Deconstruction of a Symptom

by Nathan Anderson

abuddhapress@yahoo.com

ISBN: 9798582998341

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Contents

Deconstruction of a Symptom 4
Deconstruction of an Absence 8
Deconstruction of a Hymn 9
Deconstruction of Inertia 11
Deconstruction of an Answer 12
Deconstruction of a Blemish 13
Deconstruction of a Writing 15
Deconstruction of a Song 17
Deconstruction of a Longing 18
Deconstruction of a Placement 20
Deconstruction of a Word 22
Deconstruction of a Segment 23
Deconstruction of a Mantra 24
Deconstruction of a Symbol 25
Deconstruction of a Lining 29
Deconstruction of a Mercy 30
Deconstruction of a Musing 31
Deconstruction of a Blessing 33
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Deconstruction of a Symptom

You hear the air lift, breathe. Through loose

constructed passageways, condemned as froth
and broken children. Described as mirrors.

You hear coordination, retraction in its wake.

Acknowledged as a wanderer. Described as
absence.

You hear absolution.

You hear the lung fall as orchestrated. Through

channels pulsed with brighter gems of obsolete
refinery. Described as abundance.

You hear, for simplicity’s sake, the scents of

silver dinnerware. Described as lovelessness.

You hear this contemplation, fractured in its

marrow, closed off from clinging children. Their
hands held down as muddy paws. Described as
condescension.
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You hear the womb, the buttressing of

constellations. Envisaged as the waking dormant
clothing, torn about the arms and legs. Described
as emptiness.

You hear the nearness of directives,

contemplation in the void. Just as enamel forms
the border walls, your teeth, this uniform.
Described as everything.

You hear the murmur, speak. Described as

evangelical. Described as solipsism. Described
as closing.

You hear the sound of angels barking. Soliloquy

of sunken ships repulsed and overturned in cast
off reputation. Described as mercy.

You hear the cymbals screaming. Up and down

the hovel streets that sing of better judgment.
Contrived to flare the endless tops of endless
flowers. Described as coalescence.

You hear the madness in the horn, condemned.

Described as openness.
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You hear simplicity and sacrilege. Torn apart

from preludes. Bathed in vulgar salts. Described
as symbolism.

You hear the suturing of apertures. Held well

within these starlit streets, with nothing but the
thread to join the hands and hips and diaries.
Described as fertility.

You hear the shuttering of choirs, silence.

Transmuted from the falling leaves to touch the
slippered feet of aging deities. Described as
confluence.

You hear the braying catch of outstretched gifts.

Described as convalescence.

You hear a cough.

You hear.
You hear.

You hear these stations. Correct to smell the

sulphur as it peppers sparks of ash within the
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drawing room. Down corridors encamped and

left alone. Described as validation.

You hear, and see, the pulling thread.

Embarrassed by its weightiness and
worthlessness. Condemned to own itself within
the soiled crop. Described as selfishness.
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Deconstruction of an Absence

You told me of your mercury. Its absence of

solidity. As the child plays her harp and sings
you sing with her. You sound discordant in the
echo, displaying fear of these three houses, all of
them connected by a fine and febrile link of
string. Anatomical without the presence of
arthritic courtesans. She said ‘you, you’
‘you, you.’
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Deconstruction of a Hymn

One is for one hundred.

Two is for the birth.
Three is for illumination.

Soon the rose-coloured eclipse finds its purpose

and explodes into the embryonic hall. Crying out
with elegance and turmoil and spirit and sound.
Simple sound. Simple thought. Simple strike.
Simple arithmetic. All of this a constant
reminder that the glass is set to bend before it
shatters.

Nine is for the thread.

Ten is for the vocalist.
Eleven is for the understanding that nothing and
everything is sacred.

Soon it is colonised through molecular

reconstruction. Told that love is an abundant
thing and cursed to feel and touch and smell and
taste and speak. However long this child has
been here has been too long. Fashioned as a
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hotel and a church and a jewel. How often have

you come here to shudder your eloquence?

Fifty is for the water.

Fifty-one is for the order.
Fifty-two is for recidivism.

Now see it as a hovel, made of brick and mortar,

concrete and stone. How often have you stepped
within the confines of this airy prison? Not to
say a jail, not to say a place without peace. This
is a wartime carrier of cold meats and water.
This is a peacetime carrier of emulation and
recreation. Constant in its requirements.

One thousand is for the doves.

