"puppetry" poems
Blackened tides crash down upon my shores
And I'm swept away by an opaque shape
Taking a form that I can see less and more
With each passing wave
The sun becoming a distended silhouette
Obscured by the disembodied figure
Taking me deeper
Tugging my heart strings like a marionette
I feel lighter and less real,
Then a surreal glow engulfs me
And I'm suddenly pulled from my puppetry
I feel the sun finally
And it's you
A beacon of light from the depths
An exquisite view
A soul with all the shattered pieces
That align perfectly with mine
Now that I've discovered what peace is
I'm enamored as our hearts intertwine
By some grand design you've made me better
Together we will shine, now and forever
Aug 10, 2021
Aug 10, 2021 at 4:53 AM UTC
A synthetic thunderstorm envelops me
and I forget where my life is.
I forget about you and your fluent tongue
of disinterest, puppetry, and misinformation.
I forget the speakers and soundscapes;
wires and ties and strings attached,
the way I struggle to sleep alone,
but cannot share my life with anyone.
I forget the next payday, the next lay;
the need to borrow words and feelings
just to make sense of my own.
Distraction and hunger for nicotine
become near-echoes of a past life-
an umbilical bond to old decades
of habit and mistrust for the sober mind.
I forget the ash and ends I have left behind.
The ocean is close but occupies no space,
only the airwaves with a rhythmic breath
to still my own, reducing my identity
to fractals of self-interest and oneness.
I forget who I am amongst the writing desk,
The Book Of Longing, the cooling tea;
the stagnant water. I forget flesh desire,
violent *** and apologetic *******
I forget, for once, the need to live,
amongst all of this living.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
The blink of an eye
Is an eye-opener
So much change
Eyes can’t believe
As if eyelids
Are pulled by strings
Puppetry of events around
Our vision in a time warp
Soul has already envisioned
The events here and beyond
Late we realize this
Trusting our eyes for guidance
Soul and eyes aligned
Gives a deeper perspective
Much beyond the surface of things
An eternal understanding
To foresee what we are and will be
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
Choking off people’s assumptions,
I’m not like the enigma.
I may look complicated;
Yet I’m just a small, arduous spec of the universe.
I may give catechisms;
Bet it’s painless to break, if you feel.
I might have a perplexing persona;
But honey, that’s the shadow of your ego.
I was drowning, in the basin of lies called fairy tales.
And I was drunk, in the virtual reality you made.
I let you choke me, with the wine so called love.
I’m awake;
After weeks of being high of your lies,
After months of being high of your manipulating acts,
Bet that’s why you’re making a great actor.
The masks finally ripped of the performer;
The lies, the bitter truth,
Leaving the ego, caught in the act.
Turns out that I can’t differentiate between reality and stage-play.
I can’t find the difference between when you truly do something,
Or when you’re doing your job on the stage.
I have myself questioning about things,
Do actors have feelings? Do actors always manipulate their acts?
I finally read the script;
The deceptive tears, the dishonest sweet words,
And how I’m just a puppet to your puppetry.
Then I realised a thing.
I was not a conundrum.
I was a slave to your ego,
In your stage-play,
And you did great on your show.
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 12:50 AM UTC
Mister Clown, mister Funny
Mister Always has some money
Why aren’t you joking today
Mister i’m always okay
i’m okay, okay
On my tiptoes like it’s ballet
It’s second best we call that Park Place
and i’m blue, blue, blue
Ya know me well i’m mister cliché
Trade my years for smokes and ashtrays
Time just flew, flew, flew
Here’s some candles, it’s happy birthday
Here’s some camels, TGI Friday
TGI Jesus, TGI Nietzsche
it’s NTK it’s TLA, that’s AKA
redundancy
It’s subtlety and puppetry,
it’s how you got the best of me
you pull the ground from under me
for me to fall and i just do, do, do
Mister Clown, mister Funny
Mister Always has some money
Why aren’t you joking today
Mister i’m always okay
i’m okay, okay
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 7:04 AM UTC
An Angel and a Demon, above the world, filled with chaos and destruction. Debating over saving humanity or letting it fall into devastation.....
