Best Detonating Poems
The world in 100 years ... Oh, perish the thought
Former President, Ronald Dump, who was cryogenically frozen following his assassination after winning the ‘No Bull’ Peace Prize in December 2018, has been successfully defrosted.
Ronald Dump recently defeated his son, former President Barrrrron Van Dump, in the lunar by-election. President Dump will be taking up his forty year term at his office-in-the-round penthouse suite at ‘Lunar-Tic Towers’. This magnificent golden palace-like structure is situated on the fringes of the 29th bunker on the dark side of the moon. Naturally, it is a member’s only golf club and entry is strictly by special invitation only. It will be staffed by scantily costumed Honey-Bunny girls and models who the Dump handpicks. They will attend to every need and whim of his guests, unless he requires their expertise "handling."
President Dump will be supported by his android wife, Argenta, (humanoid model number 3060 with real hair and life-like body parts) who superseded the old model 'Milionairluva', who sadly could not be revived due to silicon and botox poisoning which ran rampantly throughout her Barbie doll body
The Lunar-Tic Towers will be totally off limits to the paparazzi so there can be no photographs taken of the Irn Bru brewing facility of his favourite drink which was banned in Scotland. He seeks to insure that no "fake news" stories are leaked by the press.
In his bid to tackle rising unemployment, currently standing at 99.6%, Dump will be advised by his new best friend and strategist, Kym Dung Hung Lo. This humanitarian almost obliterated the human race by detonating a nuclear warhead at the Dung Hung Lo Toy Factory which was caused when Dung Hung Lo threw his dolly out of the pram. So impressed by such a move, Dump hired him and invited Dung Hung Lo to be his number 2 to succeed him.
May God bless the earth, what little is left of her .. she needs all the help she can get with these two lunar tics in charge
6/1/18
100 year Contest sponsored by Brian Davey
sun melts away somber clouds detonating heaven's rainbowburst
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~SUNLIT RIPPLES~ 2019
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
You are my poetry; sapphire blue, sandlewood scented ink,
painting you and I cradled in intimate metaphors,
though you lay thousands of miles away;
storing urgent longings of my heart in ardent daydreams,
till tender moments can be shared, and made legendary.
Words come spilling, clinging together, from memory,
flowing through my trembling hands;
writing I love you backwards and forth,
scribing you as the most fragile part of me,
yet my strongest connection.
I write you beautiful in imagery;
Nairobi gold; the blazing noon sun,
the black velvet curtains drawn round me,
never to be disquieted, hour of midnight;
inhales and exhales that slip from my lips as low moans.
You are my poetry, the fevered forbidden dance
etched upon pages as detonating verses with passionate probes,
till words become silent, where they have no place.
And I let pen fall from hand, to dare dream real
behind the veil of my eyes, as I lay me down.
Blinded and limbless, I represent
the hundreds of thousands young men sent
to fight in another country’s war
on rough terrain never seen before.
Our country called and we asked not why
nor for whom we were going forth to die.
Death would be relief to the awful pain
of reliving the battles in mind again.
They all looked alike and we couldn’t know
just who was our ally and who the foe,
until we stepped on the hidden mine
or tripped on the detonating line.
The “Hueys” that came for the dead or dying
were shot down sometimes as they started flying.
Rescuers as brave, as they took to air,
as the weary soldiers they left out there.
You'll find us today in a VA hall
or dressed in a camouflage coverall,
living in cities that turn us away
as useless potheads, despised today.
Thy birth on January 13th –
cervical contractions
would not abate
the pesky master (papa), strove
to synchronize seminal bait
thence, forty-two weeks
after ma parents did pro create
imminent lviii plus years ago to date,
this present baby boomer doth
indubitably and inherently equate
nineteen hundred and fifty nine
bequeathed birthed mine kempf ill fate
neurological manifestation,
sans obsessive compulsive did grate
behavioral motif and analogous
to frontispiece per story I hate
of my life and hard times,
when all of a sudden out blue irate,
the onset of emotional nadir,
where ballistic ordnance bombed away
fancy free, innocent, naïve boyhood
decrying, detonating,
and describing me own Pigs Bay
Allied, linkedin, and synced Luftwaffe
and Panzer division invasion that clay
like materiel within southern cerebral hemi
sphere inroads usurped no delay
riding roughshod via synapse straits sporting
scoring sorties using every
axe n newer on dread did
Swiss hide dill naught
to decimate with spirited ghost
of William Tecumseh Sherman
determination tuff flay
leaving not one iota (oft times)
referenced as gray
matter unaffected quite aware
of rebellious confederated voices
yelling “HOORAY”
Sabotaging orbitofrontal communication
incorporating connection between anterior
cingulate gyrus cortex heightening activity
bridging (via atom sized pontoon bridges)
greater activity upon basal ganglia, which
synoptic description does nothing to alter
the predisposition to ingress of un control
able imbecilic, inexplicable, and illogical
fixation particularly during onset of puberty,
when an emotional kamikaze nose dive
at nadir of near lifelessness, the shadow
of me former self nowhere tubby found
on account of deadly symbiotic relationship.
