"manikin" poems
Alila syang sakal
Tila nasa hawlang nasa labas ng sinapupunan
Naghihikahos sya
Humihingi ng tulong.
Tinawag ko si Tatay
Pagkat ako'y manikin
Wala sa ulirat
Habang sya'y nasa piit ni Kamatayan.
Pilit syang pumipiglas
Sa pira-pirasong tabla
Nakaririndi ang tinig
Hindi marunong kumalma.
Tayo'y nilalang na may isip
May katinuan
Hindi kailangang pumiglas
At panay ang laban.
Minsan, kahinaa'y malalasap
Ba't hindi huminto?
Hindi ito pagsuko, kaibigan
Ito'y paghihintay
Paghihithit ng lakas
Na kahit saglit
Ang buhay ay mahingahang muli.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
With your even fixed waxy smile
I'm beguiled by your looks
as you wear the latest looks
as you read the latest books
as you wear the latest fashion
in vogue
Dressed to ****
you will soon be the center of attraction
Poised ever so
in perfect balance
you stand among the up most glitter
A plaster of Paris soul,
you feel nothing, you see nothing,
hear nothing, know nothing
You will soon be ready for your public
Your show draws nearer
And finally you step onto
a mindless flashing disco floor
with the rest of the "MANIKINS"
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 3:08 AM UTC
It was well said of him,
“The clothes bespoke the man”.
Yes, he stumbled in the mud.
Yes, his reputation soon was stuck within the stinking sludge
and, granted, it was all of his own making.
But surely you remember how he'd been so impressive.
Once I said, “You're spotless as a manikin”
and shared a hearty laugh with him.
Be we also had some serious conversations,
discussing what he meant by “loveliness”.
That was all before the storm that hit us
with the force of filth from continents and generations.
It reminded us, again:
not every love is innocent;
the finest gentlemen are capable of
(some say inclined to) monstrous crimes.
After, no one spoke of him.
He tried to hide behind his usual accoutrements:
the matching tie and handkerchief;
silk shirts;
his feathered hat and crimson mackintosh;
the smell of musk.
But he was tainted, spotted once the news was out.
As the headlines had it:
“Gilded Lily Withers – Roots Exposed”;
“If clothes have made this man, they're now irreparably torn.”
“Patent leather ******* now well scuffed.”
God knows what his publishers had to put upon his jacket
to sell off the remainders.
Yet even from the darkness of his prison,
he seemed to think he could rely upon
the persuasiveness of beautiful adornments
- “Always envied; often copied; never matched” (his line) -
trusting it would make him seem attractive once again, even clean.
He died the 23rd of May, 2007.
They say that night he'd tied his shirt a special way,
with a feminine flamboyance,
but it failed to impress as he intended.
In some dark hall (we don't know how) they caught him,
stripped him to the bare essentials,
leaving him undressed and cut, an ochre ugliness.
What were his final thoughts,
when all that he had left was soiled and bleeding?
What we he really needing?
Still, I'm glad I knew him,
Still call him friend, and miss him.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
It was well said of him,
“The clothes bespoke the man”.
Yes, he stumbled in the mud.
Yes, his reputation soon was stuck within the stinking sludge
and, granted, it was all of his own making.
But surely you remember how he'd been so impressive.
Once I said, “You're spotless as a manikin”
and shared a hearty laugh with him.
Be we also had some serious conversations,
discussing what he meant by “loveliness”.
That was all before the storm that hit us
with the force of filth from continents and generations.
It reminded us, again:
not every love is innocent;
the finest gentlemen are capable of
(some say inclined to) monstrous crimes.
After, no one spoke of him.
He tried to hide behind his usual accoutrements:
the matching tie and handkerchief;
silk shirts;
his feathered hat and crimson mackintosh;
the smell of musk.
But he was tainted, spotted once the news was out.
As the headlines had it:
“Gilded Lily Withers – Roots Exposed”;
“If clothes have made this man, they're now irreparably torn.”
“Patent leather ******* now well scuffed.”
God knows what his publishers had to put upon his jacket
to sell off the remainders.
Yet even from the darkness of his prison,
he seemed to think he could rely upon
the persuasiveness of beautiful adornments
- “Always envied; often copied; never matched” (his line) -
trusting it would make him seem attractive once again, even clean.
He died the 23rd of May, 2007.
They say that night he'd tied his shirt a special way,
with a feminine flamboyance,
but it failed to impress as he intended.
