"mannequins" poems
I want to beat you to death with a blunt object.
I want to grab one of those high-end fashion mannequins by the ankles and bash your ribcage in.
I want to sharpen fifty pencils, bind them with a rubber band, stick the lead ends in your mouth, and punch the erasers.
I want to strap you to a bed of nails and then strap that bed of nails to the hood of my car so I can watch you suffer as we drive over speed bumps in a mall parking lot during an earthquake.
I want to burn your dog in front of you, mix his ashes with gunpowder, melt his bone-shaped name tag into a small metal ball, load it all into a musket, and shoot you in the face with him.
I want you to somehow survive a terrible car crash and then somehow not survive a small fender ****** on the way back from the hospital.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.
Cold as snow breath, it tamps the womb
Where the yew trees blow like hydras,
The tree of life and the tree of life
Unloosing their moons, month after month, to no purpose.
The blood flood is the flood of love,
The absolute sacrifice.
It means: no more idols but me,
Me and you.
So, in their sulfur loveliness, in their smiles
These mannequins lean tonight
In Munich, morgue between Paris and Rome,
Naked and bald in their furs,
Orange lollies on silver sticks,
Intolerable, without mind.
The snow drops its pieces of darkness,
Nobody's about. In the hotels
Hands will be opening doors and setting
Down shoes for a polish of carbon
Into which broad toes will go tomorrow.
O the domesticity of these windows,
The baby lace, the green-leaved confectionery,
The thick Germans slumbering in their bottomless Stolz.
And the black phones on hooks
Glittering
Glittering and digesting
Voicelessness. The snow has no voice.
28 January 1963
20.6k
I want to beat you to death with a blunt object
I want to get one of those high end fashion mannequins grab them by the ankles and bash your ribcage in
I want to sharpen 5 pencils, bind them with a rubber band, put them in your mouth and punch the erasers
I want to strap you to a bead of nails then strap that bed of nails to the hood of my car so I can watch you suffer as we drive over speed bumps on a mall parking lot during an earthquake
I want you to somehow survive a terrible car crash and somehow not survive a small fender ****** on the way back from the hospital
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 5:11 AM UTC
I am sitting at a desk,
back straight, head forward, eyes open. Blink.
Economics melts into white noise as
supply curves become demand curves become supply curves, elasticity.
Water weeps through the crevasses of the windows and ceiling,
mocking my ever fragile existence.
Ankle deep in yesterday's cold forgotten words unsaid,
the lesson advances.
Demand curves become supply curves become demand curves, consumer surplus.
A single drop christens my desk and terror fills my long hollow eyes
as the ceiling mutates into a congregation of puddles.
Rain that felt of hydrochloric acid
dissolved the very flesh I tried to escape.
God is not so sweet when it comes to sinners,
confining me to the barriers of an insignificant wooden desk.
The class remains like mannequins,
indifference radiating from their plastic cores.
Supply curves become demand curves become supply curves, externalities.
The only witness to this nightmare,
my last breathe finally deserts me.
I tense as the numbing waves climb up my spine,
injecting lethargy in each individual vertebra.
Malicious tentacles wrap around my throat and water floods my collapsing black lungs.
White noise consumes the entire classroom as I float in and out of paralysis,
only to open my eyes. Blink.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
I adore women
I refuse to apologize for it
I like the way their voices squeak in the upper registers
I like the fashions
I like the makeup
I like the aromas
Not the silly runway catwalk Biz that relegates them as awkward mannequins
adorns them in the impractical
and cloaks them in the absurd overreaching of the tired clamoring for something
new and unique
that which exploits their lithesome anorexic perplexing job requirement
I like the way they can shape shift, alter and assume new identities
I like the fact that some have mood swings and ***
I marvel that they can give birth
I like being aware that their 'water-weight' make's them grumpy
I'm astonished that they innately ovulate with the cycles of the moon
and that the Huntress Diana inherently acquired her namesake
Doesn't bother me a bit that "it's a lady's prerogative to be late"
or that opening a door for them is considered 'sexist'
I was raised with a sister and a mother
with lace and dainty frilly things
I caused them a lot of aggravation and consternation
I think they enjoyed it - nonetheless
somewhat
I refuse to apologize for it
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
Set fire to the Antique Shop,
We’re one step ahead of the cops.