Tonight the understaffed was overloaded with impatient calls n' flashing buttons buzzing the central core
I marathoned from room to room in frantic answer
My vision rang from Rocky Horror, the Ringling Brothers to your flesh and blood side show...in one nightmare slow breath
It was as hyper-real as a whole sandwich in the pit of one mans mutant mouth moving in slo-mo
As unreal as Pinocchio's carved hands, bleating on bloated bellies & rolling in dough
& Then to watch one black pincht princess bolt up in her barred bed
Her beady eagles on a bearded lady....disrobing article after article, In a constant beat beat repeating...Why did Daddy do it?
Me...I'm just crossing my index to ring finger in hopes it will go away
...It's countdown and 40 rooms seems too long to earth the same beds, woozy rooms, rising temperatures and more multiple people unbedded and tied to chairs
Peace cannot be found here or in the hand of whitta-whitta whittering words
Tonight under the full moon....she hangs on my whites-pleading for that abstract something, for cement feet to take on liquid answers. for one big black hole of understanding to scoop her vocals & make sense of her
While the squirrel lady sobs deep into my back about some strange Pope filled room with bloody crucifixes and fervent praying hands
She points to Uncle Sam up in his military sky-condemning me to another, just as horrible war
The delirium in this place multiplied the last straws of my sanity
My finger really wanted to hail the waitress for the check...
And why did that frothy mouth frighten me so?
Why did the lady feel so cold ?
The very stiff yellow lady...
The realization screamed me out of the room and into the hall with vision of toe tags and body bags
Paralyzed, shaking, buzzers-buzzing, callers calling. my feet running
detonating the uranium in my head
Where bad little Hiroshima's dance over the fence of my dreams
Where the day after is possible …...
Possible?
Can it be true …..
Is my shift over?....
(working in an Nursing Home with an 102.5 fever)
ESTRANGED
estranged
changed
suspended
where angels
fear to tread
imposing
deep thoughts
noises infringe
from the outside
detonating all
within
© Kim van Breda—1 November 2015
In the year 1945, a few powerful American leaders decided it was alright for them to play God. Taking the initiative to create a weapon of mass destruction, not exceeded still today, or even closely matched. The only thing even remotely close was the Asteroid that struck Earth millions of years ago, sealing the Dinosaurs fate. Immediately upon completion, and after at least a few tests, the righteous American President gave orders to twelve members of the Air Force: Cross the Pacific Ocean, and deliver this device to the nation opposing us, the nation we are at war with, the nation of Japan!
High above Earth, the "Enola Gay" soared silently through Japanese airspace, completely unnoticed; while the citizens below carried on with their lives, unaware of the threat from above. Upon reaching a pre-determined location, a crew member pushed that little red button, putting in motion a sequence of automated death and destruction. For the following sixty seconds, the plane, previously silent, buzzed with the sound of a machine's gears. At that exact moment, in Hiroshima, a society steeped in tradition, performs the tasks and duties unchanged for over a thousand years. At the conclusion of the countdown, the plane's port doors opened wide, and discharged America's solution to another long and drawn out World War.
In Earth's shortest forty-three seconds, Enola Gay's pilot raced to distance himself from the drop zone. And, exactly forty-four seconds after its release, America's "Little Boy" hit his target, performing perfectly, and instantly detonating. The resulting mushroom cloud was confirmation to the crew of their mission's success. The effects, both instant and long term, were felt by both parties involved, albeit unequally. Twelve Air Force veterans were now and forever changed by their involvement in this Atrocity. Forever stuck carrying their guilt's heavy burden for the remainder of their lives.
In such a whimsical action
a half-asleep routine
shaped disrobed and left stark naked
this vehicle, this housing, a shell
scarred skin, greying hair, bones, muscle
and more besides with plenty of stories to tell.
Awash with collected fallacious matter
amid mind obstacles and other clutter
clinging like feathered shards
decorating our ethereal bodies help slide
through the corridors of our intentions.
Standing ‘au naturel’ now in a white tiled cube
blinking up at the spewing fountainhead
still too cold to stand under
steam signaling it’s welcome
salivating over sleepy baggage
currents of memory turned on
groping dangling vegetal limbs
to the sound of clanging pipes
running, churning, rippling
warmth over fornicated folds
fingering creases and crevices
soapy belly buttons and anuses
Between a blinking downpour
Crashing thumps detonating water
gushing over a hollowed shell
ears drumming peace to a closed eye
the mouth blows out a succulent sigh.
Aaaaaahhhhh……
I leave my body now, transferred by the glistening
whispering unending warmth dissolving my corpse
floating now in the ooze of this poetical river
soaking in fragments otherworldly sensations
I float on a raft outside of time gliding on a current
completely dissolved as vaporized droplets
as liquid words transferring constantly
flowing like remorseless compassion
fluidly escaping to rivers of reeds and bullrushes
harboring wilder one-eyed otters reminding me
of the rivers running through my veins
sacred springs or murkier places.
I am a swamp of gurgling metaphoric ideas
connected to dripping pipes as portals to dreams
flowing over banks of mud with protruding shards of rust
half sunk shopping trolleys dangling with neon moss
my effluence goes beyond all wriggling life form
swimming up the sacred river to our birthright source
a wriggling newt, a tadpole or a spermlike mudskipper…..
the water is listening,
echoing our hymns through the biosphere
coursing a channel my imagination runs, whichever
But then, right then, all of a sudden
a tap fills a kettle in the kitchen,
the shower loses all its power
plugging me back
to my present shell.
Info lock and load
The key does require a code
Unique to each one
These atoms that do collide
In mind is where it resides
We are ladies-in-waiting and martyrs,
as tears are hardened like trails
of muddy barracks…
yet in the aggressive power- courts;
each detonating bullet hemorrhages
all veins of war- torn flesh ,
our stained faces pretending to play
and underplay the hurt of wounds within.
How long are those late twilights
as we anticipate a riddled uncertainty
within our homes' rotten gates and dim lamps
for the screeching angst to halt. cease:
The radio blasts hideous self-pity
into the stings, the bladder of evenings
when a combat fires deathly pellets
through broken hearts of our sons, husbands :
Will daytime become Aurora’s reward?
Maidens of hope, we wail and quaver
for men in camouflage… dear life, speak!
Are they lost. dead. or agile?…
pained, we remain mute ladies-in-waiting.
~*~
Contest of Broken Wings: Broken-Hearted Poems
Written 10/14/2017
An ice cold firework
Discharges in my heart
Detonating out shards of ice
To pierce the mind
Pricking my fingers
As the heat
Drains from me and
Like a welcoming fireplace
Warms the souls of the
Dead hearts I've dug up
From the graves of fireflies
That never saw it
Past summer
A GLIMPSE OF HELL
dark smoke and ashes testify
devastation
orange sun glows through the haze
hauntingly
cruel fierce flames soar scorching
territory
epitomizing
a glimpse
of hell
houses burnt to the ground in
amputation
natures creatures dazed in fires
traumatized
scalded and blistered die
pointlessly
symbolizing
a glimpse
of hell
the valiant fight and endure
courageously
parched lips and bloodshot eyed
dedication
we stand reminded that without
Salvation
an Eternal
damnation
awaits us
detonating
a glimpse
of hell
© Kim van Breda—4 March 2015
(Devastating Cape Town/S. Africa mountain fires March 2015)
They shoot at us with rubber bullets
cause they don't like the words painted on our signs,
"Stop Detonating Love Bombs
In the Middle East!".
But I suppose that will be all that's left
when everyone dies for this
enigmatic War for Peace.
What squashes Peace worse than War?
I feel the heavy quakes by the angry booms
Coming from left and right, behind and before.
Peace zooms off from all souls, bodies and rooms.
I run. Peace runs too. We both pant;
I hate the pattering of the souls of my feet.
Guns quarrel, the air filled with their rant.
I hide nearby a bridge to avoid the heat.
Regularly, strange sirens zoom by and wow,
Plunging our feet to unprepared races.
World and world jam and pow each other now,
Detonating our planted hearts in their places.
This very morning, I am slightly asleep
When from nearby guns begin to stutter.
I become scared. Some sound as if they weep.
I run to the river and dive and hear it splatter.
The world wails when War and Peace wrestle;
When War emerges and missiles shrill,
Peace becomes deaf and hears only a little.
And so shatters the world's wonderful will.
I am now in love with it when it becomes dark:
Peace find more peace; less weapons clatter;
More oxygen to inhale; much less fires park;
It temporarily quells the two worlds' batter.
DATE: 13/07/2022
CONTEST: ONOMATOPOEIA POETRY CONTEST
SPONSOR: EMILE PINET