In some dark hall (we don't know how) they caught him,
stripped him to the bare essentials,
leaving him undressed and cut, an ochre ugliness.
What were his final thoughts,
when all that he had left was soiled and bleeding?
What we he really needing?
Still, I'm glad I knew him,
Still call him friend, and miss him.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
She seemed to be like a delicate portrait
which had fallen from its gilded frame
Abandoned, lying face down on the cold winter floor
An elegant portrait once painted
In resplendent hues of indigo blue
Her eyes told a story of bittersweet
magenta colored sorrows bathed in tears
that etched themselves throughout
The frail intricately, woven canvas of her soul
Over time thoughtless hands had subtly
Contrived to manipulate the beauty
Of her painted portrait into a resemblance
Likened to that of a cold, chiseled statue
Carelessly molded by calloused fingers
Lancinating the fragile fragments
Of her spirit leaving her heart
With etiolated worn fabric - called her life
She dreamed of Icarus soaring down
on silvery wings of steel shrouded
in cobalt and lavender clouds
with outstretched, feathery fingers
lifting her up to dance a Stravinsky ballet
As it was meant to be - not how it was
She was a beautiful, fragile butterfly
bruised by a world much too harsh
for her diminished spirit
leaving her unable to fly away
from the skis thirsty rains
making it difficult for her to fly away
from the skis thirsty rains
It left her struggling to stay afloat
In the springs melting snow
Life had bruised her tender skin
Gnawing away like insatiable insects
On her delicate pink frescoed soul
Leaving her feeling
Like a fabricated manikin on display
For all to pose her as they may
Muddied soil was the blood that coursed
through her veins, holding her tethered heart
in fleshy, mounds of chocolate brown earth
It held her helpless in its hold
clogged by the silt which descended down
Into spaces of her soul…
Like murky strings of yellow tattered maize
Leaving their ragged tassels tangled
Throughout her life flowing veins
Choking off the blood she needed
To nourish her hungry heart
Mighty winds toppled her willowy limber tree
Snapping the delicate boughs
Of her outstretched arms
As they pulled at the tender fleshy bark of her skin
She stood cold and alone
In the icy winter night wrapped
Only in her wounded, naked flesh
With open, bleeding wounds
Under the icy blue mist of the winter moon
Her heart and soul painfully revealed...
In shades of indigo blue
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
High upon the hallowed hill,
games of war played out for greed and gain.
Bombs away, both foreign and domestic;
this is the end of all.
The hands of hate pulling the strings so tight,
watch as the puppet sings, dancing around the caucus;
this is the end.
Thread so bare you cannot see
that they're controlling you and me.
Open your eyes; behold,
this is the end.
Sever the rope, it's dragging us all to hell.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 4:40 PM UTC
3,650 days since the first time ive heard her name you think within that time frame i would know everything about her
but here's something i just noticed she's 5'4 but walks like she 4'5
its a walk with no purpose other than to get away from here
she has eyes that could light up the sky but they never leave the ground
all because 1 boy ruined her perception of beauty
it would explain why she shrugged off every compliment i gave
i tried my hardes to convicne her she was beautiful but she was convinced she was anything but
I am gonna give it one last try so you can see yourself through my eyes
just listen
theres a girl with fine hair the color of the suns glimmering rays just before sunset
with eyes so captivating that if you were handed a map , you would throw it away cuz theres no other place youd rather be lost
A smile that would make a ****** drop his spoon becuase he realized he's missing out on a greater high
lips that probably taste so sweet it makes sugar taste bitter
a body that curves in all the right places it makes a model seem like a manikin
but shes more than just eye candy
she has such a big heart because she does so much for everyone else and expects nothing in return
she has such a sense of humor that she'll laugh at a joke from a child or from a man with his mind in the gutter
she makes me believe God IS TRULY SELFLESS becuase i wouldve kept an angel like her in Heaven
So maybe youre right youre anything but beautiful because beautiful is such an original word to describe such a unique person like you
You're stunning
You're miraculous
You're drop dead goregeous
You're courageous
You're charismatic
You're Pulchritudinous , i didnt even know what the hell that meant until i realized it defined you
I wanna see you walk like you do after you just proved me wrong not like your 5'4 but like your 6'5
and after readign this you better call rehab because all i want is to see your smile
and you better realize that youve been looking in a mirror of lies , holding on to what you shouldve let go and that you finally realize what youre truly worth .. to me .... and everyone else around you
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 10:24 PM UTC
Chain link fence with barbed wire greeted the visitor to the dream.
