in the waveless vacuum of their days,--
Suddenly, as from sleep, awake, forgetting
This nauseous dream; take up their accustomed ways,
Exhume the ghost of a joke, renew loud laughter,
Forget the moles above their sweethearts' eyebrows,
Lean to the music, rise,
And dance once more in a rose-festooned illusion
With kindness in their eyes . . .
They say (as we ourselves have said, remember)
'What wizardry this slow waltz works upon us!
And how it brings to mind forgotten things!'
They say 'How strange it is that one such evening
Can wake vague memories of so many springs!'
And so they go . . . In a thousand crowded places,
They sit to smile and talk, or rise to ragtime,
And, for their pleasures, agree or disagree.
With secret symbols they play on secret passions.
With cunning eyes they see
The innocent word that sets remembrance trembling,
The dubious word that sets the scared heart beating . . .
The pendulum on the wall
Shakes down seconds . . . They laugh at time, dissembling;
Or coil for a victim and do not talk at all.
1.3k
The raven strutted into view-
Dissembling crows
Peered from the tangled grass lashed
Into solemn silence.
The raven assumed a coal-black authority
Driven by its coal-black soul.
Its beak stabbed out automatically
Bleakness of past; spectral futures
Like echoes. Its eyes were cruel drops
Of impenetrable night.
The raven possessed everything in
The imperious manner of a cut-throat-
Killing without fear, without conscience.
It ruled like the destroyer.
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 4:08 PM UTC
Once upon a time,
The night of rendezvous with him
Went like the scent of daisies everliving.
Eyes...
Selectively rising to meet mine
Wearing meek and hesitant makeup
Concealing the flushed feelings
Towards one another.
Lips...
Enjoined to avoid bursts
Of cackles loving the latter's
Oblivion
Dissembling yet verifiable
Between us.
Alas, 'eternity' shall never persist
For this remains a pipe dream
Shackles of his indifferent family
His aura bipolar to mine
Alas.
Carpe Diem
A sole motivator
Diminishing the mirage of hopelessness
Flourishing his debonair charms
Spell bounded and cherished
Today.
The End
Far afield
The Story
Began to see daylight
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
for the part-time writers, who write in deeds untill indeed
the mundane Mondays till the fully fried Fridays,
the too short beginning weekends when
you celebrate your lottery winnings,
mega millions of
chores
wheeeeeee
these some,
poet poem poetry, latter-day saints
yet to be arrived-arresting,
good lord,
writing time -
a time slot that doesn’t
appear on your unscheduled
cellphone
calendar
so this what needs remembering, us,
these days are the
storage days
the professionals screen stare, self obligatory
demanding the page output,
the disciplined work ethic,
self torture this work,
that they would pay to do
these some
access accessible accessories in actual time
when
a time clock is punching them back,
time immediacy, a mistress,
needing a wife’s daily attention
the rest of us accumulators,
hoarder-recallers; off-site monthly
storage unit renters for old reusable furniture memories
until the dissembling assembly of the pieces,
with the arrival of the year of the hour of the day
is an urgency spilling
and the consumption urge
eats you alive from inside out,
your patience is rewarded
no screen slave you,
just a spigot turned twice
and over flowing winks bring/ring
the-no-longer-stowed stored eye pics,
poems for a someday
and the waiting was worth the waiting price
some people
us, juggle jiggly *****
tend to drop them all...
till we don’t...
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 12:03 PM UTC
**You're one of those people
With mind's eye like an eagle's
You say all the right things
But never ever feel them
Life is much the poorer for it
The art of dissembling
Is your mark of distinction
And I who sees everything
And feels everything
With a bleeding heart
Sorely miss the days of old
When a yes was a yes
And a no was a NO
Even without a shake of the head
How I wish diplomacy and all artifice
Had never become human tools
The way things are between us
We are heading for a big crash**
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 7:21 PM UTC
The rain gives way to blossoms and blossoms
give way to snow that never drifts but scatters.
In this way now the weather intervenes;
the legacy of a child’s breath upon a popsicle.
With only one hand on the steering wheel
we still find it hard to let go our designs;
a glance in the mirror of a mirage, of carnage?
The territory swallows us all the same,
only the precision of the map is at stake:
how well the landscape bends to the road.
To be lost in this world and not afraid
is a skill we have yet to remember;
to master life in the ruin of life: life
dissembling in the rings of the ash tree.
What looks like rot is just the caterpillar
giving way to the nascent butterfly
but not like your smile gives way,
breaks, before the latest tyrant.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 8:59 AM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
. . . of incantations in
cantankerous philosophy!
Of these lying liabilities,
what startling objection, so accosting,
has exhausted me? More so than
named quite unfortunate atrocity!
Shall hordes of thought be accursed
by degrees of displeasing hostility
such that satiated curiosity
be evermore abashed in me?
“. . . but I have admonished thee,”
said he,
this subtle, blackened tenant
with a tin man's tonality.
This paper drum that bends to sing
does beg of him the courtesy;
yet, acrid rhetoric singes the hair
with unfavorable flintlock fidelity.
His evasive guarantee then
upends the pores relentlessly.
*“These words will compel a poor
foresight to bleed in the fray
as cascading tears cast their weight
upon cheek in dismay . . .”*
. . . to quash the cypress toxin
of a caustic potpourri—
a dissembling toupee
to one's balding reality.
O lasting opacity
of such poignant translucency,
this flagrant serendipity,
once spawned, must always be?
Possibly; though, I cannot count
how many sets see dawns at sea.
“. . . but I have astonished thee,”
said he
through this Möbius rebuttal
like some soap on TV,
though, it’s ne'er some rerun
what’s cliché wants creativity.
The veiling lee of his lofty marquee
beclouds that one pyrrhic mystery—
that now-clandestine oblation
of one bless'ed unanimity.
*“Akin to a twin whose soul’s
one sin was mine to portray.
‘I’ll pay ne’er a thought!’
curs’ed common naïveté . . .”*
. . . and yet, that's cause to bend
reverent knee, not to thee,
but to that which mine
eye's sole endeavor is to see.
“So, leave me be!”
I lament, ostensibly,
“Lest that passage fall paved
by none other than me.”
Perhaps the Second World war
is just my cup of tea.
“. . . or perhaps this darkness is me,”
said he
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 5:00 PM UTC
the sound of your name through the guardian pines by the blowing wind excites my ear and tingles my mind and heart with an unbearably eager desire to hold
your skin which is softer than the melody of an angel's harp which soothes me with divine ease as the troubles that surround my world fade away with the sight of
your joyful smile which glows with greater intensity than the sun yet is calmer than a still lake held in a vacuum caresses my affection with such sweet beauty that can be easily found in
your dissembling eyes which hide such terrifyingly destructive hardship and show nothing but seraphic mysticism as you cast untold bindings upon
my heart which staggers along in the face of uncertainty yet remains valiant in the face of true hardship as I battle back demons who wish to corrupt my world in the sake of ease but its rewards do not captivate my emotions and thoughts as you do therefore
I Stay Here
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 6:46 PM UTC
If while unveiling my vulnerability,
I collapse into smithereens
Will you hug me tight enough,
To help my broken pieces stick back together?
If while wearing a fake smile,
And dissembling my true emotions
Will you try and understand what I feel?
Will you not compel me, to not be me?
If while being veracious to me,
I fall in love with you
Will you fall in love with me too?
Will you not leave me, like others eventually do?
Aug 1, 2020
Aug 1, 2020 at 10:50 AM UTC
Vines of sound wind around my heart.
Wind of distant passion blows in
a changeable east wind.
Take me with you
to your interior landscape,
and I promise to ask no questions.
Shadows of late afternoon sunlight
tremble silently on the wall beside us,
listening to the battling of my heart.
Time and again
I have been undone by you.
Zeus himself stands by, admiring
your tricky disguises.
The simpler and more transparent
the convincing illusion
that you are some other man,
the more dangerous
the dissembling.
It is always you.
Always will be you.
And this will happen again
as it is happening now.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 8:29 PM UTC
There are so many things in life
That can make you not like yourself very much
If you let them
The problem is
Once you’re at that point
It can be so hard to turn back
Every word
Can start to sound dissembling
Words meant to be esteem builders
Can find a way to tear you down
Once your self esteem has been battered down a bit
It’s hard to smooth out the chinks
In the armor
Sometimes you can build it back up again
But other times the battle has taken so much
That the new material
Is only thread and tissue paper
The façade is so weak
But most of the world does not see
How hard you have to try
To protect all that is underneath
You dig for strength from within
Now you see
Those walls too
Are turning paper thin
Take it a step at a time
Like layers of skin
Building up after a bad abrasion
One layer can’t stand much on its own
When they coalesce however
They can be as strong as wood
It could be a million strikes of an ax
Before all is cut and broken
Sep 12, 2010
Sep 12, 2010 at 10:39 AM UTC