imploding phase
imploding phase
.poetry by @d-pend
.
urbex photos by ReturnFalse
imploding phase
midst of standards,
crumpling modern inn
provisions inedible.
toxified filigree
remnants of brilliance
friared nunnery
reconstituted dour.
sing to me sour,
scintillate epileptic
power of fiction-nonce
nuptial lyrics cinder-ash
hint of bygone elegies trivialized.
doomsday in decadent contours of creole-eves,
leaves rustic or decomposed for fungus served.
demigod of impotence and fractured awareness,
smile-hoarder and bloom insincere on cracked sills.
mist of handliness, crushed dint multilingual statute,
babbling grimace and inauthentic magnetism of modernity,
triage of failed medical liminal forgetfulness,
seared demi-glace elegaic crumb,
run-on culture, standardless,
faceless, breathless,
imperfection of adolescence,
strewn dictators,
beauty of kilned decades
sullied by inattention.
Poetry by
@d-pend
9/15/18
.
Photos by
ReturnFalse
.I. "HR05" [cropped]
II. "Dolni Vitkovice"
III. "Oldtimer"
Modern institutions that claim to be practitioners of superlative standards are themselves guilty of low standards. Even in their resolve to keep their purity and innocence, the decadence is more pronounced, only showing sparks or remnants of brilliance.
The music is no longer captivating, only showing occasional melody; the wedding songs have lost their capacity to generate excitement and happiness, while good old poetry is no longer revered as a unique art.
Powerless, ignorant leaders reign over dying institutions, propagating their poor knowledge, further impoverishing human society. From religion to medicine to art, indeed the entire gamut of life has become polluted and degraded by the fake, demagogic, selfish and ill-informed personalities who parade themselves as leaders of the people. The inability of man to elevate his consciousness above the mundane is hurting mankind rather than helping him.
This poem is a sad recollection of where we are as opposed to where we should be headed, what is and what should be. It is a subtle cry for help against what the poet percieves as an impending doom.
Abandoned, dilapidated places have always produced mixed feelings in me.
There is a sense of fascination for what nature can do to human-made artifacts and then the sadness of what all that (buildings, devices, concepts) might have meant for someone and how it became souless.
These lines stroke me:
They speak to me at very personal and emotional level. What i feel today about abandoned, dilapidated spaces is no longer fascination. When you stay in a former blooming place for too long to see dictators ruin everything and the transformation takes place before your eyes then you know what a person trapped in an inundated cave, condemed to drown must feel.
You see rust take possession of metal and cracks never fixed become gapes in every sidewalk or street; when you see vegetation dwindle along with their houses, their inhabitants, and the provisions, then the magic is gone and all is left is the sour taste of tears and blood.
In the same way parents are not supposed to bury their children, people are not supposed to witness what their creations, their source of pride will look like once their are gone. Buildings are imploded after they have been abandoned. We have reached the imploding phase and soome of us are still numbly going up and down the building unaware that the bottom has already been pushed!
The struggle for a faceless past maintains the current anxiety. The current reality can be better if it imprisons the spectrum of the past.
Past rarely is faceless. Nevertheless, i think that change, mother of past, can be devoided of face, my friend.
Very thought provoking piece @d-pend
Glad you dig it @runicar :)
There are some places where we see what we human did, destroysome natural areas and erected something that we thoguht is important but few decades later just abandomed left. It is a shame to see that everything. I often wonder if they all could be recycled, my hubby says it is too expensive to recycle easy to build something new also cheaper, that makes me very anxious where we are heading and what we will leave for future generation?
Thank you for being here for me, so I can be here for you.
Enjoy your day and stay creative!
Botty loves you. <3
The rhythm of this piece is nice ... i often think that you being a musician reflects in your work a lot when it comes to wordflow and low snaggines ...
I think the abandoned steel mill best matches the poem. Although the flooded mine photo is my favorite photo.
I feel this poem rather than read it. Some poems are so movingly frail and elusive that nothing else than indeed, implosion can define it. I hope it makes sense. Resteemed, btw.