We could not enter so we walked around Nature’s extravagant garden.
We followed a narrow thread of a trail which
stitched its way through the green fabric of the forest.
The ground, underfoot, was a jigsaw puzzle of leaves, bits of bark, and pebbles.
The air was saturated with the scent of moist evergreen compost,
a silent shout from a hillside defiant with life.
We passed trees dressed in velvety moss sporting calico patches
of green, yellow and bark.
Fronds of green were about us, everywhere—a climbing army on the hillside
taking a break from their labors.
The trail adorned itself with dainty flowers which would never know life in a vase.
Above it all stood towering sentinels guarding their occasional fallen comrades.
Their arms held multi-leveled lacy branches vibrating in the breeze, like
the fans of an exotic dancer parsing out glimpses of the sky.
At the end of our trail lay stones; abandoned enormous toy building blocks
piled imprecisely at the end of play.
Beside the stones, behind the fence, we spied silhouettes, patches of sky and trees
mirrored in emerald reflection hugged by the silently crowding undergrowth.
At center stage, a tiered gray rock supported a bridal gown of white-flowing water,
like a department store display of a June-bride manikin.
In fact it was a Sunday in June; we on the other side of the fence.
We were told that the park and the pool would not be open till the first of July.
Somehow the trees, the water, the ferns, the flowers, and my heart knew better.
J. Sandy
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
Chain link fence with barbed wire greeted the visitor to the dream.
We could not enter so we walked around Nature’s extravagant garden.
We followed a narrow thread of a trail which
stitched its way through the green fabric of the forest.
The ground, underfoot, was a jigsaw puzzle of leaves, bits of bark, and pebbles.
The air was saturated with the scent of moist evergreen compost,
a silent shout from a hillside defiant with life.
We passed trees dressed in velvety moss sporting calico patches
of green, yellow and bark.
Fronds of green were about us, everywhere—a climbing army on the hillside
taking a break from their labors.
The trail adorned itself with dainty flowers which would never know life in a vase.
Above it all stood towering sentinels guarding their occasional fallen comrades.
Their arms held multi-leveled lacy branches vibrating in the breeze, like
the fans of an exotic dancer parsing out glimpses of the sky.
At the end of our trail lay stones; abandoned enormous toy building blocks
piled imprecisely at the end of play.
Beside the stones, behind the fence, we spied silhouettes, patches of sky and trees
mirrored in emerald reflection hugged by the silently crowding undergrowth.
At center stage, a tiered gray rock supported a bridal gown of white-flowing water,
like a department store display of a June-bride manikin.
In fact it was a Sunday in June; we on the other side of the fence.
We were told that the park and the pool would not be open till the first of July.
Somehow the trees, the water, the ferns, the flowers, and my heart knew better.
J. Sandy
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
Behind store front glass is where he resides,
as millions of people come strolling on by.
The man is affixed, cannot wave his goodbyes,
and he lusts for a glare through his frothy grey eyes.
His feet, they are bare. His hair stays the same.
Long days, and long nights, he watches in shame.
He dreams of the warm, supple touch of his dame.
As hes fitted again, "This months suit!" they exclaim.
So dapper he looks, and hollow his soul.
He gives them his best, in his suit made of gold.
Still they pass by him swift, never stop to behold,
The Manikin Man, in his glass front abode.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 4:24 PM UTC
A Heart that Parts away from the chambers,That pump lies thru the veins with pain.A love that was crucified and died, sacrificed, and does behind a disguise.A mask.
That mask the past scars, the torn skin, truth ripped from the flesh left hollow and echos sorrow,
Faint in the distance, youth in the mirror,
Not in the eyes,tired of lies , eyes cry seeing human bein their nature.
Soo cruel the pool of liquor im bathin my pours soakin the reality to of depression wastin every ounce of time blazin to relieve the stress of being puzzled in a maze,
Forsaken and disturbed to see the same face awaken shaking like the floor of order.
The door of opportunity leads to another border.
Truth itself holds no water,Takin so much in becoming a mental horder,
nothing new but the struggle, and only lived a quater.
When is there change ? im in need of aspoiler,or vent.
Like im exhaust, im exhausted from many losses, im lost and losed many calls from God.
Stop stallin God hear my repent im callin, so answer.
Thats all im askin ,
im tired of being bent, broke from bein spent,
sick of the cancer, sick of abuse.
I want peace of mind, can hell call a truce? living on the edge, Im hangin, danglin , souless as a manikin, lost in the sky walkin,
High like aniken.
Im havin epiphanies, deliberately givin up my own liberty,
honestly my honesty is now nothing no one acknowledge my poverty. My truth was rich, outta this world cosmically possibly the realist to ever grace reason modestly.
BY: Emmanuel jv Hernandez
1/16/14
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
the face of a manikin
walks the city street
the face of a street
window shops
I have three cents
and hope they buy me a bed
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 2:17 PM UTC
Fortify this amazonian square,
Wherein Baldheads are anguished,
No other place can compare!!!
Amorosity, dont leaveth me to far gone,
Showeth me love,
Showeth me loving kindness,
Showeth me thine grain,
Showeth me thy fineness!!!
Fruition cometh suddenly,
Stunningly the air's wind stays chill,
Deadlock exhibitions of fan fare latitude!!!
A blade chapter of northern affair's,
How changeable is her manikin smile!!
Defilement she hath seen,
Derider,
Non abider,
Doesn't fit thy circuit scene!!!
What a dream to all whoso sleep,
Guard thy soul,
Her mind is gold,
Youll whimper as she weeps!!!
Flourisher,
Nourisher of nutriential push,
Snappish,
Pacifist,
Lover of pre schooled books!!!!
Sorceries own solvent!!!!
Dissolvent of surmise talk!!!
Your a new age Delilah thou fresh smelling pedal thou!!!!
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC
It's not pretty . . .
the longer we go without speaking the more like a doll you are
to me
a dimming figure in my mind
that I take out of a box
for pain
or entertainment
The truth
I remember only when I feel like being free
And I put my manikins away
Yours still draws or boils blood
when I lift its plastic hands
Your real hands harmlessly work far away
Do you have a manikin of me?
A face you remember to haunt you
plastic hands you lift to scratch or stroke your face?
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 10:22 PM UTC
Countless days since the first time ive heard her name you think within that time frame I would know everything about her
but here's something I just noticed she's 5'4 but walks like she 4'5
Its a walk with no purpose other than to get away from here
She has eyes that could light up the sky but they never leave the ground
All because one boy ruined her perception of beauty
It would explain why she shrugged off every compliment I gave
i tried my hardes to convicne her she was beautiful but she was convinced she was anything but
I am gonna give it one last try so you can see yourself through my eyes
Just listen
There's a girl with dark hair the color of the darkness surrounding stars just after midnight
With eyes so captivating that if you were handed a map , you would throw it away because there's no other place you'd rather be lost
A smile that would make a ****** drop his spoon becuase he realized he's missing out on a greater high
Lips that taste so sweet it makes sugar taste bitter
A body that curves in all the right places it makes a model seem like a manikin
But shes more than just eye candy
She has such a big heart because she does so much for everyone else and expects nothing in return
She has such a sense of humor that she'll laugh at a joke from a child or from a man with his mind in the gutter
She makes me believe God is truly selfless becuase I would've kept an angel like her in Heaven
So maybe you're right you're anything but beautiful because beautiful is such an original word to describe such a unique person like you
You're stunning
You're miraculous
You're drop dead goregeous
You're courageous
You're charismatic
You're Pulchritudinous , I didnt even know what the hell that meant until I realized it defined you
I wanna see you walk like you do after you just proved me wrong not like your 5'4 but like your 6'5
And after reading this you'd better kiss me because all I want is to see your smile
And you'd better realize that you've been looking in a mirror of lies , holding on to what you should've let go and that you finally realize what you're truly worth .. to me .... and everyone else around you.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 1:42 AM UTC
follow the music score
this is the real thing
not a manikin
this is a man
the real thing
Hold up your jar of light
the one I bought you
open the lid
let the sunlight out
with a prayer
a wish
a goodwill
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 4:04 PM UTC
the numbers were in and it didn't look pretty
you people surrender your minds so easily
they dumb you down and you know it
they dumb you down and you let them
but it wasn’t exactly coercion either
basically the truth is we have many souls
most of them severe critics to be evaded
where they came from nobody knows
at the dawn of time a single drop of blood
fell on Mother Nature's pouting lips
then and there she was hooked forever
on the prodigality of infinite misuse
a million wasted ***** is no way to live
each one a potential productive manikin
random selection had done its worse
evil had survived the millennia just fine
well what any breathing human knows
is they can always do better next time
the point here is to insure a next time
it appeared that the world had been flushed
down the great stinking ***** pipe again
the old school mutates into the new school
goodbye old school
you have tried to become a national holiday
that no one feels the necessity to celebrate
needless to say the faculty weren't listening
and caroused down the lane into the woods
but it was too late for regret anyhow
the old school had initiated him
into the Clan of the Goat Poet
he sees where his next thought comes from
everything filled with clues is a clue itself
blindness is the human condition
idiocy is the subhuman condition
infantilism is the transhuman condition
anthropomorphism is the...somebody stop him
needless to say he dabbled in the grotesque
on a need to know basis so it was OK
I agree a cheap eruption of demagoguery
but you can't be free by hiding in a mirror
also I've been getting complaints
about vestigial blandness lately
my lawyers ****** & Bludgeon
had counseled caution in all things
so I lapsed into a 5 year walking coma
nothing to do but leave on the right note
with a casual wave and a simple **** it
in case you were wondering
everything is the way it is
so it would be believable
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Jul 14, 2023
Jul 14, 2023 at 6:18 PM UTC
Soundlessly I creep
Into your head
Tiptoe around
Your secrets and dread
I knock upon
Your door of lies
Turn the ****
To peek inside
A humorless laugh
Escapes my lips
How had I known
The secrets you kept
I slam the door
Let my anger rage
Knowing it’d cause
An aching migraine
But it can’t compare
To the hate I feel
Just a manikin of clothes
For you to peel
I’m done with you
And you’re hurtful tricks
You are nothing to me
You son of a *****
Mar 31, 2021
Mar 31, 2021 at 7:44 PM UTC
Model cutout of a still photograph
***** with pointed *******
Attacking at my ***** hairs
like ergot on rye
almost robotic
her stare descending
As the sun from the horizon beams
brightness upon the displayed man-
nequin and I grow from manikin to
MAMMOTH
We've kissed before, with her soft velvet
body hair playing my brain like a
Kennebuc County bluegrass musician picks at his banjo
Caressing me. Attacking me. Devouring me.
Devoiding me of anyone else
The galaxy moves constant. Mankind
can not slow it down. There's a
crash-course in friendship. The
Least important word is "I". The
most important word is "we". Yes.
I remain. Nailed
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
Sitting in sweet repose
Contemplating the weighty woes
That sit heavy on the brain
Listening as rain traverses the window pane
How lonely the raindrops sound
As the wind whips them around
Cold filters through the glass skin
And a shiver forms within
Can’t see the stars tonight
And there is no sliver of moonlight
Storm clouds have blackened the night sky
Then lightning strikes, a flash of firefly
Heart beats with the thunder boom
And another flash lights the room
A laugh gives thanks to be alive
I feel the sense of me revive
As I step into the water deluged air
The static crackles across my hair
Dancing with abandoned joy
I become natures favourite toy
A puppet playing to natures strings
As the thunder drum booms and lightning sings
Feeling the power of life coursing within
Happiness fills this living human manikin
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 11:55 AM UTC
We could bathe
In physical truth
Perhaps we do
Neat or distilled
Drip fed
Like water
In its any forms
Placeless on periodic table
Truth softened
In our fragility
Hardened
By others resilience
Worn by the face of a manikin
At peace within the world
If that’s what you wish it to be
Apr 20, 2025
Apr 20, 2025 at 11:57 AM UTC
the wings of mind have failed
there is nothing left
a husk a manikin
a doll with glass eyes
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
Where the air is rarefied
you will catch me peeking
holding my breath lest
I give myself away, again
and I be your manikin.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
She stands outside the shop
Contra Natura,
On Rua Dos Correeiros.
I just happen to see while watching the Brazil match,
The fans in yellow rushing to the square...Park do Comerico
Leaning against the green tiled facade,
Cigarette in her left hand.
Dressed in faded grey jeans,
Black jumper, ***** sneakers,
She is beautiful.
The shop display holds a blindfolded manikin,
Dog collar and lead.
See through plastic underpants,
He looks happy.
She draws on her gauloises
Looks to her left.
And with a look of distain,
Dismisses that reality.
In her annual review,
Her boss Mr Costa has demanded,
That she sells more whips,
Beautifully she looks at him with same dismissal.
In her garret on Rua Da Madalena,
She reads Fernando Pessoa.
Cigarette in the left hand,
A glass of Douro red to her right,
Leg draped over a worn armchair.
This is her real life,
A world devoid of the Slavery of work.
Life and Slavery,
Two ships passing unknown,
Unrecognised,uncommunicative.
Her soul is an orchestra,
I can't decern the instruments.
Harps, piano, drums don't know,
I can only see the music.
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 11:07 AM UTC