"imploded" poems
They rest all over
whilst I was rooted to the ground,
the water acting like superglue
as my limbs stretched out.
Towards the clumps of land
rods of steal and wood weaved,
to connect and *****
that which we call humanity.
But there were abuse on the rods
formed by hands who'd calloused hearts,
poison coursing through their veins,
but not a single thought was given
for they were innocent in their brain.
Said limbs and rods spiraled out,
as nothing was left to chance,
intertwining everyone's destiny
in majestic flare and grace, grand
like a ballerina's dance.
But the poison was too corrosive,
the termites were too much,
as everything eroded, imploded,
crumbled and buried under
mounds of earth.
But today is different,
a new beginning, a new life.
As if the gods have willed
something better to arrive.
Indeed they came: Ports
forged from purity anew,
where fresh legs are delivered
and old legs whisked away.
For no matter how dark it
was, is, will be,
even during the night,
there always is and will be
a pip of light.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 7:46 AM UTC
I want to tell him
that I’m scared,
that I’ve been here before.
And that the last time I felt potential like this it imploded;
I imploded.
But I don’t want to taint it,
You see I’m still hopeful
That maybe this time
Won’t end up laced with maybes,
Or what ifs,
Or open wounds pouring blood onto paper.
That maybe this time,
just won’t end.
I’ve not quite worked out whether I think it’s beautiful,
Or stupid -
The human capacity,
And pliancy,
And longing,
For love.
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
sure, first we had the schism
of the church & state...
"oddly" enough...
we now live in the 2nd tier
of schism -
the segregation of
state & media...
no?
really?
we're not?!
i'm kind of enjoying
this ongoing schismatics -
the segregation of church
from state, at least left us with
the Vatican (i.e. the church-state) -
but this, current...
segregation of state from
the media?
**** me cram my testicles
into a monkey-wrench
and subsequently watch me laugh...
and there i was thinking,
that psychiatrists,
were the new priests of
the secular age...
prescribing the alt. to
the metaphor of cannibalism
in the form of big pharmacological
pills, to replace the wafer for
bread,
or the watered down wine /
grape juice of the...
so how does that party trick goes?
is that the wine turned into blood?
symbolically:
turned water into wine:
flag-wise...
white,
cardinal...
and then burgundy of
cardinal red teasing the bishopric
coloring of purple?
i'm not here to undermine
the faith...
i'm here for the self-deprecating
humo(u)r...
you don't even require
atheism to get a laugh
out of the conundrum -
you, simply need...
the deviation from the catholic
rites...
an apostasy -
but sure as **** it's there...
secularism has allowed
journalism a monastic status...
first came the schism of
church from state -
which remained intact in
the church-state of the Vatican...
so... FAIL...
secondly had to come
the schism of the state from
the media...
i'm watching a schism
take place...
apparently...
the comparative concern
of church's divorce from
the state was easy,
having imploded into the Vatican...
but the divorce of
the media from the state?
apparently... not so easy...
the media is already locking-down
on obstructing the schism -
arguing from an entertainment
perspective...
a century or so later,
and still, the persistent,
media symbolism -
of crafting caricatures of
a state...
as the state embodied in
nothing more than subordination
to its will...
media is the new church...
and if the separation of the state
from the church took so long...
how much time, do you "think",
it will it take, for the state
to segregate itself, from the media
baronage?
i suspect - as much time as it
took to segregate itself from
the church's cardinal-lineage.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
When I kissed you,
The world imploded,
But we were left untouched.
When I kissed you,
I was drifting,
Through the galaxies in your eyes.
When I kissed you,
My heartbeat intertwined with yours,
The way our hands did,
In your car,
On the way home.
When I kissed you,
It didn't matter that anyone could see us,
We are untouchable,
And infinite,
And endless.
I get it now,
This is love.
Feb 11, 2020
Feb 11, 2020 at 8:50 AM UTC
the word came out of your mouth
as sharp as a blade
and
easy for you to say
but hard for me to swallow
as easy for you to say
as it was for the three letters to
gut me from the inside
out
yes
i have come to hold animosity toward
the one syllable word.
my chest bursts open like
a black hole
******* every last bit of my happiness
away
gone into the never ending vastness
of darkness
i felt my lungs
collapse
but almost as if the word itself
had frozen my breath
as it left your lips
and with it went
my windpipe and lungs
you looked at me with those
crystal blue eyes
and my insides imploded, sending
each shard of ice
to poke and **** at my heart
just like
you.
W
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 1:07 AM UTC
They were like two satellites,
Orbiting the same heavenly body.
The perpetual rhythm of the universe,
Always moving forward.
Black holes in the back of their minds,
Far off, yet consuming.
Invisible appendages, pulling at the surface.
Dark forces reeling them in,
Gently
Deep craters gouged their exterior.
Ages of abuse yielded hardened hollows.
One more revolution.
How long until the inward force is too much to bear?
A rogue nebula.
An imploded core...
One more revolution.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 1:16 AM UTC
The cyclist on his bike, fueled by sweat of curiosity,
Wondered
Wondered why it was that he could not fly
He thought therefore he became and on that bike of gold
He soared, the heavens a freeway for the blind
Finally seeing :
Earth is merely an elephant graveyard for the angels
The knowledge was a toxic pinball, corroding his insides as dust
He felt despair creeping like smog
(knowledge spoils)
Without thought or command his flesh imploded
Snapping like a boomerang at the end, the beginning
Of the universe.
And then he was a fiery star,
His bike of human mold cast down
(and sweetens)
Without restrictive ears he could comprehend
The slow mellotones of his fellow Fliers, Travellers, Stars
They hummed a warning to the man who was not
Of the hazards of thought
And the universe was silent again.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 4:21 PM UTC
Willow herb floating
on silent certainty
ashes of sighs
not fleeting,
unvapoured on the
blossom of the rain,
I am too light to
pull or push
the swing of delight
through this land.
The rain left me for a
while
sun unshielding
-a thousand widows
more unyielding than the depths . .
Once shadowed whisperers
of delight,gossamer
sparkling , descending
their chains
of necromantic hope.
Lilith is no night owl
she is mother, eve
and my becoming:
sweet earth spun
at once ,
exhaling her .
The see saw
bumped gently
on my chin
it is a most gentle
form of awakening.
The silence bore no whispers
till sinking through the quicksand
-or was it quicksilver?
-in any case I could smell little
in my amniotic amnesia.
I made ten thousand friends,till their soap
made this place clean.
Is this a seed or a dying
hopefulness
-is my sallow sowing
beyond all shores of
reproduction;
a reflection of the child
they dared not bear?
Is my last breath like this
a forgotton yielding
will they catch me
as I fall ?
-(sweet earth)-
This moth of my ending,
a shallow recantation,
my fears-
their memories, mere
testubes of
stylish hope .
I breathe the elegant stare
you have forgotten .
Once more free
from such
rememberance
I need not ,
remained not ,
your imploded ,
wakefulness .
A thousand pardons
exhaled like silk
entwining
an unfinished race
spider of a thousand eyes .
One may say
I was
stared
to death
but surrogate air
mocks childish pity.
Taut refelexions
bear salt echoes
in silk convulsions
fresh water
a veneered hope .
Easier in death than life
is a child's sorrowed
partings ,
the illusion of
bouyancy
rippled tides
unfelt.
The oceans have not enough salt
for such shrunken sorrow.
if we could but once
have shared
unbreathed aspersion .
The room has come and gone
the pillow quite undry
unforgotten
unremembered.
A web untouched
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 7:46 AM UTC
1 4
she offers me, a spot of dust
she raises me under the couch,
on platitudes and warm bread I know it’s
in return for my devotion there
she loves me like the boats today, I start spring-cleaning,
she keeps out on the ocean (this alone
she loves me to be molded, should receive
not to be unfolded more recognition than it will)
I pull out the couch
she bore me bones the vacuum doesn’t quite
the lacrimal bone reach the dust lying
the breastbone on unused carpet,
all the cervical vertebrae the head
I use them to simulate keeps hitting the wall
her expectations unproductive
I put the furniture back
2 in place
I have names, no one will see the lack
I wear them like badges of progress
inspired by something not quite
earned yet 5
while lucid dreaming
I assigned constellations were on
each name my skin
a compartment and freckles in
of me the night sky
If I name them maybe
they will become pollution drowned out
real, not just necessary two thirds
even if most imploded
before they were seen
3 6
with enough necessity were it not for shadows
anyone can tell a lie I would surely learn to
hate the light
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 6:43 PM UTC
Night falls over Soho and, gazing into some cheap tart's eyes
Over a candelit-chequered-food-stained tablecloth,
Beneath my belt an immense ******** lurks leakily,
The seams of my ****** soaked with bursting lust,
My groin twitching in desire for her wanton arse-flesh.
Streetlight shining through threadbare curtains
Glinting sexily over my hairy pounding buttocks;
My screamed roars of pleasure echoing
In the deepest depths of her tenth-rate mind;
Her poor brain collapsing in mighty mid-climax.
Morning reveals a classy scene to chambermaid's gawp:
Spread-legged cold-as-chilled-salami ****
Puny brainbox imploded like mashed bananas
By staggering rivulets of overpowering *******
Like a duck's entrails in an unwashed sink.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 1:29 PM UTC
(it's cliché to admonish clichés in their entirety)
I. (love)
We are meant to live the clichés;
we are meant to resuscitate the words,
and rehabilitate their wounds
into a fertile viewpoint
where we build respirators from clichés
to filter the virulent dust kicked up
by the marching pigs.
(re-invented clichés offer back breath
in an exchange of circular breathing)
The swine contort love
into armaments of antipathy;
they push buttons,
squeeze triggers,
pull pins,
and aim where it causes the most damage.
Even though we are natural born hypocrites,
we don't have to let that knowledge corner us
into using love as a weapon.
The pen is mightier than the sword,
and I wield both;
I sharpen the quill on the blade's edge.
If need be, use the pen for a counter-strike,
but only channel love in defence.
II. (poetry)
The pigs march to a beat
of nuclear blasts
that bring poetry's flag
nearer to half-mast.
Poetry should stand on its own merit,
instead of leaning on shanks that hide behind smiles
constructed with aspirations of popularity
that churn out lazy, aspartame-laced lines
devoid of accountability and integrity,
or lean upon smiles filled with slivers
from far too much fence-sitting,
too worried about the trending majority,
to see the complexity within simplicity
and clarity,
or
propped-up against degrees
while writing poems that are drier than the Sahara:
husks of lines tumbling across dunes,
only to be imploded
by atomic-pork mushroom clouds,
their fallout marring parchment
into a poisonous terrain.
.
III. (dreams)
(revive, twist, and switch the clichés )
We must not fear saying "never".
Surrender to love, but never surrender
to the jealous captains who attempt
to hook and net the defenders of Neverland.
With compasses of conscience
beating in hearts kept young,
navigate through the smoke and mirror-smog
emitted by the marching pigs.
(we must never give up on our dreams)
Dream about the courage needed
to love everyone and everything,
including our enemies
who conduct genocide
on the language of a purer intent.
Dream about word-seedlings
pushing through the arid rind
of dying poetry,
in hope for a more organic fruition
to grow in our hearts and minds,
so that poetry gains back its strength and vitality
to once again stand on its own merit.
+/-
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
.the rorschach test... and the gestalt theory... and taking a selfie... esp. if one does so using two mirrors - to achieve the profile: side "invitation"... or rather... i'm not minding the chronology... the imploded darkness... what is Gestalt to Rorschach? x-ray minus vision? the psychology of bones... or... what is gestalt and rorschach within the confines of physiognomy? ink-blot: either a butterfly or a pelvis!
to take a selfie, proper -
i always require to use two mirrors -
to take a selfie i need to bend
light - or at least my eyesight...
i need to use two mirror:
to take a selfie...
because... i know what it feels
like to have your picture taken:
by a "third" person -
and i want to remember how good
it feels like...
when someone takes a photograph
of you: with you being caught:
unsuspecting...
a picture taken when: you're not
in a group and about to say:
charlie loves wensleydale!
no... i need two mirrors to take a selfie -
and it's always... a profile picture...
the gestalt pause -
two faces meeting or a lamp-shade?
profile: on the side.
Feb 8, 2020
Feb 8, 2020 at 6:42 PM UTC
We are not survivors.
we are residue.
the soot that lingers
on collapse's last tongue.
entropy's loiterers—
spiteful, unfinished.
neurons in feedback.
systems with no gods.
the architects left
when the scaffolds imploded.
we cradle their blueprints
like scripture in ash.
rebuild?
with what breath?
with what myth?
our dreams are famine-shaped.
nirvana is a severance package.
emptiness sold
in velvet robes.
a silence that never asked
about wreckage.
so we sharpen our vowels.
scribe ruin in elegy.
chant hymns for dead logics.
leave witness marks
in the marrow of this glitch.
we were not chosen.
we remained.
May 23, 2025
May 23, 2025 at 4:34 AM UTC
Every employee's name was listed in the address field
Except for one
The one I never noticed
That we never noticed
We all marched into the meeting room as ordered
Found the CEO on an extra tall stage
To tell us
"Today is Emma McGurk's last day
But she says it's the first day
Of her tenure
As Director of Forecasting of Unintended Consequences
She's not going
So I need all of you, all 300 of you,
To help me terminator."
(Or was that terminate her?)
So we gave each other Brady Bunch nods
I had to look up to make eye contact (or is that I contact?) with superiors
Then we marched to
The cubicle of Emma McGurk
Me remembering what Santa Ana had said:
"With a few hundred more men like the San
Patricios, Mexico would have won the battle."
And the battle wasn't to be won by us
It was to be won by Emma McGurk
The CEO tried to move her
Ten of us tried to move her
Then one hundred
And then all three hundred
Even I made an effort
But she wouldn't budge
So we had to move...
To another building
Hearing that Emma McGurk was still ensconced
In the position existing only in her noggin
Until finally the old building had to be imploded
A fifth-grader winning the honor of triggering
That dusty downfall of Emma McGurk's cubicle
And the building that sheltered it
It wasn't until Signing Day Eve
That I saw her again
Pouring ink at a haiku-con
"The pay wouldn't be that bad," she told me.
"If it was by the snicker instead of the word."
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 9:35 PM UTC
the last soft pretzel has been sold
he puts the mustard jar
......back into the cart
and "home" he rolls
------------
there was an old lady who lived in Sheboygan
she had so many children
she moved to new york city
and got on welfare
-----------
he was a "podigy"
he coulda been jesus
but he decided to be
........................lebron james
---------
gentle breezes
the bicycling boy
yellow shirt against the park's greenery
and the deep blue sky
--------------
growing unto night!
the angelic sense of "her nurturing"
all in her EYE
---------------
an obvious "sentence"
the world's been imploded!
(and is an ugly worn out place!)
-------------
the towers have fallen
oly homeland security
on the c.i.a.
watching us now
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 11:58 AM UTC
*An instance before my mind
Unceremoniously
unprecedentedly
Imploded due to devices
Of its own making.*
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 7:42 AM UTC
I bid thee welcome to the masquerade!
T’is a place in which we dance circles around each other,
Dawning a facade.
We dodge, turn, and promenade
All to elude one another
All to trick the other into fraud.
And yet, we still dance.
Fanciful gowns, embroidered in gold!
Shined shoes and a powered nose,
Hidden by thy mask.
Thy game is defunct and old
T’is all concealed by magnificent clothes!
Do not scrape the skin, but in its glow thy must bask.
Be thy wary not to trip on thy skirts.
Secret rendezvous down a dark rue!
A place where a white lie springs
Onto thy heart’s soft flesh - slashed.
"I love you!"
A heart beat faster than the hummingbird's wings.
"Nah, good woman, t’was a feeling long surpassed."
A heart with no beat, imploded and crumbling.
I bid thee adieu from the masquerade!
T'was a place where we danced circles around each other,
And shall closet our facade.
We have dodged, turned, and walked our promenade
All to elude one another
All to trick the other into fraud.
And yet, thy mask never truly retires.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 12:01 AM UTC
a woman's passion is a fiction of the sun
a radiance that forms and lingers
it's time burning like a rag in a guttering flame
it flickers, it spits a storm, a moment's certainty
a lifetime's doubt
it is the whisper of the wind in barren trees
a crucible for gravity's fervor
a silence dreaming its imploded sounds
Sep 26, 2025
Sep 26, 2025 at 3:53 AM UTC
ᚠ Φ
F
Θ ᚦ
no explanations
exist within a geometry outside
the circle, only architecture, sole,
yet the sole geometry of architecture
is an encircling, a lifting,
and had i wrote my poetry
in the comfort of rising beyond Marx
is socio-political schematic i would,
but i rather talk to scaffolders than to poets,
i'd rip my heart through enough thin
veil to prove it so that i shared an entombing of lips
wholly bodied with one! i rather!
care for this ******* Parisian princess
in your divorce as best you can...
i kept a cat for seven years before my neighbour
decided it was time to ***** affection
to an animal neither tilling for ably feeding
to instead choose his daughter as my wife:
i rejected feeling no compass of conversation...
the cat died, i went into the graveyard and dug
a gravestone out and buried my cat in
the moonlight: don't ever come across me and my pet!
you killed half the intelligence that was me!
**** you! humanity engaging with humanity
it plagiarises as itself an ownership to suit puppet
strings like it might tailoring,
POLAND ****** EUROPE!
POLAND ****** EUROPE!
POST COLONIAL NATIONS SEEK NEW *******
TO CRAFT THE LOST COTTON BUDS INTO
GRANULE CEMENT SET! POLAND ******
EUROPE! POLAND ****** EUROPE!
POLAND ****** EUROPE! POLAND ****** EUROPE!
MAMA RUSSIA! PAPA PRUSSIA! HOSANNA! HOSANNA!
LAUREL LEAFS AS I SAT ON THEM! THE CROWN
OF KING TU-154...
ROMANIA DONKEY DON QUIXOTE!
WHOOP WHOOP! WHOOP WHOOP GREK IZLAND
CORFU! then the postman comes with my jealousy
as within reach of hope to attain old age...
(snigger)... i hope i don't... i want million
dollar baby's truth to wake me.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 8:04 PM UTC
Who I took to be my saviour,
Was the very one that killed me,
When I felt really terrorized.
Nuke of loneliness imploded,
Not caring it was not the time,
Night now feels as if eternal.
Contained is this explosion,
Tears haven't fallen since long,
Of dire loneliness it's a gift.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 9:41 PM UTC
i knew from a young age nothing could love me.
i knew when everything began,
when elemental dust condensed into planets,
when life fought itself into existence
in the waters of a cooling world,
when the first being exulted in being
and i exulted too
and crushed it for daring to live.
watched it decompose in my palm.
rotted roses by plucking them.
i knew from a young age
that nothing survived my touch,
that nothing lived in my hands -
nothing’s the only thing
i’ve ever held without killing.
so see, we’re meant to be,
you and i,
nothing boy –
let me hold you close cause i can’t rot you through,
you with your lack of self
and meaning,
you with your infinite void,
impenetrable ether.
see, we’re meant to be,
nothing boy,
let me swim in your vacancy and you,
you can be my new universe
and nothing will be my everything:
i’ll worship you like an absent father
and love you like an atheist’s god.
see we’re meant to be,
nothing boy,
i would **** 2000 statues to bring you to me.
i would slaughter a family of worms
to be crushed in your black hole.
i crushed the stars between my thighs,
left the triturated mess
like a promise to the world.
i crushed the stars between my thighs,
but i’ll be so careful with you,
nothing boy.
so gentle you won’t even know i’m there,
like a ghost sighing over your mouth.
so careful you won’t notice me
making my nest in your empty chest,
breathing for you,
pulling air to pool in your lungs.
see we’re meant to be,
nothing boy:
i complete you
and you empty me.
see we’re meant to be,
nothing boy,
nothing doesn’t rot -
my gangrene heart can’t touch yours,
pure as it is,
undefiled,
unadulterated,
a vacuum of a heart as empty as an unfilled grave.
they say
there’s a black hole at the center of every galaxy,
in the center of a ring of stars
light drawn to the dark.
they say there’s a black hole at the center
and if they’re right
you’re the last good thing about this galaxy.
stars swarm round you like flies, nothing boy,
you who are made of their
dead brothers,
who collapsed into themselves with the weight of existence,
who imploded with the heat of their desire for you,
who fed their light to your blackness,
nothing boy.
you are made of dead stars and of nothing at all.
you are
celestial corpses
and nihilism distilled.
see we’re meant to be,
nothing boy.
you’re corpses and i’m rot.
you’re nothing and i’m
the final destination
the last stop for sorry living creatures,
pitiful things that can’t quite
delete themselves,
can’t quite reach you
so i embrace them and soothe their sobs.
see we’re meant to be,
nothing boy,
i can hold you for more than a few
pitiful sobbing seconds.
i can hold you forever if you let me.
see we’re meant to be,
nothing boy.
i killed the world but you remain.
i crushed the galaxy between my thighs,
and you, impassive,
pulled the triturated mess into your event horizon.
see we’re meant to be,
nothing boy,
you have no breaths to steal
but i’ll give you all i’ve plundered.
i’ll give you every last breath, last word, last heartbeat,
and you can empty me like
a bottle of cheap wine.
see we’re meant to be –
nothing boy and gangrene girl,
a love story for fatalists
and nihilists alike.
see we’re meant to be,
nothing boy,
starcorpse creature, nietzsche’s son.
see we’re meant to be,
nothing boy -
nothing never rots
nothing never dies
nothing won’t decompose
in my arms.
see we’re meant to be,
nothing boy.
let me hold you close-
you’re the one thing i can’t break.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
All at once, all of a sudden
There was a cacophony of you
Resounding around my head
And quietly I imploded outward
****** into the very sounds
Your voice made in my mind
Because they sounded so good
I had to have them to keep
But instead of having them
They took me as a prisoner
Of a war that doesn't matter
And refused to give me back
So I'm left in a state of willing limbo
Ricocheting off the inside of my thoughts
Losing track of the times I think of you
Tallying the times you think of me
I could count on my fingers, I'm sure
But my thoughts don't have hands.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 1:21 AM UTC
Perhaps I should take blame for
not laying specifics.
Or perhaps, for not in the moment
doubting her loyalty and
intervening.
In the game of dares,
she to kiss another, and,
regardless of gender,
not me.
I had said before,
"our physical embraces
and emotional turmoil
boiled into heated enamor
stays in our love, our bond,
our tie."
I believed honestly that she
would be wise enough
or calm enough
to say "No, I refuse it."
I believed she loved me enough to
know the boundary is real
and that when I said, "No",
I lacked sarcasm.
Or, I was not open enough to
list the specifics of what not
to do
and instead left too much open
to her imagination.
In that moment,
as the group of friends were amazed
at her polyamorous behavior
lubricated with *****
the fog of the mind,
and they laughed and
sent cheers outward,
I burned into the deepest rage humanly possible.
For that split second,
I debated leaving the party:
but, I was drunk, and the drive wasn't worth
such risk.
I debated yelling:
but it was her party to lead, not mine to destroy.
Instead, I sat in self-loathing,
hating myself so purely, but
I couldn't bring myself to be mad at her,
I don't think.
Again, the fog was floating.
I wanted to explode,
but instead imploded.
I wished for nothing but
to leave, to drink more to forget,
but instead I sit in rest
without sleep, concentration, peace,
but instead sit in pure hatred:
of what? Not her, not the girl,
but myself, for not doing enough,
not mattering enough.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC
Trapped in a bubble formed by a drowning man
Your frequency made me start trembling violently
until I imploded into a burst of light.
Sep 21, 2025
Sep 21, 2025 at 11:25 PM UTC