Mannequins of Elvis begin to melt.
Free from past matters; free from guilt.
Promoting the prosperity
As we hoard hostility
Androids ambushing Arkansas,
They seek to find ménage trois.
Achieving self-awareness
They want fill the void’s emptiness
Chugging R & R by the fifths.
By our thumbnails we dangle off cliffs.
Thread by thread, the veil unfolds.
Standing all alone, I’m left in the cold.
Show me how much you care.
Push me in my wheelchair.
Listening to what drives you crazy
Eventually helps you stop being lazy.
Lilly is spinning me dizzy
She belongs to the world of yesterday
The haze is now fading away.
If only I could stay
for just one day
But Behold
I feel you should be told
I have come from the end
When the Earth is condemned.
As I tell the tall tale,
How we came to live in hell,
once we found the holy grail.
“We overcame our fear
The classified was made clear.
We launched all the nukes,
By order of the Skywalker named Luke.
The framers were lousy architects;
They left the balance completely hectic.
The CEO’s got away with fraud.
Thinking their work was the will of God.”
I met you in the gloomiest bar.
We speed across the town in my car.
Questioning why we remained silent.
The flickering florescent light compliment
The tone of shallow yellow paint,
I can finally hibernate.
After I left the oblivious,
Do I finally notice,
It’s hesitation that leads
me astray from redemption.
TJW 2013
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 6:14 AM UTC
Imagine alchemist and doctors brought life to mannequins
Question: will we pay them for wearing fashionable trends
Or will they forever be enslaved from beginning to end?
I speak on this because history shows the unfairness of men.
I speak on this because hatred still exist like sin.
Be free mannequin
Be free
What will be the social contract for new life that appear aware
Remember ...
Great Cesar's ghost/ Rise of the planet of the apes -escapes.
Cesar got lock up and spoke signs with an orangutang/ the long arm ape. That was pure sci fi at its best, I mention that movie because I can see the first mannequin arrest.
News at 10:00
Mannequins protest.
Be free mannequin
Be free
Who was meant to be here
You!?
How about you?
Social structure brings forth /false indivisibility.
Segregation because of plastic skin
Sophism due to those who can't see pass what's within.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 8:40 PM UTC
I am not yours to fix.
As broken as I am.
As tired as I may be.
As many flaws as I have.
I'm not yours to fix.
My flaws make me who I am.
Without them, I'd just be a mannequin.
Mannequins are pretty.
I'm real.
And I'm not yours to fix.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
I have spent most of my life
walking through department stores.
I have come to feel that
Bill Blass, Ralph Lauren, and Calvin Klein
are close friends.
I ride the escalators for exercise.
I have become a professional cologne tester.
I check my credit rating daily;
American Express knows me
by my first name.
I have been married and divorced three times--
to two mannequins and a sales clerk.
I got stuck once in a revolving door
during the entire "Summer Madness" sale.
During annual clearance I inadvertently
got marked down to $42.50,
but due to inflation,
I have regained my worth.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 5:43 PM UTC
parents telling you one thing
and the internet insisting another
brainwashed bobbleheads of corruption
lies stained with the tropical freshness of 5 gum
everything is a bore, and nothing excites anymore
blank faces, straight mouths, eyes half open
the generation morphed into mannequins
faces glued to apple contraptions
the struggle to express emotion and wondering why
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 10:00 PM UTC
Night beckons to strange people.
Actually, if you can accept this premise,
then the mind makes everyone strange.
And still yet, there is something specific about darkness,
I cannot put my finger on it,
that sends odd sparks of real life
on a mission to city street corners.
