The foot of the table
rose up to adjust the shape of my chin.
It was a glooming, looming 3 a.m.
when I saw the bedside clock
through that pitch dark
that occurs at the back of an eye
when time is a few decades too slow.
The table has put itself together
once more,
bought from IKEA, it took two days
to assemble, and a lifetime
to disassemble.
Now it's just a lightless prop
for a drooling jaw.
My dad is here offering advice,
when he was alive, he made televisions
out of the spare parts
of alien spacecraft.
I have no such skills, yet I know
that time occasionally
stands at the edge of a cliff
photographing
my fleeting existence,
as if it were a Dodo
straining to remember
how to fly.
In a distance beyond my ken,
table feet clip-clop away.
When life's journey folds in on itself,
Becomes a jumble, in clattered confusion,
it's wise to hold back,
and stall the footfall.
To disassemble the journey and saga,
into it's component parts,
and lines in play.
To revert to time's tick tock routine,
taking one step, one mere step,
before every second one,
reflecting on each moment,
dissected,
and stepped,
upon.
Shriek permeates bones break
Zigzwang with miasma tang
No one is saying anything
I’m going insane
Crossroads to make a deal
Instead his scalp I peel
Elitist swine high on the mantle
Pleas to stop as I disassemble
Cry wolf flock the sheep
Alabaster hooves on concrete
How do you even sleep?
On a conveyor belt don’t you see
Your packages of maggot meat
You hesitate then bite down and eat
Cannibalistically sickening
Pinky up with red whine to drink
It's important to me
Not important to you
What does everyone do
Another ventriloquist
Another jejune seepage
Another fist up anus
Another one to work your lips
Grrraaaaaaaaahhhhh
Slaves and marionettes
Stand up your the circus
Clowns in cars trying to fit
Rushing to drop knee, oscillate and submit
You don’t know what darkness truly is
Grotesque being where I sit
Trying to circumvent eager dummies kismet
By all means let me know
What your master says dear little puppets
In the comments, middle fingers both flip
Hack and spit
Disgruntled, they come to me as bit-parts
ripped from black and white movies.
Mad aunt Anastasia, who should have been a nun,
one of her hands would refrain from touching her,
the other has been long carried off
by wolfish priests.
The Holy Ghost has pickled her in a jar,
she now floats between worlds.
Uncle Sean, the iniquitous Maître D'
looming above a meaty cleavage,
he who flambéed Steak Diane
with a slyly sapid leer,
poured cognac,
then after the salacious hunt,
triumphantly decanted his thirsty+ lusts
into any grateful woman
whomever.
Cousin Tommy died early,
but not before he had burnt through
the Old Testament.
A brimstone disorder gnawed his innards,
left him lacking normal human kapok,
kept him bubbling until a self-inflicted wound,
blew out his brains.
There are cousins removed and living,
who disassemble themselves, with zealotry,
or ennui. None took the middle way,
none quietly settled-in
to live a life of unremarkable normality,
trysting the nights away
with damp-stained regrets.
Like larks’ tongues, they sing in the invisible.
They reside in the far reaches,
until dark angels flame out
in their berserker eyes.
It's something inconclusive
This feeling that I'm not
A perfect human specimen
Lukewarm compared to hot
I scrutinise the mirror
That I carry in my phone
It tells me of belonging
Yet I feel so far from home
I probably need rebuilding
Like a human Lego set
A different type of perfect
Is the answer I detect
A voice within me cries out
Don't change a single part
I love you as imperfect
'Cos you're perfect for my heart
Let's work on your perspective
Stand right here just next to me
Now tell yourself through my eyes
Not more perfect could you be
the demo expert desperado left the device behind
What a marvelously designed contraption; wasn’t that kind?
He’s a desperado, an outlaw, he has a despicable mind.
Disassemble that apparatus, the truth we must methodically find.
The suspicious gadget was calamitous, it burst, cracked and shined.
I am going to dismantle it, it scares me said my cousin McWhined.
His scared-y-cat attitude bewildered me; was his back even spined?
Mystified, I stood up for the device, having a lacksidasical mind.
Diminishing dwindling damaging proof rapidly left far behind.
After the contraption exploded, a deadly hit that blew up McWhined.
The desperado was truly an outlaw, on the run, whom no one can find.
Wish I had photo of contraption, which sat two feet from where I dined.
Her head was on last night.
She has many different heads -
there interchangeable.
She's no potato head though
just a figure of speech and expression
with lots of playful parts.
When her heads not on
it's difficult to get to know her
her mouth turns into a moth
chasing moonbeams.
Eventually her head stays put
then I impatiently construct imaginary
love scenes
while she sips red wine
through red lips (slightly bored as usual).
I hurriedly cobble together odd bits of fabrication
out of unprintable words,
sometimes she helps
sometimes she runs around
screaming:
"For God's sake do better."
Then I get mad
and change her face.
We're just a normal couple
neither of us are content until
we disassemble our reality completely.
Often we don't know who we are.
Those times are the best.