*This world is worth saving,
You see the good ones down there,
Praying and helping?
Good beats evil, every time.
Letting things fall apart would be a crime.*
**My angelic friend, you're too high in the sky,
Grace us; come down from that ivory perch.
It won't take much to see through the lies,
Not much at all, to see what they're worth.**
*Dear demonic soul, don't you know?
Their worth is not in question.
Their value is more than our weight in gold,
Have some more appreciation!*
**Right--between war, the crucifixion and ****
These humans are just such lovely things.
They aren't filled with a single ounce of hate,
Oh, come now! See the atrocities they bring!**
*The things you say may be true,
But there's so much good down there.
Remember Noah and the Renaissance?
The missionaries and volunteers, they still care!*
**Oh, goodness! Yes, how could I forget?
********* Priests with their souls to sell?
Rich lead the depraved farther into debt?
Your precious world is going straight to Hell!**
*No, you monster! How dare you talk like that!
These are human beings, not toy things.
They'll prove you wrong, peace is coming.
Go tell your puppet master to cut his strings!*
**Don't PREACH to me of puppetry, fairy!
Whatever happened to your God's free will?
Compared to Earth, Hell isn't that scary!
**** rat race! *** money, egos, and thrills!**
*I'll preach what I have to, to save these humans souls,
Spineless creature.. You're wrong on so many levels!
I can't wait to dance with glee, while you unravel,
Dragging your worthless shell back home to the Devil!*
**I guess the horrors before you aren't enough,
You must want your sandbox to turn to doom.
These aren't falsehoods--this isn't a bluff,
Say what you will; Hell's running out of room!**
.... And there Angel and Demon bickered, for what seemed an eternity. Purity prospered in parts, where death and deprivation brought others into declension. At odds and ends, they both returned home, leaving Earth to fend for its own.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
I know what we have is really quite solid.
But today I convinced myself of an earthquake.
Perhaps it began on screen
Some distant, modern tragedy.
I felt
The gravity
You know the kind
Some feel in a theme park ride
At first
It was a calculated calm
A day in the park
Vision shot through
pixilated
Bedding me
under
in **** fixation.
Such is my kaleidoscope to our collective,
defecate,
fantasy.
When the world turns 'round
those candy colors
dissolve into perfect fractals
geometry.
Single-file they beam--
pushing out
pop-cultural enemas
like frosting.
And then— too bright!
A riveting newsflash
the kaleidoscope
is
cracked.
flickering
gasps.
We watch
a city as
its body's streets--
collapsed.
see the banner of
blood now runs
down the news anchor's face:
There's been a
catatonic quake.
Interrupting this program
the woman
with a saccharine smile
makes A Devastating Report:
Yes.
We're all undertow
Evacuate then buy this ****** cream
move and upgrade your resume
The water broke and the oil spilled,
but the economy is definitively
under control.
This puppetry is
sedation by generalized asphixiation,
this American Dream glaring from the T.V. screen
is mindless work
-our salvation-
Harder work? Isolated suffering.
What with toxic invasion,
designer cantaloupe to nuclear waste,
more storms and third world turnover rates.
Higher and higher inflation,
predatory insurance claims-
minimum wage won't cover my education.
Bloated babies
not on T.V. and not in Africa
but holding Mamma's hand
loitering downtown,
near the grocery chains.
See the quake perpetuate:
These are American hunger pangs.
Occupy for Change.
Aug 3, 2011
Aug 3, 2011 at 1:22 AM UTC
There is insincerity in my electric praise,
regardless of response I drip cool pools of soft cloth on floor
and utter abstruse succulent phrases.
Even with all this, I am insipid in lending lip service to ***
I absently inhale acrid smoke because
I never pretended to be a hermetic socialite-
because it is a socially acceptable
form of self hatred.