One thousand and one is for the children.
One thousand and two is for the laying on of
hands.
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Deconstruction of Inertia

A postcard:

Go on, unlighted
Awash in blemish
Whale fat
Oil
Turned over as the child

As sharp as cataract
Repeating individual
Wide teeth
Flower
Tongue replacement

Told to stop
And not stop
Repeating
And
Held in place
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Deconstruction of an Answer

Salaam speaks through his writing. Writhing on

the cotton thread. Exposed to find his blotter
formed to mark repulsive smiles. Styled so they
speak with empty teeth. Embalmed within its
solitude and sanctity.

Closer to this majesty Salaam speaks without

overtures. Centred on the city streets with
nothing for a name and nothing on his breast.
Just as the hotel holds the water in the well,
expelled upon the spoken words.

Well done Salaam, go find your homeland, you

have left it in this other space, within the psalm,
within the name, within the happenstance.
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Deconstruction of a Blemish

History informs us we should not repent.

History informs us we should find the answer.
History is made of cellophane prognostications.
History is profane.
History is made of ignominy and adobe houses.
History informs us of its topography.
History retells itself within the glassworks.
History transcribes itself within the glassworks.
History reveals itself within the glassworks.
History is absence.
History is progress.
History is embellishment.
History wears a liver.
History informs us we are nothing.
History informs us it is diminishing.
History informs us it is nothing.
History is a child yawning.
History is a bird returning.
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History is claustrophobia.
History is manumission.
History informs us of its emptiness.
History informs us of our teeth.
History informs us of our bending.
History is a mother.
History is a child.
History is inertia.
History informs us of its entropy.
History is a meal eaten.
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Deconstruction of a Writing

Yes.
Seen deep within the firmament.
Told this and never that, replete with over-
furnishings, crockery, cutlery, sheep and cattle
and steeples from churches.
Told once to find the opening.
Told once to speak with terminal lips, without
the sound, without the scent that bends to break
the case.
The coffer shines within the narrow streets of
this simplistic town.
A town with nothing left but harridans, with
nothing left but spines and toneless skies.
Illuminated in their burden. Awash in education.
Yes and both no.
Yes and both no.
You cannot find confusion in the reveille.
Profuse with sweat and beading Ithaca. Rename
it fish and silk and wine.
Rename it short and broken and bothered with.
Say no to yes.
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Say yes to no.

Simply you have left it in the rain. Not to bother.
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Deconstruction of a Song

Breathe extermination.
Saying
Child
Child
Child
Up again at midnight.
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Deconstruction of a Longing

Choosing to belong to scientific unity.

Removed with nothing for a feast.
Protected by these absent minded protégés.
…
Blinded by a furnace facing westward.
Held in banded hands.
Constricted by this disinfected livery.
…
Triangulated as a fifth and third and fourth.
Observed in opaque waters.
Condemned to speak in dislocated tongues.
…
Elapsed in suffocation housing.
Proposed to be contained.
Supposed to scribe the Latin reformation.
…
Striped with alabaster cuticles.
Mellowed in the heap.
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Cautioned against abstruse birds and empty

language.
…
Trawled within the parchment singularity.
Mollified through sound.
Glistening without your open empathy.
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Deconstruction of a Placement

Supine on the starlit floor. This boy, a mere boy,

styles his childish cotton throne with flowers,
beads, colours, contours, shapes, languages,
jewels, clothing, animals, and string.

Made one of two he contemplates the shaping of

the narrow elevation, crying out for radiance
within the place he owns, his mother owns, his
father owns, his god owns, that god owns, this
shoulder owns, this leather owns.

Well within the border town this strait of water

flits and lays to find its measure in the
ordinance. Not here, here, not here, here, not
here, here, not here, here.

Digging to find the exposed incoherence, this

boy contrives to free the border wall. Using
shovels, rope, animals, string, salt, cloth and
silhouettes.

Sentenced and annulled this boy expects to find

his thoughts rebuked and obfuscated. Held down
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with face exposed to brasher sunlight, made

from longings, closings, slippings, kissings,
holdings, screamings, exposings, condemnings.
Created without mercy, without love.
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Deconstruction of a Word

Red becomes red only when it is dying. When it

is alive it should be gifted special dispensations,
removed from method and opinion, not made to
wear the heavy yoke.

Funeral carnations breed inconsistency. Apply

them to the moon and wax poetic without teeth.
Soon they open into tigers and embrace their
bearers in a dance without cosmetic sympathy.