I hide in my car after leaving the café
with the hope of seeing, "The Pigtailed Man."
This isn't his name.
However, I need say no more to any stranger
for him to envision my character.
We objectify him and his image becomes clear
even when spotted in narrowed alleyway darkness.
He has a beautiful wife
with locks past her shoulder
of auburn and lillies,
and two wonderfully bright children
who sit on his knee when listening
to nighty-night, bedtime stories.
Their ringing laughter illuminates
the darkest corners of their happy home.
They'll never know why he needs
to go bye-bye at dangerous evening hours,
hunting sour scowls from passers-by.
He's unkempt: legs unshaven, chin covered
by midnight shadow, beer belly hanging over his
plaid picnic-basket red schoolgirl skirt,
and his face sags as if a topical novocaine
was applied generously to his chubby, rosy cheeks.
Upon seeing his aimless strut
and dead-to-self eyes, I wonder: Where does he dress?
Does he put his outfit on from plastic grocery bag
around the block from the lamp-lit looks of
the neighbors' friendly daytime greetings?
More importantly, if I were friend
and was to catch him in the act,
would I say anything?
Darkness calls out the most intriguing creatures.
We're afraid to call them "human beings,"
because being human most certainly
does not look like this.
Or, does it not look like this?
Shadows claw walls around all
because not one body projects light.
There are some who know, and some who appease.
The pigtails hang to his knees as he stares
at the mannequins of pretty women
in the window of the closed department store.
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 4:05 AM UTC
You felt a Monster
when your Hamster Wolverine died
Did that almost turn your head to Sylvia Plath
Yet you are decidedly amongst the living
and should never pilgrim with Mannequins
When Life's bedevilled by doubt
can your wise friend find rhyme with you
perhaps to Scarborough and back again
on some weekend decider.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 10:39 AM UTC
Running North,
aura lights
are taking me home.
Six feet underground.
Pine box mannequins,
all done up dead and pretty.
Morticians's pride,
a job well done.
Such a shame,
it was a closed-casket
viewing.
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 11:40 AM UTC
man leisured by the least obliging functioning
of what he terms “proper” manual endeavours of the biceps
will clearly resolve the matter being his last adventure that’s consumerism,
creating as many menial jobs as possible without the freedom
to enjoy hardish and the elements;
but of course man’s life will become easier,
but his adventure seeking will
simply become a zoology, a safari,
a safety netting - consumerism is hardly
an adventure, it’s a bicycle schematic:
one wheel produces, another wheel consumes;
most of the jobs under the hammer
were not menial, they became menial
only when heidegger’s hammer was involved
and the rebellion came when hammering nails
in turned into discussing philosophy;
it’s hard to commence an emergence of philosophy
window shopping, woman’s new kitchen area:
you know how many marriages i have seen fail
because of over-cooked pasta? too many.
you know how many glass houses i’ve seen constructed
by women peering into shop windows at mannequins?
too many. i sometimes think about sartre’s c.c.t.v. voyeurism
pervasive in english society alongside paedophilia,
and i guess the jigsaw parts fit... they do;
once dubbed the nation of shopkeepers,
now dubbed the nation of integrally ~foreign mortgage lenders
(nation of property developers / landlords... indeed,
once a nation of shopkeepers, now a nation of landlords):
or a nation re-evaluating communism
by importing slavs to talk of the ups and lows of communism
by trying to curb capitalistic egoism and turn it into a collective
without communism’s egoism father stalin:
or queen bee or queen ant china.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
bored faced, roaming the neon panels
I've got my backpack & wallet
I've got my self
25% off faces looking bored at me
weird convo's about the government
and TV shows litter the bell jar mall
the mannequins look down at me
bored faced janitor
bored faced mom & kids
bored faced teenager working the CD store
the infinity mall echoes
a muffled boredom roar
the mall is everything to everyone
"whatever you want"
"how can I help you"
I want to go home right now
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
/ conversation over a bbq dinner
being given the information
over a new M.I. movie..
i really think tom cruise
should have won an oscar for -
born on the 4th of july...
without bias,
but given the oscar award for
the grunting and heaving,
and minimal dialogue / monologue
of leonardo's the revenant?
the world is a cul de sac...
and what remains of it...
is a shitshow worth, of a congested street
with nothing but, paupers /
window-shoppers to be lined up;
mannequins coming alive
and taking to disco dancing
the hell out of having donned
a boney m afro;
drunk, squinty eyed...
looking around, surmising my
thought with... huh?!
it's a good thing i'm this good at
drinking, never having dropped acid.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 10:38 PM UTC
Do you ever feel like you just don't fit in
to all the cracks and cliques
that society puts you in.
Or do you ever slightly fear being fully yourself,
scared of the raised eyebrows and curious eyes
that
dig
dig
dig into your timid soul..
I try and solve this by putting up walls made of paper
that slowly turn to concrete, a roof, a cave, a den, a house,
away away on a hill side,
so that they can't get in or smell or see
the beast that they've made of me.
For they love to toss me two and fro
with words and chatter. *Vulchers * of
'Why do you look, talk, dress like that'
There mouths like open caves I can see there teeth,
rotten and decaying.
Graves stones.
I don't want to explain
I don't want to talk
I walk away alone
and peer through windows
watching them silently turn to stone,
mannequins of each other
letting my spirit grow.
-
To me it means sacrifice
to hide who I am
never
For I'll find people
who know and understand
what its like to be
ostracized
beaten,
battered,
and
killed over and over again,
all for just wanting to live,
for just wanting to be human.
People forget we are all human.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
Vapid people
dribbling vapid shxt.
A society of fxck-eyed,
drunken infants
debating politics memorised
from Fox News.
We, the awakened,
plastering social media
with doll-faced mannequins
captioned with some Eastern Philosophy
we read in Cosmo,
enhanced with a filter
titled "Who The **** Is Lao Tzu?"
Comments read: goals af.
(Insert emoji here)
And praise the Indigo Children!
It's a true gift indeed
to talk about activism
until blue in the face.
My, what a spiritual hue, are you.
Are you?
A generation of craft makers,
weaving their way
through the alcoholic labyrinth,
drawing the Hungover Man
from a Rider Waite tarot deck,
for another episode of Dull and Duller
next weekend.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 1:28 AM UTC
first the eyes, then the cheeks goes too;
**** Too much gloss, do it again!*
this pants seems to be a little tight;
Look at that fleshy lard filled stomach!
look down, you begin to see the said horror;
They steal you bit by bit, the voice ---
Static, from Magazines and Expectations.
you are getting confused, your thoughts and theirs
*No! that is too much for lunch--*
breakfast, snack, dinner, everything!
the words becomes ruthless and unrelenting
**** in that FAT stomach!**
Don't Rest! More! More Sit-ups! More Time!
your mind, your own, no more;
a personal torture chamber.
all the time -- Listen to Me.
Listen to The Static.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
The clothes on a perfectly sculpted mannequin
do not accentuate the garment's beauty.
Rather, it hollows it, makes it unwholesome
and outlines all the more clearly how empty it truly is
to the point where one forgets what one is looking at.
Like a vague pronoun.
The human mind, the decent soul, cannot and should
not be subjected to such a ********** and feels inhumanly
compelled to destroy the effect.
And that is why mannequins are so good for sales.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 3:05 PM UTC
#NoMakeUp
Chic lookin' like death,
with her dyed platinum blond hair,
her fake silicone **** and all that make up,
over dressed like Halloween **** girl I'm scared,
the less you wear,
the less impressed I am,
you get dressed up just to get messed up,
smoke a cigarette then get your teeth whitened,
you get done up glam,
just to get run up in,
when,
in the world was it ever okay,
to,
disrespect yourself that way?
