You are watching everything I do.
You make sure I repeat the words; your words.
I'm your mouthpiece.
Your ballerina.
If I wanted the fame and glory,
Then I will deal.

You are my Svengali
Watch as I dance and dance,
Never realizing...
I didn't stand a chance.

I now know
That I am a puppet
In my very own show.

~
abruptly waking to discover
the sempiternal daylight of herself
in a small silent village in Brussels

the sky's a cloudless blue
and she needs the sun
like children need two parents

sunglasses conceal bedroom eyes
smiles hide like inverted *******
clothed in peekaboo milieu

a highly individual creature
in an era of the exaggerated curve
she's an amnesiac

doodle-dawdling in the altogether
wrapping herself around
mise-en-scène

it's breakfast with Mr. Svengali
then unacquainted foothills
and undergrowth
in the flaring of conjugal
light and shadow

hum
thrum
'n strum
she's got the whole wide world
in her hands

her simple slantwise silhouette
declivitous neck
inclining embonpoint
summoning him

no clock, no watch
the keeping of time
is served by rapping
her crown upon the headboard
at regular intervals

her open-tempered sighs
closing with the heaviness
of a sleepy hush

until the echoing of church bells
announce the footfalls
of tomorrow-come-looking
~

I've never met Andy Rooney.  So I can't truthfully say I know Mr. Rooney.  But you can't help forming an opinion after watching him on 60 Minutes for more years than I care to admit.

First, Andy's opinionated.  Well, who wouldn't be if they were paid, presumably well,  given an entire week to collect and share their thoughts with millions of viewers, and on any matter that rankled you that week!

Second, Andy has Svengali eye brows that you just can't take your eyes off.  I'm sure CBS provides Andy free barbering, as sure as I am that he tells the barber, "Nothing off the brows."

Third, how many times has Andy told his audience not to send him things.  After which he dips into a cardboard box and pulls out a cheese grater, a bible printed on playing cards, or a logo baseball cap?
Andy, don't worry; I got the message.

Is my minute up yet?  

Fourth, Andy's hand shakes.  Not unusual for a man his age.  It's not likely to happen, but I wouldn't mind shaking that hand just once.

Manufactured individualism
Quickly assimilated into societies and cultures
Conditioned to salivate uncontrollably
Whenever marketeers ring their bells;
And the conglomerates ring their hands,
Anticipating chaching, kachinging cash registers
And the ecstasy of zinged credit,
As their manipulations percolate
Through the media-saturated masses, moping
Susceptible to provocation of whims
Due to implanted inadequacies.
The child, youth - by extension, parent;
The socially inept, unconforming conformists,
All fall under the svengali-spjaller's dulcet nagging -  
To Buy! Buy! See you next Tuesday, Suckers!

Desire. It's the storm cloud that creeps
Across the skull and blocks the light of common sense.
It's the janitor with a hidden agenda
That doesn't allow any light bulb to come on.
A Svengali swinging a pendulum left to right,
Until the mind is at its complete beck and call.

Desire. It reaps millions of butterflies;
Grown in the stomach. Wanting to be free.
It's the cause of the tension in your body.
The tsunami in your eyes. The quaking of the hands.
Most importantly, it's the internal burning sensation
That spreads to become a hole in the heart.

Desire. It's the delicate crumbling of anxiety
That melts with the comforting warmth of relief.
The fire of temptation; burning so sweet
As sweat collects upon victims unknown.
The aching in the muscles, the knocking in the chest
Of a heart whose cavity has been patched up.

Desire. It's the patch that frays over time
And the hole is re-opened. Tears re-flood.
The trembling vocal chords and the cracking voice
That fall like foundations under searing heat.
The eventual destruction and its finality
That hit you with a dull metallic taste in the mouth.

Finally knowing that no matter how bad you want it,
You will never own it unless under its own terms.
Advice? Read the fine print.

I scribble away every day
because every scribble and
scramble might be a preamble
to the last write
the goodnight

I fire off finale's
to guru's
svengali's
like emails
they sail

fail to send?
spend some more time

fine
like I've got all of that and more

I no longer care
What I think of myself
Insecure in my
Glass house
Of cards I’ve been dealt
But can make of them
Victory
Seamlessly
Scheme with me
Banish dissent
To invent
More machinery
War economics
Is my peace of mind
By design
Histrionics
Employed in my rhyme
Non-aligned to the pact,
The accord,
Nor the treaty
Just break it like bread
Promises
To the needy,
A greedy,
Lascivious
Megalomanic
Discordant purveyor,
Soothsayer
Of panic
Promoter of voter
Fraud
Laud the fine people
On both sides of I’ll
Convince them we’re equal
But we know the truth
There can only be one
Absolute
Who so ruthlessly
Rivals the sun
And when done
With remembrance
Remains in the pages,
Parades and crusades
And the subsequent stages
Prophetic
Magnetic
Charisma
Engages
The masses again
And the muses by pen
Yet the mask
Shall be cast
From my face in the end

Strides the stallion proud like so…
Visionary bright in Aviator shades
Each sunrise toward his muse, dust & bone
**** rudeness without excuses made
Gregarious a salesman of gravity, Insider mole,
A Boss—Lady, Or Apple genius (reclusive) *****.
List maker, name taker, A hot exclusive.
I feel you, mr. Guru, your heart’s dream music.

The simpletons of Snowdonia
declares they want to **** up his mind
put nonsense and jazzes in his head, the maggots says
now this is a journo as smart as they come in human nature
what real matured sophisticated lady would grandly declare
to a prospective suitor ' I've had loads of Indian lovers'
immediately you know this is out of order
just another junk to wrack the brain as loads of others
that the clever journo had already figured their intended planned use
laughing inwardly at simpletons trying mental manipulation
he played the fool and let dummies believe he was stupid like them
then the prime fools sought to hinge and anchor like their empty minds.
just put this with this and that with that and we have buttons and keys....what a pack of basic idiots
no point wasting time with uncouth street level numpties
we have nothing in common here, some misinformed anodynes
play Svengali of the lower class, because you live among-st them
I pulled the rag on nonsense
left eggs on their dumb faces
Surprisingly, they drosses haven't wised up yet
they still playing with themselves
still think they are controlling
still think gutter-rats and lowlifes
are Svengali and puppeteers
they know nothing of contempt
they have no self respect or self knowledge
they can't see the manupulated sheep they really are
yeah, indian lovers equals hate all indian
steal a car hate a neighbour
see black, hate black
dummies theories
as stupid as stupid gets.....

The nemesis scatterlings of Loonysville
want to live my life in madness perspectives
transferring the bastardization certificates
they so ingloriously and inherently attained
for in reckoning they claim mindlessness is universal

In vacuous throes and elemental blankness
with unison monumental and delusions blazing
sheep-herding and group-think leads the throngs
fabricating and cladding in whitewashed distortions
camouflaging realities for fodder in the bay of pigs

By edicts from Red Svengali's book of Lies
what we say is  what goes we makeup the drama
we are puppets controlled by puppets for puppets
rainmaking on all parades to drown our sorrows
our trademark blights, stains and rings of woes

We are the salts of the earth without sodium
more sodomites, ******* 'n sniveling poltroons we are
our history in neurosis we're Babylonians gutless psychos
we extort, we rob, we steal, lie and twist its our nature
we make it up as we go along for we're not made up in anyway