Weather is abundant in this topsoil. It should be

tended in the summertime when solidity is
assured and beads hang slack from windowsills.
Be sure to gift them to the absentees or else
fulfil their ballots.
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Deconstruction of a Segment

Connected as it dances.
See the space.
See the step.
See the hem.
Repulsed by other dancers. Come once, come
again if you must.
Slipped under this silk thread, extracted from the
manuscript to feed these long-held orthodoxies.
Contribution and collection provides the answer.
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Deconstruction of a Mantra

At times she is allowed to separate. Planting her

foot in the mountain air. Finding confederation
comes so easily in the higher density.

At times she interplays between the rotating

fusions. Here and here and here. Condensing
into individuality.

At times she sleeps within this solace. Strident

in her antiquated youth. Condensed as homily.
Abridged through brass reduction.

She fears this repetition.

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Deconstruction of a Symbol

1.

Leaving the hand he surveys the boulevard.

Holding his sights in a paper bag.
Contributing to his allowance of feathers and
fur,
he forms a new direction.

He journeys through camps of migrating

strangers,
finding the road heading south.
Consuming and breathing through flatbread and
tepid water.
He lays prostrate on the mountain.

Through salt lake streams and ambivalent

sounds.
Cast off without ribbons and music.
Be good to her, drink with her, you know it is
your manner.
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He stops here, bent on broken legs.

2.

Here he is made to dance like a skeleton.

Here he is made to spread empty words.
Here he is made to contemplate musicality.
Damn it, damn it, move again,
continue up against the bending wall.

Cold in this outskirt town.

Cold as his legs shed their feathers and fly.
Cold as his spectre returns to its cell.
Cold as his motion becomes a pest.

Say your prayers you are not wet.

Say your prayers you are not beneath water.
Turn and turn and turn.
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Returned above sand and above geography.

Above this place without image.
Above this temple and its triple steps.
Above this earthen squall.

Eat and eat and eat the dirt and wood.

Eat and eat and eat the constant call.

Nothing to receive your quest for convocation.

Nothing to speak of you in funeral terms.
Nothing to conflict and conflate with
apprehension.

So much for the mother and the son.

So much for the water and the wine.
So much for the book and thread.
So much for the gardener.
So much for the garden.
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3.

Come towards the final town.

The final destination of blood and mercury.
The final resting place of greying postulants.
The final opening of over-crowded speech.

Love its nature and never spread this illness.

Do not love the wolf or crow.
Do not and will not and speak not and try not
and eat not and not and not and not and not and
not and not and not and not and not and not and
not and not and not and not and not and not and
not and not and not and not and not and not and
not and not and not and not and not.

I respect the way you dream without liquid.

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Deconstruction of a Lining

You surprise them on their holidays, allowing

bloodhounds succour from the wasted teat.
Emolliate and inculcate against this reasoning.
Suppose you find the coloured apparatus?
Suppose you touch with hands and lips and do
not kiss and do not hold?
Suppose you invite strangers, enraptured by the
sacrilege it represents?
And finding health within the firmament you
long to dwell amongst transgressive screams.
And find that picks work just as well to open
books of greater length.
Help them with their vanity, won’t you dear?
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Deconstruction of a Mercy

Apprehension as the dinner bears its violet

crackle.
Abandoning the concave shape before the sand
becomes the sea.
‘What brings you here?’
‘What brings you here?’
Preferring squares to other shapes, you wear the
mouth of panacea.
‘What makes you leave?’
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Deconstruction of a Musing

Molasses constricts the bitter pill as it is

swallowed and repented, leaving it to struggle
on its chosen path. He shakes his hand and finds
abrasions in the fist. Love this flower and the kin
it represents. Go on now.

Take the turnpike through the southern territory,

replete with washing baskets worn, and
weathered shirts without their children’s
clinging. Wait here for the return of howling
peers, casting doubt about the volatility of
arrogance.

Drink the heavy liquid as it chastises your lungs,

beautiful, beautiful. How come the shape of
houses only leaves them obstinate? Where is
your mudbrick adobe shelter? Where is your
wasted smile? Take the horse’s movement as
your own.

Now come full circle back towards the palisades

and marriages, back towards the gentle speech
and writing. Here the priest and mother lean
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against and hold you, please and satiate you.

You know better than them?
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Deconstruction of a Blessing

The first meeting:

Only expelled
In cavernous utterance
Cloistered in vibrancy
Unified

The second meeting:

Only placed
In trembling consignment
Selected for faith
Removing
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Simultaneity:

Received
With semblance of mirrors
Barbed and copper wound
Placating

And:

Newly presented
Ratified as procedure
Held hands against feet
Solidifying
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