Getting fckt by strangers,
without getting money or commitments,
that means you're like a **********
a ********** that's not even good at business,
you're a despicable disgrace,
to the entire female race,
you wear all that cover-up,
because you've got Krocodil face,
that's Krocodil with a 'K',
better get it straight,
the kind from Russia,
that will eat your face,
eat your whole face off,
face it,
the facts are basic,
real women look way better without any fake make-up.
The only reason you need it,
is because you don't see this,
plus you fill your stomach,
with fast food *****
you're going down in flames,
what was your name Halley Comet?
Saving money on food,
so you can buy cosmetics,
maybe if you changed your diet,
you wouldn't need cosmetics,
there's nothing romantic,
about cosmetics,
cosmetics cause cancer,
don't you get it?
More vegetables,
less processed cheese,
and your face won't look,
like it's got a disease,
please,
remember these words,
real women look better without any make-up,
without all those name brands we're all naked,
believe whatever you want to,
but these words will still be true...
So stop dying,
your hair to death,
and trying,
to get the guys to stare at your breast,
you are,
so much more beautiful naturally,
and if you,
go natural well actually,
you might find,
a man who loves your mind,
a man that truly loves you,
for who you are inside.
and I promise this,
in all honestness,
no man will ever fall in love,
with a woman because of the size of her breast,
or the color of her hair,
or the brand of her dress,
no real man will ever really care,
whether your outfit is Versace or Guess,
because good men care about the real you,
not fake fashion brand names,
you are not a cow nor are you cattle,
so why would you want a label branding?
And I promise this,
in all honestness,
that this is,
honest honestness.
Real men fall in love with real women,
because of who they really are,
not who they pretend to be,
real men fall in love with real women,
because they love her soul's avatar,
and her divine femininity…
So let your hair grow,
back out to it's natural color,
if you honestly want,
to find a natural lover,
and save your self,
for those special lovers,
that are truly deserving,
of all of your natural wonders,
leave the fake hair,
for the fakers,
leave the toners,
for the loners,
leave the make up and fake dyes,
for the hookers and transvestites,
you,
are beautiful,
without,
the manicured cuticles,
you are beautiful,
just the way you naturally are,
there's no need to alter yourself,
with some silicone and scars.
Just be beautiful Beautiful,
there is no need to pretend,
and leave the makeup and fake body parts,
for the trannies and mannequins... ∆
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 3:16 PM UTC
There is a beetle on the high street,
pushing the sun along at a fraction-
0f-a-mile-per-hour. He is pondering
his plans for the summer.
Perhaps different venues?
Perhaps different dung?
But he knows it's all foolishness.
He never goes anywhere.
Then a god falls out of the sky.
Not a particularly large one,
a medium-sized god as far as
they go. Roughly human-
shaped. Not counting those
streaming banners of fire
that pour from his eyes.
Few humans have burning eyes.
A dagger drips from an open
wound and he clenches his
blood (it is his own blood) in his hand.
More are coming he realizes.
All of them. And he's quite
correct. Without trumpets or
lights or choruses or bowls or
scrolls, it starts to rain.
The beetle pauses in his
pilgrimage to survey the
man underneath the god's feet.
A hand in a crater of asphalt
with a keen, nigh-inaudible
wheeze of breath. A cough
and a choke.
And the beetle scuttles on.
They fall from clouds that aren't,
I mean, actually in the sky. They crush
buildings and businessmen, They
eat fountains. They descend into an
unthinkable and unthinking
age like a dizzied chorus that cannot
pick up on the beat. Purple sash
and green helm, They build mountains.
Teeth chip around the clay- the men
and women- like fireworks.
The gods' great works resolve
like a finished slider puzzle, like the
back of the sun. Mannequins watch
the moving marble for a moment.
But the Mutes eventually find a voice,
they shout, they run into the fray.
Tantalus' mouth fills with
wine. The beetle walks around his
head. Sisyphus' back was broken
by a boulder. The poor little fellow
descends into an inferno and
climbs the devil's back like a
Purgative mountaineer. Such struggle,
thinks he, to have to take a detour.
Sky sets fire to the shell pink
sun at night.
The liquid spheres engulf ideas
on a dry stretch of ocean.
Clouds splinter in a victor's hands,
are frozen shut.
and everything sinks back home
in the middle of a wor
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 2:32 PM UTC
Cell phone shield in hand,
the mirror-me peers
into a shoddy, cracked up
dream reflector-slash-protector
as I make amends with
my agitated mitochondria and
attempt to drill miniscule holes into
paper dolls without ripping them.
So screams the wall hanging!
Banshees dance, falling
into cyclical romances as
cream colored microphones peek
out around one-way windows wondering
whether or not the smiles will hold.
Eyes still,
eyes wrinkles crinkling,
spit spray sprinkling.
Connect to the dreamers.
Push your plug into
my cracking wall sockets,
pull me apart at the seams.
So cries the doorstopper!
Knees bleed from
street corner séances
and eyes green grass
that's afraid to ask
where its clover went
but heavens, it's bent for hell.
Pray tell me, burping chickadee,
when did your teeth glass over
with a film of cerulean and
your bones start sailing
through tepid reminders that
you may end this life a failure,
swallowing Uncle Ben's rice packet trash
at the dark black bottom of the Pacific?
So sighs the statue!
Broken walkie talkies
feed red back to nothing
and knick knack hoarders note
the familiar festering of deadly bacteria
in the lungs and on the
tippy top of the tongue.
Space cadets rocket
through concrete jungles containing
apartment after
apartment after
apartment filled with
mannequins filled with
sand filled with
unevenly severed hands.
So speaks the ornament!
So declares the dashboard decal!
Sensual scholarly seekers
seem so totally hip
and read feminist poetry
to dispel the myths
and spit on the irony.
I won't dare to flatter you
with the focused attention of stone
or allow the personable picture frame
to make the secrets of
the microscopic universe known.
So suggests the ship siren!
So recites the repository!
Empty yourself into me,
adopt a new philosophy,
abandon in within two weeks
so I can see and you can seep,
your fluttering robin heart to keep
and glaciers to arrive upon
a salty brown eternal sleep.
Deliver me to the melting shopping mall!
The centennial fire alarm goes off
at the tip of the cliff,
at the end of the hall.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
I once went to Auschwitz, dove in the shoes.
Saw bunch of mannequins in bomb shelters from the fifties.
the house wives listened to blues.
Saw Vietnam Memorial, passed out, ** Chi Min Got hot in d.c.
Cold War cold cuts were all the news, sewing old men toupees in our weaves.
Walked trenches through Germany in mustard gas rainclouds
Saw, **** between Trotsky and Lenin, before he was a mummy.
Listened to George Bush shake Barrack Obama's hand, we are free now.
Caught world war three on the midnight news tele.
In Shambala Destiny, Chocolate covered rose petals,
From the end of the space shuttles kettle.
Boil over tipping point, all your fighting is over.
The air hangs of hung weird folk.
We can hate everyone, but ourselves.
Each moment in history had some one to hate,
Statist tend to do that to opposing encroaching States.
WE get to own the slaves, the cows of neck tie collars,
Oligarchy of patriarchical, man meat, manipulative, demagogic, isolationist, miscreant, pro-government pseudo-capitalist, state CORPORATION dollars.
Join the army old men. You hold a gun like a limp ****
You gotta hold mine to my head, Cause money ain't doin' Viagra's trick.
I jump from a painting of war veteran spiritualism.
I give no glory to people fighting for my freedom.
I hate violence, no one will ever FIGHT for MY freedom.
I am Freedom.
No state can make me that way.
No gun in my hand will change evil men.
My words must be my gun.
No one will hold my weapon.
Evil is evil, you cannot change its face through plastic surgery, Prozac, religion, or painting any other name on true morals.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC