.
                        Puppet
                   Puppeteer Pu
                  Puppeteer Pup
                  Puppeteer Pupp
                    Puppeteer Pu
                    ppeteer Pupp
                     eteer Puppete
                     er Puppeteer
                     Puppeteer Pu
                      ppeteer Pupp
                      eteer Puppete
                      er Puppeteer
                      Puppeteer Pu
                      ppeteer  Pupp
                     eteer Puppeteer  
              Puppeteer     Puppeteer
          PuppeteerPup peteer Pupp
            eteerPuppet    teerPuppet
               Puppet            Puppet

The puppeteer is the fool,
delivering drugs like a mule,
unaware of his crime,
he will pay a price of time.

The puppeteer approaches his boss,
in a room with some moss.
A man with two tears tattooed on his face,
holds out the his gross overpay and hands him mace.

The Puppeteer walks with what he believes is just cheats,
not hearing the sound of foot beats.
to late to block,
he is clocked.

The puppeteer protects what is his,
the boy beats him without a single miss,
out comes his hero in a baseball cap,
threatening the boy he tries to leave the map.

The puppeteers pride is damaged,
and takes the bat hitting his atter leaving him in bandages.
paying off the right people the man with tear tattoo's
make all the charges become taboo.

The puppeteer reads the news,
the boy he attacked might be set a new,
sitting by the rail on valentines day,
his friend approaches with a blush like a bae.

The puppeteer hears the boy say love,
he pushes his into the wall not wanting to be his dove,
though secretly he feels different,
and his hero can tell and kisses him not ashamed he is indifferent.

The puppeteer panics he is set a miss
for he never expected to receive a kiss,
he shoves him off and yells queer,
his heart is set with fear.

The puppeteer sees him sit down next to him,
his girlfriend near he won't mention it  Kim,
looking for justice an older brother show up,
though he is ignored as his opponent sips from a cup.

The puppeteer hears a shot be fired,
he realises he is deaths desire,
when all went black,
his eyes open to see the gunman be pushed a back.

The puppeteer smiles for he has won,
till his hand touched someone,
looking to the side their lies the hero,
and the puppeteers sanity hits zero.

Complete our dream that is his last call,
before the hero's eyes will fall.
an unmarked grave is mentioned through my rhyme,
nothing can heal the heart not even time.

One goal is set in mind,
and he will accomplish it in do time,
to become an artist of the written word,
only then can the puppeteer become a bird.

The puppeteer lives no more,
for now he closes the past's door.

This world was gripped by a puppeteer. He saw us all but deemed me our William Shakespeare. I was the poet, the world had to blow it. I was the artist, they weren't the smartest. I was the dreamer, they weren't believers, and I was the inventor, now they're no longer in the center.

The world was gripped by a puppeteer, but he looked at me and deemed me his sightseer. I was the psychic, the rest of the world had gone a little seismic. I was the vision, they couldn't come to a decision. I was the future, they needed some sutures and I was the wise one, but oh this world's a loaded gun.

The world was gripped by a puppeteer. He was their commandeer. He ordered the world to drown in flames, but they thought he was just playing games. Then he pulled his invisible strings, and from his chessboard began pulling corrupted kings.

Gold and silver rained upon the world, and blood and bones piled in the underworld. The little children just up and curled, and the madness hidden in the world began to just unfurl.

Gray skies couldn't hide the lies, broken kingdoms fell to the flies. The puppeteer had gripped the world, and oh how their sanity just twirled, oh, welcome to the new world. The world was gripped by a puppeteer, now all the baddies have to disappear.

Save us all, oh save us all. That's exactly what you'll do, my dear little puppeteer. 'Cuz as long as I'm pulling the strings, you'll always be doomed to stay here.

Save us all, oh save us all. That's exactly what I'll do, my dear little puppet. Oh it's gonna be you, you'll save us from the corrupted, but it's really me.

It'll be me, I'll be the one to save us all. I'm the real key, you're all under my thrall. 'Cuz as long I'm here, I'm pulling the strings. My little puppeteer, oh it's me, I'm the king of kings.

my heart tears, it is ripped out of me, as if it was nothing
your wicked mind, your impish smile, your evil eyes
i am the puppet, and you are the puppeteer to your sick games
your words swirl around my head, intoxicating me
until i am my own no more, i am yours to control
every time you let go i run with fear, and disgust
i tell myself i will never return to this life
yet i always come back, i have no idea what to do with out you
you are my puppeteer, and i am your puppet
i let you play your sick games with me
your lies enchant me, making me helpless to your wrath
making me beg for you every time we touch
you are my drug, i am addicted to you
your kiss gets me high, your touch makes me fly
yet when your gone i get thrown back into reality
i sit here yearning for you, pining for you to return to me
i have no idea what to do without you
for i am your puppet, and  you are my puppeteer

Puppet, puppet,
dance to my whim.
Squirm under string,
and bend to my will.

Puppet, puppet,
hear my call.
Listen only to my word,
and never anything more.

Puppet, puppet,
ever breaking.
Your strings will snap,
and you will fall.

Puppet, puppet,
where have you gone?
Who am I
without my marionette?

Puppeteer, puppeteer,
where did you
get your strings?
who do you dance for?

So skillful with strings of silk
Give the world an illusion of life
Seeming to move like me
Seeming to look like me
Mr. Puppeteer
Elegant in his wrists
Passion dripping from his finger tips
All knowing of expectations
The show of a lifetime
Only let's you see it once
Mr. Puppeteer
I saw your silk covered chains
Shouldn't have painted my eyes with such life
I touched your elegant wrists
Shouldn't have made them so cold
I tasted the passion from your fingertips
Tastily sour, unsettling
Illusion of life only works if controlled
Funny, your smile was painted on too
Mr. Puppeteer
I see the holes in your limbs
See the dangle of your legs
Why are your eyes wiped away
You couldn't get away either

you hold me on wires by my spine like i'm a puppet and you're the puppeteer,
the wires dancing out of orbit as similar as power lines wrestling a storm or
electrons that are never at a certain point at any time. your misaccuracy
reminds me of a pinpoint on a map because it never touches the destination
on point, and i absorb the attention you provide like polymer gel ***** with
water, but you are the most unstable puppeteer i've ever known, smiling
through smoke and blindfolding me covering me in black and blue camoflauge
throwing me in the fire, drowning me in the deep depths of the ocean,
and laughing as i sink in denial and crave the inevitable let down

- kra

you say I'm mister right
but I'm mister one night
then I really got to go
you say I'm a lover
but baby I'm a fighter
and I don't want my wounds to show
well I can't be who you want me to be
and it's driving me out of control
but I can't can't break free
beacause I'm a slave to thee
so I'm traveling the underground railroad

well I'm not your little puppet
and your not my puppeteer
I'm not some realization of your imagination
this has got to end right here...

you say I'm prince charming
and my looks are disarming
and you wouldn't change a thing
you said you'd love me
unconditionally
but there's conditions on everything
well I can't stand your double standards
your passive aggression,
how you sweetly slander
my good name... drives me insane
you had my heart but it was all in vain

well I'm not your little puppet
and your not my puppeteer
I'm not some realization of your imagination
this has got to end right here...

Hello mister puppeteer
Just a lonely puppet here
My strings are tangled
Nothing intact
I truly need you
Something I lack

Hello mister puppeteer
Just the same old puppet here
I lie here broken
Bent out of place
Am I pleading
To empty space

Hello mister puppeteer
Just the unloved puppet here
My paint is chipping
My smiles cracked
You just hate me
Now that's a fact

Hello mister puppeteer
Just a dying puppet here
You have ignored me
Left me alone
Your true colors
Have really shown

Hello mister puppeteer
Just a happy puppet here
Soon pain will leave me
I'll be embraced
By the nothing
My grave awaits

i couldn't never write a book, sorry, a novel, i'd hate to become a puppeteer, someone who attempts to play chess, a fiddling and bothersome shadow-baron (schattenbaron)... imaginary "friends" is not my thing, plus... i don't have an exact elastic approach to heidegger's compliments concerning poets: i only like heidegger because he likes poets, **** me, he elevates poets to the stature of philosophers when language "things" are made necessary... i.e. (and verbatim) - language - only if speech has acquired the highest univocity of the word does it become strong for the hidden play of its essential multivocity (as withdrawn from all "logic"), of which poets and thinkers alone are capable... welcome! welcome! to plato's republic! Brennus & Alaric welcome you, quiet fondly depicted by Joseph-Noël Sylvestre... and when the Huns pushed the leaders Fritigern and Alavivus into the eastern empire to settle... and emperor Valens... that's history for you: a cascade of: and and and and and and... sometimes a p.s., but mostly the and and and of causality... facts come barging in, you forage... but thanks to heidegger: the poets have earned their graces... and can return to the republic... as wordsmiths... i mean, was i ever to think of myself as a french dada dandy? frivolous and superfulous raconteur / racketeer? poet or philosopher, that's beside the point, the point being: i'm not a novelist... i don't like dealing with language that chokes that i rely on mostly and that mostly being: i like the idea of a raw vocabulary... i'm more of a butcher than an artist... i like the rawness of an inverted crossword puzzle... in my "trade"... there are no clues, whether synonymous or antonymous, in this spaghetti of: ex nihil factum sermo (out of nothing came the word)... poetry, of all places, allows this form of unadulterated nibbling at raw vocabulary... bypassing the standard g.c.s.e.: overt-scrutiny of poetics... i never like that... a 5/ 7/ 5 syllable haiku poem should never be preserved for its essay-worthiness to extend into 2000 words in a school exam... poetry strapped to pedagogy is... less heavily censored, more... over-scrutinized... you're not supposed to think in terms of poetry: you're supposed to, feel... and since when has feeling become so overrated, so despsised? oh... when people "learned" to feel, prior to learning to think... you really have to learn to think, prior to learning how to feel... if you ask someone from the orient, they'd counter the western perception of placing thinking / "reason" on the top of the pyramid with horus' eye as emblem... to learn to feel: is to learn to how to not think, while to think? it's to learn how to not feel... pretty simple, no? not really... neither approaches should be underrated, they should be understood better... who the hell needs, or wants, to be an apathetic brain-in-a-pickle-jar zombie: constantly engaging with a dialectic? then again... who wants to be a heart in an electric chair constantly bamboozled into pointless reactions? so i'm more of a butcher than a "poet", i simply appreciate the raw realism of cutting pieces of the tongue that extends into the brain's fathomability - and that overrated visual ******* of dreaming most people associate themselves with... but that's beside the point... i really appreciate days akin to this one, humid as in the concrete basin of Beijing while europe is frying in the African plume... no thanks, no, me go to Greenland or the Faroes Islands... do i look like a ******* ******* / camel jockey? why do i have limited respect for islam? i once watched a video of a saudi with an european bride... sitting on oil was both a blessing... and a curse... muhammad would whip some of these saudi brats silly... but of all days... when i get to work my magic in the kitchen, and make the most superior food in the whole wide world? blue indian cuisine: i call them blue indians and not red soxs because: come on... the raj... and that polytheism that doesn't want to disappear... h'americans can boast all they want: the steak, the hamburger, the hot dog, the pizza... n'ah... n'ah mate... it's either curry or you're chewing chicken bones, ******* out the marrow... indian cuisine is superior... i love the days when i cook up two curries... it feels like being back in edinburgh, walking into the joseph black building, the perfumes of sulphur and wood, the 12 hour experiments it would take us to conjure up an ester... esters? bases for the perfume industry... that' the grand thing about cooking a curry... you start to feel like a chemist once more... the two curries? a tikka masala: sure, an easy adventure... marinating the chicken what not... the real fun came with the malvani... blitzing the masala up: a bay leaf, half a nutmeg, 4 / 5 cloves, 7 dried chillies, 10 peppercorns, a cinnamon stick, cumin seeds, coriander seeds, chilly powder, turmeric powder... and that's just the malvani masala... the cocunut masala... ****... only two green chillies... how to get the right colour? ah... blitz up some coriander stalks... garlic and ginger... milk to get the whizz-kid on the job... it's superior cuisine, indian cuisine... it reminds me of a being in a chemistry lab at edinburgh... doing organic experiments... mind you: it's more fun, the environment is less sterile... even my mother said: you're stinking up the place, you're worse than the sikhs two doors down... so... why would i visit an indian restaurant, or indulge myself in an indian take-away, if i can mimic? i see no point... there is no other cuisine on the planet as good as what could come from either Goa or New Delhi... the colours, the perfume of the spices... by now a hamburger, pizza or hot-dog are staples or both humble beginnings and even more humbled ends... i've found my 1st to none passion... and with a afghani naan bread... and with rice infused with turmeric... tiresome ponce schemes of duck a l'orange... spaghetti this that and the other... one bias... though... scandinavian treatment of raw herrings... in cream sauce... i'm a sucker for those herrings like i'm a sucker for pop music... the added zing of the herrings' rawness out-competes the bland sushi manifesto... eating one of these herrings in a cream sauce... has the complimentary sensation, very much akin to performing oral *** on a woman... oysters are beyond the marker of metaphor / literal association... well: hello today!

I.

i'm starting to suspect, that one of the...
"supposed" stars...
   is actually a planet - due to its colour -
      it's unlike all the other -
todkompf, metallic white
glitter...
      it's hued in a more orange
spectacle - more fire...
less distance...
                and on the canvas
of the night?
   sits lower than all the other stars,
which are more up -
   rather than on a horizon
to speak off...
   question is... is that *mars,
or is that venus?

**** it: 'ere i go...
'n' buy me a *******
telescope to investigate further...

II.

did the ancient romans really
distinguish the arithmetic
quantity of I - or IX -
   or XII or...
                with a dot?
       not unless it was inscribed
in stone -
   where even upsilon had
to vacate the more easily chiseled
in:              YOVR POINT?
just wondering
   how only two diacritical marks
were applied to the encryption -
and both... not for orthographic
reasons, but for aesthetics -
    what's the actual difference
when the guillotine digestion
machine (like me) comes in and
says...
    
     ȷokιng around...
        what with the iPod...
   why shouldn't ι,
                    come ιn -
   and give a ȷester's ιnquιsιtιon?
out of... mere... curιosιty?
ιt's not lιke those two-heads
even make a dιfference...
come on! ιt's ιneffectιve,
there are no orthographιc reasons
for ιt!
        why, even, bother?
    and no fancy name eιther,
ιn the dιacrιtιcal famιly...
  dot... when compared to?
cιrcumflex, caron, macron,
      cedιlla,  ͅ (ιota subscrιpt)...
you name ιt!
can someone, please,
ȷust gιve me, an approprιate reason?

III.

it's not like i can confuse,
i with I - since i have 1, and 2 instead
of II, and 3 instead of III,
and 4, instead of IV,
       and 6 instead of VI...
ah... L(l) -
              and the exodus of handwriting
in the digital age...
any schmuck can write
now... but... i'd love to see
them write with a pen, on paper...

personally - i couldn't write an intact
word with a pen...
   calligraphy: a bit like monkish
Gregorian chants... coming near
to extinction...
          i could sometimes write
out a intra-connectivity of syllables -
but... entire words?
    no chance... the digit system
came in... and i had to learn how
to position my arms before
the keyboard, to write, and not look
down...
   unlike my old G.P.,
who, bless him... nearing his retirement,
pecked, like a crow,
on the keyboard...
   looking down on it...

the ENTER key? right arm pinky finger...
SPACE BAR key? primarily
left hand thumb...
   unlike a piano, you don't actually
use all the fingers on both arms...
e.g.? ring ringer on the left hand?
rarely used... unless doing some
mental hand gymnastics...
  
stream of "consciousness" - no words,
just observations -

(0,0,) LH ******* A
    RH index finger N -
     that's - ah! ring finger of
the right arm is used, quiet a lot,
  notably?  SHIFT + (?/) key -
      *******...
   but for the apostrophe?
    the (@ ') key...
  which, on my machine translates
as the (" ') key...

IV.

     - interlude -
--- -- - - - -  - - - logic  -- - - -  -- - bomb -- - - --  -
- - -- computers -- -- - - & - -- microprocessors -
- - - --- -- - --- -- -(parasense ----- - - remix) -- -- -

V.

it is chiromancy in reverse,
only that i'm reading my hands...
facing down,
rather than staring on the reverse
side of the... where the girdle of venus
is situated,
   or the index finger skin folds
of the chokhmah, chesed,
    netzach - respectively -
akin to reading mandarin:
   from the the head - to the base
               of a knuckle.
i read my hands - looking at a screen,
how else can you write anything,
distracted by looking down
onto the keyboard -
  no aware of the spacing?
        question: how fast is your typing?
don't know:
what sort of ******* am i to note
down, and how many amendment
will i have to make to the text,
as we plow along to your diatribe
monologue?
                  
VI.

why would anyone sit up all night,
drinking?
     ****** question, esp. given
yesterday's 5 / 6 am carnival of rain...
out of nowhere,
there i was, ready to call it a night
well spent (not working in a Stratford
casino) - dreading the heat of
the sunrise...
  boom!
   thunder, lightning...
    the air turned white from
the ferocity of the rain...
   literally...
                the ground was wriggling
with a meteor shower -
excited gnat fly like puddles
appearing and disappearing -
soon becoming lakes
  within the confines of a supposed
**** of worm parasites...
      probably your typical day
      on the Faroe Islands...
you know... on such occasions...
you really can't help, but stick
your head out of the window,
far enough to drench your head
and hair in regenwasser...
            i should have walked
into the garden and
cleansed my whole body...
   but...
guess all ι needed, was the head...
       god...
  there's nothing more **** than
listening to horror movie soundtracks
while it pours a mini-monsoon
outside your window,
  and there's thunder, and there's
lightning...
   and you're just about to fall asleep...
like a baby might...

VII.

oh god... the one time i don't take
a beer for a walk, coming back
from the supermarket...
and i pick up... this genius:
genius... tortilla wrap...
    falafel + hummus + a hint
of mango chutney (with a tease
of arugula leaves)?
            **** me... who needs
beer... if not a bottle of mineral
water... to accompany
taking a walk?

If we are puppets,
Then sleepiness
Is a dangerous
Puppeteer.

He creeps up on you
And hijacks your
Mind and body

Your eyes are closing
Your body feels heavy
Your head may drop off
Anytime

Your shoulders are drooping
Your feet are weary
Your back supports you
No more

Your head is swaying
Your body is aching
Oh how you wish you were
In bed

You can’t hear properly
You can’t speak properly
You don’t care
Anymore...
                                                                ­                 ...he whispers in your ear
And this is when
Sleepiness
Slips you onto
His puppet strings
And starts to sway
Your bearings

One, two
One, two
You plod on

Left, right
Left, right
Your vision starts to spin

You can’t hear properly
You can’t speak properly
You don’t care
Anymore...
                                                                ­                 ...he whispers in your ear
Continuing on
Your way
You know what you’re doing
But yet, don’t notice
Anything
Around you

Until that loud beep
Jolts you from your sleep
And brings you out of
The puppeteer's spell

The puppet strings
Are broken
And you are left
To face reality
The fact that you could've                                        should've
Died


You can’t hear properly
You can’t speak properly
You don’t care
Anymore...
                                                                ­                 ...he whispers in your ear

the first time i looked into your eyes,
i knew i was hooked.
you were a drug
i was the
addict.
you wanted,
i needed.
you said,
i did.
i was a puppet &
you were my
puppeteer.

Gently, softly, strong, powerful
giving life to the immovable.
As a puppet with an invisible puppeteer
moving graceful arms, suspended in air.
Running through its leafy green fingers
shaking its sleepy limbs, bending, twisting.
Rippling like a pianists hands over dormant keys
gone as quickly as it appeared.


JCM 2011 ©

A puppeteer, you may call it,
the master of manipulation.
All his fingers hold the knots,
to the cracks in your foundation.

Hidden by your tall, lean shadow,
he lurks behind your back;
forward, with every move you make,
warlock takes his attack.

Each digit fidgets suddenly,
and your body seems to twitch;
the hands of time stop ticking now,
trapped in by the witch.

The only sound that you can hear,
is the crying of the dead;
a mournful, sad melody,
that plays often in your head.

You think, "maybe, i'll get a break",
he's tricked you into believing,
the more you do for him,
the less that you'll be breathing.

He takes you in and ***** you up,
and you would never know,
the strings in which he has you tied,
lets him be in control.

A low-class man with a baby face took a smart pretty woman and made her a disgrace

He charmed her with his words; put her under his spell

Stole the sanity from her children and made their lives hell

Not a finger he laid on the broken kids but every word stung; the torture so brutal and children so young

A teenager already empty was beaten with the belt. She was confused but he didn't care when she cried or what she felt

The mother was his puppet. And he the puppeteer. The puppet was manipulated and her children lived in fear.

Her words were his and his word was law children try as they might his heart wouldn't thaw.

The puppeteer is poisonous and lives without a care.

He didn't work for anything... He just took what was there.

He lived with greed, the love for money and liked to scream and shout.

He took what he couldn't earn; seeking the easy way out

A loser who played mind games. Such an unhealthy mix. Flattering the vulnerable was one of his biggest tricks

The truth always surfaces. And that is what was done. When justice chased after him all he could do was run

I was your puppet, and you my puppeteer
I knew no other comfort than the one that was here
You pulled my strings this way and that
You brushed my hair underneath my hat

I sang when you said
I danced at your cue
I even balanced on your head
I would do anything for you

But now you are gone
You have cut my strings
You left me timid as a fawn
But at least I had your rings

As I grew, I became more brave
There was one thing I had come to crave
I was glad I still had your rings
So that I could buy myself a set of strings

I may have started out the runt
But now I'm the leader of the hunt
Yes those are howls you hear
For you are my puppet, and I your puppeteer

when the puppet
finally
breaks free
of his strings
you'd better be
careful
that he
does not
choke you
with them

Keep them locked up, Dear,
Fight for them when they tear.
Draw in the strings of hope
Pull back those cords of laughter
Dissolve the lines towards love
Pull them back -
                              Take them back!

For barely mended strings make broken promises
Hollow words turn to hollow lives
Faded red lines causes stray searches
But most of all, they bring reality.

For you are My Puppeteer
And when I look back on my strings
I feel the emotions coursing through my veins,
I feel the hooks in my soul irritating my skin
The venom coil before it strikes.

Yes. You are My Puppeteer
And for good or for worse,
The cords are always near.

I’m a puppeteer, I pull the strings.
Once I catch you, you are forever my doll.
You can hide it, you can even fight it, but I’ll always be able to make you do things.
You will always follow my protocol.

You may think you have a choice.
You may think you have free will.
But you will follow every word of my passive voice.
And I’ll use you to get my thrill.

If you ever leave, I’ll leave a string hanging so I can tug on it when you’re gone.
You may think that you’re safe.
But in the end you’re just my little pawn.
The path Is set for you and you cannot strafe.

For I am a puppeteer and I must confess.
I am the best at this game I call chess.

The world is in a dead awkward silence
everyone looked at the aggressive brutality and cruel violence
They wondered to themselves how did they get here
without even realising there were people pulling their strings like a masquerade puppeteer

Can you imagine a world without anything but just broken gravel?
Living in fear of just catching nothing but just the common cold rattle
Growing up to learn the destroyed world and be nothing but just to grow old..
Change the time of you which you live in now
technology just complicates our lives and our true knowledge

Before everything just becomes nothing but bitterness and displease
will it then maybe shock you? And come ten times worst as respiratory disease

poetry can't be given the function of instructional language, the instructions akin to putting together a table... if philosophy excused it, and music over-shadowed it... poetry can only find a natural partner in painting - given these times, where painting has become so crude, no detailed forms in sight... philosophy excused the practice of poetry, yet it persisted, music overshadowed poetry with its crude lack of innovations due to rhyme - and so while painting debased itself from all the known schools, it found poetry in the depths eating its own tongue, and painting said: you might, you must as well welcome me into the golden ring of your crap couplets so we can call it marriage; personal affairs are inconsistent with this theorem, personal sacrifices or entanglements of jealousy - because that's the mediated love at a distance without a care for jurisprudence to delve into.*

a momentary guise of fame, less shadowy,
shaking pedestrians from their traffic orientation
of sleep, into a momentary  puppeteer show -
blink and blind what used to be
the pecked sockets by crows - indeed innocent fame
shakes pedestrians rather rather
acts to puppeteer - the public cannot be a nearly
and cleverly turned into puppets, they have the vote
after all - too many solemn victims
in the skin of masculine youth
braved their ship against the tyrannical sea,
and sea the failures, now - congregating apathy
as a democratic success - 'wake up! wake up! wake up!'
they won't wake up, hardly a wise concern,
encrust a perpetually solidified
populace source, create the atom for politics:
proton as power, neutron as the mediator
for the supposed non-existence of such a
power of attraction (dissolving civilisations
emerging as tribal affairs of necessary congregations)
and the mariner's disappearing trick
via bureaucratic consolidations - the r.n.a.
of democracy (d.n.a.) is bureaucracy -
please excuse my contentment at such a suggestion,
but please don't ask me to hold your hand
when you think language acts as vector formulae -
nothing supposed, non-instructive,
please don't ask for the caging of the animal
that's hunting in the wilderness of blank pages
readied for an anomaly of narration lessened in
recurrence that's a security of the oligarchs and
autocrats; the apathy of the right to vote also translated
as a transliteration of having a political opinion -
a new "transliterate" - to craft secondary meanings
for those nearby of mutual opinion -
but beyond the egg of centred yoke and gooey
white uncooked protein and shell into an educational
dispersion of apparently educational rubric of
the existence of easily wavering synonyms -
trust zoom and the goldsmith go-go taste of acid -
is language in the possession of poets always to be
made instructive? why... let me get my xylophone out
and play you the songs of the nativity play...
maybe that will work? maybe language ought to look
like joseph merrick rather than jane austen?
let's say that conversation took place in a crowded place -
and we also said that there was freedom
from techniques that were used to easily identify
an expression to get the tag: poetry... hmm?
anything to do with scraps of leftovers can be called
the new poetry - neo poetics - the ars is gone -
the art is no longer really identifiable as such -
imagine poetry with its rhymes to be like
playing a tennis ball against a wall, you're hitting
the same note to make it a couplet, but then
ask yourself, why no coupling in music?
some fame is here for the shaking of pedestrians
rather than the allowances of a puppeteer -
but the true fame, the fame kindred of power
involves the lost entertainment of the pedestrians,
the fame of being a puppeteer rather than
an entertainer - obviously had i  watch
and you asked me on the street what time it was,
i would have replied the obvious of, say, 8 p.m.,
nearing sunset in april - obviously that's stating
the obvious; i rather not crave shaking pedestrians
into becoming an aquarium of a spectacle -
i prefer those who chose the chance to become
puppeteers - lessened chance of becoming
a photosensitive epileptic on the red carpet.

What's this..a new idea?,
says the puppeteer letting down his strings. We shall play by the narrative of skepticism one wrong move and I will have to cut your strings.
I control your every move demands the puppeteer
You will never have to learn to trust yourself it's for you own good the puppeteer continued.

My dear puppet what's the matter you no longer dance, you no longer have a smile on your face.
I have sheltered you from such sorrow you display.
Is it that time, has it become that day. Where I must cut your strings. You finish your final scene. It all seems to end but death to one's old self to begins.

A cumulonimbus caused the gloom that day. It went shedding drops of rain that looked like bead of pearls glittering in the grey autumn sky, vanishing as they plunge on leafless laurel trees and solitary cypresses. He watched them dance to pitter-patter on every umbrella that opened towards the heavens, their colors of rich black calling out to such empathy. Finally, the drops kiss the graze of withered grasses and thirsty dandelions, reviving their foliage and greenness. Slowly, the rainfall collect to become one with soil and mud crawled down to the six feet depression where a coffin was laid. It was white like ivory and carved with elaborate insignias as a token of love and undying memories. Soon, it was all covered with crimson roses that carry the last parting words of the bereaved. The priest waved out his hands above with mournful eyes, lisping his beseeching of earnest favors while spades of loam filled up the burrow. He saw faces of despair around the pit, gasping for reprieve and sympathy. If only the rain could also bring back her life, he implored.

This, in his senses, was belongingness. This, in his heart, was death.

It had been two long weeks since Roxanne’s death and Vincent couldn’t get his feet back on the ground. He still couldn’t believe he had lost her and that their seemingly endless love has flown away from him for all eternity. He’d make believe that this was all just a dream and at some point of this nightmare he would finally be unchained and awakened. Days became niches of shackled memories that kept haunting his love-fletched soul and nights were nothing more than a requiem of lovelorn longings that still linger in his mind. He remembers it all, the feel of her name on his lips, the smell of her hair, and the sound of her laugh. Everything is still as fresh as the dewdrops of June and as vivid as the most cinematic imagery a mortal could immortalize. The ultimate fight of this melodramatic transition was to remain whole when all the strength Vincent has built up begins to crumble by a mere reminiscence of the tragedy that gets freeze-framed from beginning to end over and over again.

It was a rainy Friday evening on the 22nd of May and everyone’s feeling the smell of the weekend rush. Vincent was already at a friend's house party and called Roxanne that he’ll be waiting. Roxanne was driving the Lexus behind a small truck that seemed to plod toward the upcoming red light. She was a few minutes late on her way and watching these two people ahead of her jabber away in that truck was getting her out of her ecstatic  mood. The light turned green, but the truck too slowly moved forward. Roxanne became frustrated as the driver fixated to the right. He visibly gasped at what was just about to come into her view. A brand new grey-blue Chevy Silverado blazed through the opposing stop light to broadside his little truck. Roxanne tried to stop, but her car slid into the Chevy's rear side and went tossing down the highway to an explosion.

All these is what Vincent needs to drown himself to agony. It’s as if Atlas gave up the bearing of the world for him to endure. Wretched and perplexed was he, blaming the world for such a prejudiced conspiracy. How could an angel like Roxanne be bound to such an end? How could an invincible love become vulnerable on the visage of death? But then again, his heart starts to concoct a spell of phantasm, bringing back the most prized memories of him and her together, infiltrating his whole system and gaining power over the bitterness and pain. In this test of sensations, he himself wasn’t sure if this two-edged delusion is a boon or bane. But one thing was becoming clear to him-he cannot be like this for the rest of his life. If this nightmare must be proven real, he must find a way out. Whatever may lie ahead, he must keep going, recreate his own world and be able to break free from the fetters of this mishap that surely promises him nothing but living scars, frustrations and sorrow.

Two years have passed and the town of New Hope has undergone a lot of changes. New coffee shops and cafes run down a block away from the University premise as well as convenient stores and parlors. New establishments stood welcoming and billboards mushroomed the skyway. The streets are crowded with more and more busy people, indicative of a metropolitan evolution of lifestyle. Summer has ended and without a trace, the arid autumn and the frigid winter fluttered to oblivion.

The same is true for New Hope University which, in its current enrollment period, has its student population increased by two thousand. The institute’s remarkable performance rating in board examinations and national competitions attracted other towns to invest their education to the latter. It was nearly the start of class and everyone is busy catching up the enrollment pace. But not Vincent, who, in the first day of inception has already completed the enrollment process. He was ecstatic, more of curious how his life as a senior student could turn into this academic year. He met faces of different kinds-some familiar and some entirely strangers. Those he doesn’t recognize would just pause and pay a smile while others he knew jsut pass by and make him feel invisible. On a ledge in front of his course department’s office he sat. He in himself was New Hope town in human transfiguration- braver, brighter and better. He looked from afar, with eyes playing on the nimble of heads and shoulders of people passing through the corridor. He drenched himself to an illusion of how each head turns toward him with a infectious smile, that once in a while, happiness is sought even in the gallows of solitude. Solitude-it wasn’t a strange name to him anymore. It never was. He was entangled with it on that day the sickles of death took his love away. Somehow, through the passage of time, the wound that was scourged deep in his heart has mended and the thought of being alone became amusing that he has managed to laugh about it over the seasons. He is more human now, away from the devious portal of his mundane imagining.

The daydream was shattered when out of the blue a silhouette of a familiar figure took the stage. She was elegantly tall, with hair of pure ebony lolling on her shoulders. Each step enraptures, and each gentle sway of a hand is a compelling rhythm. She draws closer to where he was and he's left slack jawed. She entered the office and he was back to his senses. Maybe not. What he beheld was something farfetched, something that he cannot comprehend. Vincent saw it all coming back to him. A remnant of his long buried love has come to life. It was Roxanne and it is more certain than breathing. He couldn’t explain what he felt. It was a maelstrom of joy and surprise, of hope and fear. It was the face he yearned to see, so long that the yearning turned to hate and despair. But now that it came to pass, his humanity fell apart. Although he is a mere victim of his own circumstances, the serendipity took a shot straight to his heart and there is nothing he could do about it.

Perhaps there is, and he is now pretty preoccupied. He wanted to know her. He must unknot this puzzle that has challenged his whole conviction. He must find every answer and throw all of its questions behind. Whatever there is that the road has in store for him is not essential anymore. He couldn’t care less to fathom this enigma and once more, find something worth living. But now that he is hanging in midair, he planned to fall back. He jumped out of the ledge and headed out the campus, afraid that she might be at sight and all the strength in him shall subside. He was up all night, thinking of how he could get a chance to meet and talk to her. He had thoughts of crafting schemes, devising methods and inventing tricks.

And nothing of it worked.

The first day of class commenced. New Hope University is buzzing with ecstatic students. Vincent giggled with utmost excitement, carelessly bumping shoulders and brushing elbows with other students in the corridors.  He molested his tattered COR and skimmed for his first class. It is in room 101 scheduled 9:00. He reviewed through the digital clock and he hurried as it ticked to 8:58. Luckily, he is safe from prime tardiness, though he seemed to be the last comer. He seated at the back, knowing that after thirty minutes, he’d helplessly succumb to napping since it is his favorite subject-English 8, Technical Writing.

And so she happened.

It was her, Roxanne’s doppelganger who broke the charts. She was 15 minutes late and unforgivably beautiful with her sequined tee and skinny jeans. She realized what she has gotten into and apologized with the kindest gesture. The professor gave her a hand and led her to the seat beside Vincent. She felt awkward. He was worse. They both sat like lifeless puppets with the puppeteer gone until she broke the silence.

“I’m Katherine,” she muttered. “Katherine Evans, glad to be your block mate”. She took it off with a smile that sent Vincent to hyperventilation. He couldn’t shake her hands. They’re already shaking with butterflies. The poor guy mounted his strength. He could not afford to lose the chance. “Vincent, Vincent Smith”. That was all and a nod. It was rare for Vincent to survive the thirty-minute nap attack but he did this time, although the victory seemed unnoticed. They enjoyed the remaining hour sharing thoughts and ideas with Vincent succeeding in all his attempts to stint his best jokes. He has come to know who she is at the basics-a transferee from Dakota University, a cheerleader and an adventurist. He also looks forward to know more about her in the days to come- hoping that she likes cheese, watching live wrestling fights and attending Sunday mass.

Perhaps she doesn't.

Two weeks was enough a time for the two of them to get closer to each other. They were both open to let the affinity they share to grow and blossom. It was very apparent that the two knew where their relationship is going and they both seemed ready for it.

Months have passed and the two were no more than couples. But Vincent was too overwhelmed of what he had let enter his life. Katherine is no Roxanne. She doesn’t like cheese, wrestling or Sunday masses. She was more self-driven, conceited and unwelcoming. Sooner he realized that he isn’t in love with Katherine, nor will he ever be. He just created his Utopia by painting Roxanne’s memories on Katherine’s facade. He believed to have loved again and he believed in vain.

It was a candlelight dinner at Katherine's and it was all set. She suggested it herself. She would always do this, steering their affair on a one man tag and turning the tides whichever she likes it to be. She seemed obsessed about Vincent, about their friendship, about their bond. This was her biggest mistake: to let Vincent get drowned in her self-consumed devotion.

Vincent is on his way. To break her heart.

When he came, Katherine pranced in glee. She presented the menu. And the drinks too. She was on the midst of telling Vincent her summer getaway plans when he told her to stop and listen. He undid it to her gently by taking all the blames, that it was his butter fingered actions which led them both bruised and bleeding. It was a self-defeating battle preordained by the gods. A tear fell down from Katherine’s eyes, and she didn’t want to show him more. She fled her way out the dining room with a tormented soul, like Aphrodite torn by Adonis, and hurried to her room with the banging of the door. Vincent was left with only the deafening silence, keeping his severed heart together.

As he sat out there slowly losing substance, he began to notice a set of picture frames that showed two happy faces, one of them Vincent was able to recognize in just a matter of seconds. But what puzzled him most is the picture's relevance to Katherine. He thought of a reason to make his way out the riddle. He looked closer to the girl beside Roxanne and found a spot of mole that was identical to Katherine's.

Vincent stumbled to a discovery he wished he had never known.

On the night Roxanne met death, she was not alone. She was with company. The girl that happened to live is Vicky Duran, Roxanne’s best friend. She was secretly in love with Vincent. And she was prepared to change her entire life for a streak of a chance that she’ll have what she was living for.

And she almost succeeded.

Vincent, still staggered on how things turned out insane, went to Roxanne’s grave. He shattered from an implosion of mixed emotions and he cried out like a child who lost his treasured toy. He curled on the ground with so much pain and bearing contained inside him. He called out Roxanne’s name with pure longing, bringing back his old self and his memories of that grey autumn, of that unwanted Friday that took her life away.

Footsteps cracked from the ground and Vincent ceased his outburst of melancholy.

“Let me end your misery,” a trembling voice came from behind him. It was Vicky, whose face is neither Roxanne’s nor Katherine’s. It was a face of a hopeless woman, wretched and determined for something. She was wearing rugged clothes and she held a gun on her hand. To Vicky, living is no different from death. She has now understood why the very person she loves has turned away from her when she gave all that she never was. But the realization priced too much of her reality that she cannot anymore take back. She decided to **** him and then take her own life.

She pointed the gun towards Vincent. He jumped at her to take the gun away. They grappled on the ground, the weapon still on Vicky’s hands. Vincent managed to overpower her but she kicked him, tumbling back to the gravestone. A shot was heard from afar with a man’s cry.

It rained that day. Brown withered leaves of tall laurels hovered with the wind while branches of solitary Cypresses dance to every whirl. The breeze whispered to the clouds of grey, a mark of autumn’s return. Vincent crawled to Roxanne's grave. It was a weeping of a true love that echoed away. Raindrops keep descending from the heavens, washing away the blood that kept flowing to the ground of mud.  Perhaps, on the last moments of his life he found happiness, even from a love that was never his to keep.

 

- by Larry Potter

It all began with a ‘he’
he who said I was pretty
  when my face turns sideways and
  the right amount of sunlight casts shadows
  on the planes of my cheeks
he who kissed me in 6th grade
  in front of my best friend – whom he used to date,
  his lips were cool and moist
  moist – it didn’t feel anything.
he who requested love songs during our high school intramurals
  when all of my friends and all of his friends
  cheer us up like we were the sweetest thing they’ve seen.
he who danced with me the whole night of our junior prom,
  my shoes dangling behind him, my arms and his arms were sweating
  he whispers now, “You look beautiful.”
he who gave me wilting flowers on the 15th of February
  because I skipped school – too scared to face the truth
  that no one would do what he just did. He proved me wrong.
he who said “I love you” too late.
he who said “I love you” too early.
He who made me believe that fate, destiny, sparks, forever, and all that *******
  were real, written in His holy book. Should I still believe in you?
he who said would wait – the next month telling me he realized
  it wasn’t me he was waiting for.
he who told me to stay.
he who left. he who never went back.
and oh – he
he who was never here in the first place.

it all began with a “she”
she who danced in front of the class
  with all her sass, snaps, and we laugh.
she whose hair used to be straight
  swaying down her waist, flows smoothly when she walks,
  falls perfectly down her collarbones. Let’s not start with collarbones.
she whose eyelids flutter like butterfly wings
  making the ones inside my stomach dance like hummingbird’s wings
  her eyelashes are thick, outlining her brown eyes – her perfect brown eyes.
she who throws he head back when she laughs
  not knowing I drift and crash back to the sea
  like a wave thrown back by her chuckles and laughter
she who reads and reads tons of books
  when she could write about her day
  and that’ll still be the greatest stories I could read
she who held me close when she stumbles towards the bus station
  when she’s drunk
she who wanted nothing between us – worried it will not work.
but she made the raindrops of yesterday meaningful
  so it could wash off all the hurt from everything, from everyone.
she who changed me. – no.
she who made me face the mirrors I’ve been running away from
  all those lies I’ve been hiding alone
  all those pain, all those bad memories
she washed them all away, like a hurricane
   she dragged my whole town with her
she who made me forget.
she who makes me ache at times but it’s the kind of ache
  you’d gladly take – a suffering worth all the suffering
she who outshined all of – in the best possible way I could imagine
she who made the stars insignificant.

It doesn’t end with a ‘he’
It doesn’t end with a ‘she’
it all ends up with a simple ‘who’
that person who will always come through
for you

I learned that love sometimes doesn’t last that long
sometimes it doesn’t even start at all.
But I know one thing, you cannot fight it.
I don’t know where – maybe in his hands
or in her eyes. It will make you move like you
have no choice at all – like a puppet stuck
******* and down nylon strings
by the puppeteer
dictating your life
like you have no choice, at all.

the clouds looked like they were suspended there by strings. and you were the puppet master for this show. you called all of the shots and there was nothing that I, as a simple puppet, could do. you were hypnotic, mesmerizing me as I followed your every instruction as you moved your hands about. that's all that it took; a simple hand movement. I couldn't stop myself, I really couldn't help it. I had no choice but to fall into your every word and trust that every action you performed was for me. my heart. my soul. my well being. however, you were truly only putting on a show. it was for audiences' entertainment. it was never for me, or even remotely about me. you then retired from your position as a puppet master and moved on. as you have left me sitting on this shelf, I am tortured by her presence in your life. yet I am but a puppet, your puppet, and I cannot seem to break this spell. if only I were like Pinocchio. maybe if I were a real girl, you'd love me too. -hvj

I am both the puppet and the puppet master.
I dance to the will of others while subtly controlling them.
I sometimes make myself dance,
The two halves of me controlling and obedient simultaneously.
The shadow that lurks in my shadow—
I am that, too, seeping and oozing over the ground.
The forces in my heart are battling for control—
The shadow and the light are battling.
My heart remains the ****** battlefield,
Littered with dead dreams and riddled with holes.
And all the while the puppet jerks,
Obeying the tug of strings,
And all the while the puppet masker jerks,
Controlling the mass of strings.

and why do you think
they shot the serial killer
in the back of the head?
you know, having experienced
a brain haemorrhage aged
21 i'd know... there's nothing
kafkaesque about it...
the slow bleeding out via a hole
in the cranium, you really
are a decapitated cockroach by
this point (living two weeks more
dying from starvation), but in
the serial killer's case also a little
bit fidgety...
oddly enough impairment of the brain
doesn't mean your heart stops
ticking... poor kurt cobain
with that shotgun wound of his...
i mean a stab to the heart is wildly anticipated,
but why would you shoot your brains
out, given that the ***** per se
is not an automaton pump, or a decipherer
of toxins (the liver)?
the brain is a puppeteer of bones.
it's the flow of the haemoglobin
that's kind, kind enough for you to be
conscious and decide your last thoughts
on the matter, auto-suggestive atheism
is what i call it... shoot the thing that's
functioning automatically - your
brain is a paradoxical dual carriage way,
it allows both science and mysticism
to reach the ultimate, reasonable parallel;
basically... don't mess with
the sponge soaking up the porridge;
asked politely, seneca slit his wrists
in a hot bath.