It's eight o'clock on a monday morning,
I'm wrestling with a tissue box - it a mystery,
the guys who make these must have macabre humour,
no machine, standing, grinning, funny hat, easy to her.
My wife knows how to open, must be from a former life,
if it's difficult, it must be the Chinese, trouble and strife;
a flat-pack arrives at the door, oh no - not that again,
anyway it's done but wife says: 'shelves not right,' pain.
Upstairs is assembling a bed - from eight o'clock in morning,
until afternoon, when they disassemble - the same, boring;
the shaving foam button is stiff - there should be no fuss,
the wife looks, I press firmly and it then covers both of us.
Don't use the sat-nav if you're taking a trip to heaven, well
because there's an outside chance you may end up in hell.
Nature has a way of lending then transcending
every season in due course has her own remorse
When summer flowers faint, without constraint
the Autumn leaves assemble and then disassemble
Sunshine gives her glows, then hard to hold it goes
even starlight in the sky with the dawn it has to fly
In the night the moon is swept but by day it is inept
like the golden poppy's way, nothing gold can stay
No, nothing gold can stay...
By: Mystic Rose Feb 21, 2023
My mop and I have a long history,
Some of it fun,
Some of it misery.
Riding around town making horsey sounds,
Turning you upside down,
Look what a friend I've found!
Sailing with grace over land and sea,
Just my mop and I,
Always free.
Then there was the time,
Mop and I braided our locks,
Took three hours to disassemble our flocks!
Oh what fun we had,
Till mom came by,
My friend had to wash the floor you see!
To the ground they took him,
With endless walloping punches.
They sought to drain his blood,
And make his innocent bones crunch!
They didn't realize they had the wrong man,
Nor did they really care...
Their job was to destroy,
To send him down the stairs.
Baseball bats, tire irons and bicycle chains,
Were used to chaotically disassemble this man,
Invoking perpetual pain,
For their goal; he would never stand again.
There was no time for this soul to shed a tear or an agonizing cry,
Just a glimpse into a fallen humanity, with the question, "Why?"
15-September-2021
Disgruntled, they come to me as bit-parts
ripped from black and white movies.
Mad aunt Anastasia, who should have been a nun.
One of her hands will not touch her,
the other has been carried off
by wolfish priests.
The Holy Ghost has pickled her in a jar;
she floats now between worlds.
Uncle Sean, the satyric commis-waiter,
looming above a meaty cleavage,
flambéed Steak Diane with a sapid leer,
poured cognac and butter,
commingled shallots at the table.
Then after the hunt, he’d triumphantly decant
into whomever.
Cousin Tommy died early,
but not before he had burnt through
the Old Testament.
A brimstone disorder gnawed his innards,
left him lacking normal human kapok,
kept him bubbling until a self-inflicted wound
blew out his brains.
There are cousins removed and living
who disassemble themselves, with zealotry
or ennui. None took the middle way,
none quietly settled-in
to live among damp-stained regrets.
Like larks’ tongues, they sing in the invisible.
They reside in the far reaches,
until dark angels flame out
in their berserker eyes.
You have taken the last
Piece of me
Everything that has
Made all of me
Wrapped and smothered
Choking and withered
Dying and screaming
Internally
You told me with words
I could never exist
You told me with fists
I should never try
I believed everything
Because words said you love me
You act through God’s will
To disassemble my
Identity
And to tell me I fail
At being what you need
And I should die a daughter
So you are satisfied
The damn thing's got too many holes,
I’m also missing several poles.
Instructions I simply cannot read.
This confounded thing's about to breed!
Pieces covering every inch of floor
I can no longer walk on as before,
and almost fifteen thousand bolts
I demand to know whose fault!
For gods sake this piece is upside down
so I stare at it with such a frown
because now I have to disassemble,
in hope, next time, it might resemble.
Five hours have gone and still the bits
stare back at me, I have a fit!
I swear and curse in a contortion
as this things all out of proportion!
You need six hands and several feet
or else this puzzle's has got you beat!
I fear that I might die before
these bits have gone from off my floor!
It says G6 to seven, then F2 to three
apparently using screws A, B and C,
from now on I'll just have to guess,
it's easier to beat Kasparov at chess!
Eventually I build this piece,
seemingly it’s for my niece!
My wife tells me it should be blue,
I reply ‘over to you!'
I'm primarily known for my poetry
inked in cerebral colors of abstract thoughts.
Yet, there is a complexity concealed within me.
My totality runs surprisingly deep.
You must meticulously disassemble and examine
all my puzzling parts to understand me.
I'm a dreamer, awake in a dream called life;
an optimist and a self-doubter, I know I'm not always right.
But I love to fledge my poetic thoughts,
feathering their wings with witty words.
My heart reveals hidden hurts buried deep
to appease my conscience and oblige reality!
Yet compassion underlies my every breath,
weighing life's wrongs on the scales of injustice.
Draining dreams tear by tear, year after year,
frustration has not yet emptied me of hope.
But, if I am to be defined by anything,
let it be by the gift fate endowed my muse;
and the Karma my poems have generated,
illuminating my pathway to now
and guiding me toward tomorrow.
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