Obsessive animality has become
disinterested sexuality,
I have done anything
ever asking "what then?" and
everything done:
has me **** in the eyes of men.
Gleaming ideals of girl on girl,
feverish licking,
slick sweat dripping and all this
boredom:
the initiated
subjects of whoredom
come undone with the gripping of slippery moans
and now lay soiled in sheets
where hearts beat fast,
striving hard,
deep in keeping the motions of man.
We are stripping off flakes of soft humanity,
which we feed each other to watch it melt on the tongue.
So very unlike writing,
*** is hard wired,
it needn't be learned-
only practiced with intent for perfection
and when the edges bleed together within the edacious mind,
all is bared
unclothing only sloven swine.
The truth is:
I only deal with shadows and
align them in a malignant play of poetic puppetry.
I outline a silver coated tongue
seen to deliver elaborate loquacious lies,
I **** deep at cultural control
and I huff full lungs of the social soul.
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 12:03 AM UTC
How dreadful to see
Those that I cannot read.
All over the latest feed.
Not poetry,
Like puppetry.
A repetition of words, numbers, and symbols that aren't clever in the least.
And users with names
In impossible tongues.
Their gibberish reeks!
Line after line,
All the same, it's uncared for.
They write marriage, black magic, and European countries.
It's daily infinity,
Thieving the spaces from more thoughtful writing.
Shall I fight just to see the absense of these;
And say hello only to real poetry.
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 11:55 AM UTC
Some gamblers rented and cyclists' cyclists are not Maria,
Maria, Maria, and the massive student body of Cyclists,
Other Associated Deacons Trainer Trainer Sensors;
I'm looking forward to food
and feeling a sense of when to read the robot's book from page 1 -
the top place at this hall meeting Sunday
at the National Council of Judicial Religion -
a classic user education free of cognac
in my head, gloves white eyeglasses.
Radio station to take care of a cigarette freedom
with a rich wealthy publisher of fan fiction,
Maria, put her in bed. According to John the strippers
are awaiting food and dance, dance,
Moses and Elijah using Revolution has changed
and now two new trees grow out of the shadows
recollection of the problems of reducing
the nightclubbing of the bride, What John said of the Trinity Wave,
that waves swells in winter weather.
The various aspects of life in school
for the dance dance to find a good ending
and highlight your work in the sand
are free free of non-oh-fluctuous roads to heaven in jail,
rays of fire from the sky on the ceiling,
all the bed dwellers sitting on the rungs of a ladder
1 as high as the sun. John was pushed
by the knowledge onto the role of shades
robot strippers get Wall Street Law,
Mary's strippers are on the hill for the rich.
According to John Rose, it's not enough Memory
Technology 1, Paul's first Belgian wave radio,
high wave in parts; Puppetry for life
in the fight, the clinic entered into a long bone
and cigarette between the springs of water; RSS
and the mass of members who have been trained
to offer the Strippers Cyclists another translation,
radio station freedom to take care of smoking
in the wealthy rumors of journalist story,
Maria naked in her bed. The various types of schools
have a very good dance program, and highlighting
the work with the sand can be free
and non-oh-fluctuous way from the sky in the radio
station on fire from the roof on the dog is all at Sleep 1,
Sleeps in the sun as long as you see it.
John's required knowledge came into the robot hands of the strippers
knowing that Wall Street's Gestalt is part of Maria's hill strippers
for the rich. According to John Rose, it's not enough memory,
technology 1, the first Belgian wave radio's
high wave reaches parts of St. Paul;
There is no war entered into by smoking,
and the rays within Puppetry are the Waters of Life.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 11:57 PM UTC
rejection stings
birds before bees
you leave me at the end of a very thin string.
marionette fitting of your puppetry,
subservient to every deception,
you had me on my toes, yearning.
naive is the bird who believes
that bees understand her song,
exposed affection like down feathers
bees gather to gorge themselves,
weep honey unto selfish wings.
you: wasp, hunter of self indulgence,
I: bird, dreamer of ignorant bliss.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 5:08 AM UTC
The ennui leads me to shirk humanity
I'd like to see the world burn, entertain me
Who can I manipulate, pull the strings of puppetry
Count these dots on the ceiling for another eternity.
The ennui's whisper is a striking sledgehammer
"Nothing's wrong and nothing's right," to my saccharine master
A distraction is a religion, a light, a pastor
Find a building, burn it down, if only for laughter.
The ennui's madness, says it can't exist with life
Push me up onto this cliff, close my hand around a knife
Scream fury, bitter anger, over the sound of this strife
And when the rage is exhausted, with ennui I am rife.
The ennui leads me to think of impossible things
I could have an ultimate power that exceeds all living beings
The ennui leads me to write, and sing, and sleep, and think
And not a one of those will shake it, it resides so deep in me.
The ennui is disenchantment, apathy, and callousness.
The ennui is because I could's, both boiled and steeped in it.
The ennui is I don't care to a level never before seen.
The ennui is why bother with this without the will to leave.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 3:32 PM UTC
Two fish shaped wet eyes, intently gaze,
while expressing pain, disarmingly implies
a sweetness, specially meant only for him
that too, apt in that particular context,
when his antennae all are up, receptive.
He wants to kiss, those eyes,
as his eyes catch that special moment, poignant,
wants to taste it and make the sweetness all his.
That sweetness, a bait, but he isn't aware,
with a deft dab of emotion,makes him melt,
paints her vulnerable, yes, a damsel in distress,
prods him to be chivalrous, the next moment.
How the salty pearls rolling down her cheeks
play naughty games with unsuspecting tender heart,
concealing the puppet play in which men and women excel.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC
I hide in the dark
Where I shed light on the walls,
The showman performs behind me and I only see a silhouette
I'm fighting with shadows.
Shadow boxing with shadow puppets,
The candle that light that fire will fall and the puppetry will disappear.
My hands still tied to the chair.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 11:14 AM UTC
My father is the music.
My hearts rhythm a show of puppetry.
A creation of passion, constructed solitude,
Packing my world with repeated withering words
In which meaningless love wanders, until it is
Personal.
Too high, too drunk, too moved by music,
That ****** harmonica, guitar, microphone, even spoons
These utensils too forgetful to notice,
Other senses,
What past notes have created.
You are a monster music, that calms
And rages, carves out playgrounds of feeling.
Music sculpts everything, it defines me.
Yet, if it is truly bad, off key, or sharp,
Nothing sung, written, or played
Can bring the sound of stories solace.
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
skin pulled taut
by stretching fingers
veins darken beneath olive skin
fingers pull knuckles pull tendons
strings seem to stretch from fingertips to shoulder
movement like puppetry
dry nails break and peel
from bending backwards
caused by coal ropes
you twitch
reach
move
but
not on your own
you are not your own
I am not my own
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC
*as i said to one Englishman... wait wait, you building an Auschwitz all-over-again? why didn't you say so! i'd thrown a brick into construction! ****** - thanks for not letting me to integrate - oh right, and the argument is: you're sub-human. fan-fucking-tastic, i can't wait for the lazy ******* in the construction site; because the Bulgarians were donkeys, and so the Romanians, the Poles had some respect... i'm gonna be loving this transition from office work into brick-laying of the local populace.*
james dean allover again, it's hard to assimilate these days,
integrating i.e. paying your taxes is the easy shove-and-pull,
but to perform a complete eradication of origin is harsh...
the English complain about the Poles... but they rarely
complain about Curry Henry and his Bangladeshi crew
of the former colonies... so why did the British
wage war with Germany in the second world war...
why not take a Swedish stance on things apathetic?
so when in Europe you were racist against Europeans,
but counter- when you accepted turmeric dye over here
from India... what?! a stick has two ends,
you ******* Stalinist all off a sudden
so that i only hear half of the ******* argument?
GO TRUMP! GO TRUMP! STATUE
OF LIBERTY HANDLING A *****
GO TRUMP! GO TRUMP! WOO HOO!
**** 'EM OVER! you think that provocation can
be easily externalised, once you provoke the right
it presupposes a tactic of puppetry - you were
antisemitic with communism anyway, who gives
a **** i don't... you didn't give a **** about me
for so long i'm not going to bother either.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 11:49 AM UTC
She was living in multiple alternated realities
constantly fought solis against luna you know
while experiencing delusions and fighting slavery
...Inside of his domestic kingdom,
she figured out who's characters were for show.
Oh god, the ways in which she revealed her own darkness sometimes was sickening but manipulation had before held her captive.
She became a victim with no strength to respond any other way than being passive.
This so-called king possessed weapons of puppetry and diluted morals, she applied fresh lipstick to her face and got ready to constantly give him oral.
Over & over again she misplaced her caring art, seemed to have mastered her heartlessness into a form of art.
Forever she remained mute, nobody sensed her pain if she sat there playing cute.
She stuttered whenever she tried to use her voice, people judged her for being quiet like if it was her own ******* choice.
...Trauma lingered in her mind and on her face, to whom it did not concern as long as she was cooperative dressed in lace.
She was fully aware this darkness she had endured may have triggered inside of her a personality disorder, as she crawled on her knees & repeatedly gave in to his wretched & violating orders.
She was no longer the same proper creature, she was all over the place and possessed heartless features.
How was she supposed to be sure of what she truly feels?
When she could not even tell apart delusions from what is real.
Developing h.p.p.d
May 15, 2019
May 15, 2019 at 11:40 PM UTC
if my pen were free
from my own ******
what would it say....
would it talk about
how we are the exact same way
the pen controlled by my hand
while I'm controlled the puppetry
my hand controlled by my thoughts and
my thoughts by the hands that made me
Or would it boast that it is still freer than I
for it sees and feels my hand on it's thigh
and I know not who's trying to ****** me
and produce me into someone I'm not
cause when I climb up the puppet strings
I get entangled in knots
my pen takes those tangled lines
and helps me straighten them out
helps me collect thoughts
to grasp what it's all about
my pen knows me
writes my every secret
and knows each line
of every finger print
I don't know all my own puppeteers
I don't their audience
but it appears
to me now that it's all quite obvious
that I am a slave to the illusion of freedom
while the pen's understanding of it's own slavery
is the very thing freed 'em
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 10:49 AM UTC
Maybe we're all puppets that dance by a thread,
Displaying emotions like delight and dread,
Telling stories as Destiny demands,
With the whims of fate being our commands.
What if we found free will, and learned to feel,
Discovering new paths, knowing what's real?
There's a whole world out there to explore
Life is comfortable, but could it be more?
I don't remember how I ended up here
The others are content, yet I wish in fear
Everyone's ten moves ahead of me,
I'm trying to catch up, it's a mystery
Is it worth the risk to escape alone?
This doesn't seem right, it's all I've ever known.
So I hold on, helpless and afraid
I dare not be more than what I've been made
Dreaming of a future where we're not playthings,
To be alive, unattached to these strings.
Sep 2, 2022
Sep 2, 2022 at 10:51 AM UTC
I awake with the dripping anxiety of death
It's puppetry crafting my fears with its laced strings
Making me do the dance of regret and guilt
The darkness consumes me as I writhe with the agonising realisation
I am not alone
I am going to die
I see my tombstone
I see my soul starting to fly
But why?
That night when the moonlights silver ribbons danced across the darkest ocean.
His face dripping with the crimson liquid that shows the sign of life
Sirens echoed as red and blue flashed into the night.
It was my fault.
It's always my fault
He died because of me
And now I can't see
I can't sleep
I can't breathe
Save me... please
Save me from this nightmare
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 9:58 AM UTC
It's time to contemplate
the twilight of post-modern idols
- An Ideal
can we live for one?
We lay out what we stand for
in simple platitudes
then spend all our time
defining what we're not
despite all the death done
in its name
Protecting Freedom's
just an umbrella
replace "carpet bomb families"
with "neutralize enemies"
- who threatened our Liberty
but that means
sway elections away from those
that reject economic puppetry
Cut the cord
if you want us to buy Contras
Reaganomics define
Drug War: Sold crack,
bought guns from Iran,
fund death squads
in Nicarag-Hooah!
Freedom's lambs
they had to die
They tried to reach out
against exploited workers
so even Catholic priests
got murked
Yes, murdered
but also muddied
in the waters of
historiography's story
As in, no one studies history
Today's armchair historians
they just find bargains
and hero worship
while they channel surf
Pulled by yachts
they don't make waves
Oceans abound but
most just coast
in creeks and canals
No Wake Zones
Think you're woke, bro?
You just came up
with a narrow strait thought
that was simply dismissed
by Heraclitus of Ephesus
nearly three millennia ago
Your certainty of knowing
brings danger of you drowning
Cause "Ever-newer waters flow
on those who step into the same rivers."
All I know is fire
so burn a hen for Prometheus
and we'll topple poser's podiums
then yoga flame them back to oneness
Cause after horrific mediation
and barring off public relations
You'll catch me drunk playing video games
with butchers and their daughters
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 6:35 PM UTC
She lays alone in her high tower castle,
playing pass the parcel by herself, lonesome-
she groans for help, but it never seems to arrive.
Her eyes are fuelled with desire for company-
plagued by puppetry, the puppeteer-
steers her every action, every breath of air taken
is monitored.
She once spent days brushing her silky hair,
known that life was fair and just but time changes-
as a pendulum continues to swing and sway.
The nights played like a recorded noise,
no choice but to stay awake as the beep continues
and the tribute made in honour of her grew larger.
In the multistorey hospital where laid her brush,
the cuts and bruises came to be fixed with care,
but her hair grew thinner and shorter day by day.
In her hospital bed, where she laid asleep-
with ambient beeps, she no longer lays there
as she takes her lonesome stare into the light.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 5:26 AM UTC
I'm the poet.
You're the puppet. I
control
where
your
eyes
lead,
when and where you
read my words
with my spaces and p
auses,
drive you crazy with nonsense clauses
that don't always rhyme.
But they do some of the time.
Or I use alliteration around absently,
leaving you wondering what my next word will be.
And by making it to the end of this poem,
you have proven how poets manipulate your thinking through the use of poetry puppetry.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
[a modified sestina]
My sister and I watched grandpa and grandma.
She has trained him into a service dog,
Sister has never been so marveled.
Grandma clears her throat and grandpa
clears her plate into the garbage.
My sister giggles. She has a thirst to learn.
My sister is ten when she rings in her first boyfriend.
Grandma crows that it’s lovely. I can see her mentally
checking off the list grandma made for her, thinks she's
taken the right step into womanhood. I can see it
in grandpa's trained face. He knows as I do that this
is only the beginning of her rise to the twisted Aphrodite.
My sister is fifteen when she realizes she can puppet men
with the clink of her hips. She strolls with a boy lapping
at her heels, the next day she is with a new chump.
I ask of the boy, she snides that he is just a dip,
thing on the side, a mister, for when she is bored.
What god, do you think you've become? I spit.
She does not give me a second glance.
She nods his way and he dashes to the car door,
He doesn't dare let it brush against her arm.
She has mastered it, no need for lessons anymore.
She has achieved what grandma wouldn't dare touch.
I do not think she will stop here.
She is sixteen when I find her pooling
her eyes out on our father's front porch.
She spills They are gone.
The chump, the boyfriend, the dip, the mister,
all shelved her like a forgotten doll.
I bet they realize there is no love in puppetry.
I face her with no sympathy.
Can't expect men to tap dance on your string.
You can't bask in the burlesque of Aphrodite.
You wanted to be like grandma.
Grandma was noosed by the strings
she sowed onto grandpa before he left her.
No man will bow under a self-acclaimed god.
So, study this fall from Olympus.
Understand, you are as human as we are.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC