"ventriloquism" poems
At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his mind.
He knew that he heard it,
A bird's cry, at daylight or before,
In the early March wind.
The sun was rising at six,
No longer a battered panache above snow...
It would have been outside.
It was not from the vast ventriloquism
Of sleep's faded papier-mache...
The sun was coming from the outside.
That scrawny cry&mdasp;It was
A chorister whose c preceded the choir.
It was part of the colossal sun,
Surrounded by its choral rings,
Still far away. It was like
A new knowledge of reality.
1.8k
Peace got clothes to wear
that are called democracy
and are also worn by others
doppelgangers on the stage
of the power that they serve
as an extra or a puppet
It's an easy role
but in real life it is great
self-control and a matter
of patience to understand others
and to convince each other
of a public interest
This is how the Great Law
of Peace works along the Panther Lake
and the Sparkling Water
listening and consulting
without ventriloquism
or indelicate word
Jun 2, 2022
Jun 2, 2022 at 3:53 AM UTC
*"The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantelpiece
And the footman sat upon the dining-table
Holding the second housemaid on his knees--
Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived"
— From "Aunt Helen" by T.S. Eliot*
It's laugh-out-loud funny
how
one death
can change things.
If she were here
I'd blame
it
on a lifelong ill-
fascination with
Charlie McCarthy
or a hang-up
that's lingered since
the bourbon-scented Santa
invited me to sit.
At some point
you've got to
get back on the horse
though my levers
aren't so
easy to work
and, I better get
more
than a stuffed Pooh bear
out of this trip.
It's still-deep
water under the bridge
because
she's not.
Jun 2, 2010
Jun 2, 2010 at 5:41 PM UTC
Sometimes life is not fair,
but when you're the cause
of the unfairness,
life is unbearable.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
your lip jutting out is like a shard of broken glass
and I know you’d just stitch me back up if I tried but
I don’t think you’re very amenable to being kissed;
not now, anyway.
not here, you’d say.
all I've ever wanted was to put my mouth on you, baby,
taste the salt of your skin like natural protection against
your demons and mine
and all the others in between.
you think you've seen them all but believe me,
I'm older, I'm wiser, handsomer too but you don’t see me bragging about it
and I've seen what’s down there. I tried
to protect you for as long as I could but
we have seen the end of night
in the complete dark
together.
I almost miss that dark, the obscurity where you’d admit you didn't always have to be so **** conscious
and we slipped back to raw instinct and raw feeling
and I've still got the feel of your skin under my fingertips
and between my palms
and my hands have been covered with you for years, now.
I don’t dare to breathe on them lest the last of your DNA
slip through my fingers -
but it was probably too good for me, anyway.
your genes and your jeans fit you beautifully and I'm like a ****** hopped up on the memory of when
I raked my nails down your back and
though the lines have faded
I will always reopen those wounds.
I will never leave you more whole than I.
we have broken every rule and we have broken
each other, and I wonder why anyone
would settle for any less than this;
because an empty passengers seat is the loneliest place I've seen in the continental united states
and that’s counting the grand canyon, baby.
I have stood above that yawning tear in the ground and tossed my voice into it, practising idiocy and ventriloquism and other interchangeable words like that
and like a man carved from stone I stood there, watching, listening, waiting with a patience borne of desperation,
but after a few thousand lungfuls of broken glass there was no reply and I
left.
I pulled your favourite move and I
left,
alone.
so what do we have now? a car, the change in our pockets and each other?
it sounds romantic as **** but you've always been the poet here.
I'm just the guy who sits behind this frozen wheel and drives
because it’s easier than warming my hands
and when I tear your heart out the cold
numbs your chest so you can’t even feel it.
have you ever felt anything? have you felt me, baby?
has this whole ******* existence of mine been in vain?
because your lip jutting out is like a shard of broken glass and I've got
the oddest premonition that it can slice me to ribbons
if you would just move your head and look at me.
baby, please. look at me.
let me know I'm alive so I can die for you.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
life lies on me like a coffin lid
the investment of a strange ventriloquism
where no one has imagined me
or the existence of my
verbalizing impulses of emotion
the structured knowledge of
chemistry and music
I shall go beyond
beyond the humming bird
beyond the giant stars
way, way past the darkness
in the valley
where the gentle tempest rests
and there I shall enter into visions
and claim a desolate sun
who possesses enormous
silhouetted slices of hell
i shall go far beyond the speaking rain
beyond the whispers that have taken up
residence in my mind
way, way past the living and the dead
where ancient texts have wept
i shall stumble far across the horizon
beyond the jagged edges of the world
far, far beyond all known compass
where cartographies of silence
roam
here i shall be made a suggestive space
a womb with a heartbeat
here, far beyond all that is
in a dark place of peace
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 11:33 AM UTC
This brick.
This bulging pocket of blue jean.
This song player, noise maker, memory saver.
Eternal space.
Secret keeper.
It's my life, this brick.
You think you can touch it? have it? hold it?
Let my secrets run along your nerves and scurry in between your brain cells?
No.
I would rather die an ignominious death and
rot a thousand years in the sea than
watch your eyes scan my life.
Search the deep caverns of my soul.
Watch your heart scream and hear the echoes of blood curdling madness.
Your fingers would burn as
you caress the suggestive sentences.
back and forth and
it comes naturally.
Sad truths.
Depressing facts.
You'd rather pour acid on your
eyes
and have them turn to
dust
than read the conversations,
I swear.
The ability to chirp
and make it appear as if it came from my own mouth?
Ridiculous.
I do not believe in ventriloquism.
Weak images
your eyes cannot behold.
I would feel exposed.
Like "The Woman" bathed
in wool and cloth and silk.
And under memos?
The secret to how my brain works.
Why would I desire you to know the short cut
to my vulnerability?
The grey box to my wiring and the scalpel to my heart.
It's the way my soul thinks.
And you can't know that.
This brick, bulge, memory saver,
it's my secret keeper.
The fidelius charm cast over my own self.
The secret is kept within
the very soul of my secret keeper.
Giving the password up is worthy of death.
You will never hold its life on your hands.
You will never see my
soul.
You will never know my
heart.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
I do not feel anything for anyone.
I am alone... except for my rage.
I am the sun, I am the giver of light and my home is the darkness.
I am hope...
I am redemption and my home is despair, amidst the ******
I am the seed of chaos
and I have sprouted in the heart of your concrete.
Your pillars are my prison,
but soon, very soon,
they will come crumbling down
and you will be left with no roof over your precious head.
No shelter from nature's wrath and no savior from the unknown.
My rage... My rage...
I cringe and flinch to keep it in its cage.
A futile effort,
for how can one cage a part of one's self and still be free, or even alive ?
Through my trials, I have come to understand many of the forms in which failure can manifest.
Used up and abused, my potential wanes.
Faced with my helplessness, it is not despair or surrender that beckons It is only anger that beckons
Yes, I am angry
Yes, I am hurt
and yes, I am hateful and filled with hatred.
And yes, I feel my waste.
My rage... My rage...
I cringe and flinch to keep it in its cage.
Beneath the weariness and below the darkness
a fury scorches my insides... for I have been deceived.
This is not my doing, this facade is not my work.
I do not wish to victimize myself,
but I also wish to assert that I am not the proprietor.
This sick act of ventriloquism was forced upon me
by one stronger than myself.
I am not myself and I am no one else.
I am without a form and without a voice.
My voice is that of the voiceless,
and you'll never silence the voice of the voiceless.
Jun 13, 2010
Jun 13, 2010 at 1:45 AM UTC
Infinity on end
The hourglass has fallen and time continues to pretend
With grains of sand spread far and wide
They cover hilltops and mountainsides
They paint the world an unearthly glow
But all that glitters is not gold
Yet here in our little bubble, ignorance is bliss
But just beneath the surface we know not what we miss
Cos while we think we live, we live only for the puppeteer
To cut the strings
Is to switch off the life support, rebel
To flip the switch
Is nothing but a one way ticket to Hell
Or so they’d have us believe
Edges on display
The shiny glass has broken, fragments scatter in disarray
With shards of glass spread far and wide
They cover oceans and countryside
They paint the world with unearthly snow
But all that glitters is not gold
Here they give us nothing, yet we honour and obey
So what have we got to lose, of what are we afraid?
Cos while we think we live, we live only for the puppeteer
To grow our wings
Is to remove the safety net in place
To cut the strings
Is nothing but an almighty fall from grace
Or so they’d have us believe
Eternity’s end
The hourglass has shattered and the puppeteer descends
With freedom now spread far and wide
The tainted earth is purified
The strings are burned to ashes and dust
Leaving all that glittered now to rust
Now we see the world in truth, no more ventriloquism
We see it all; the black and blue; why not embrace the crimson?
Copyright ©2016-2017 KF
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 7:21 PM UTC
Her eyes spoke volumes, more than her lips meant to divulge
the once warm brown pupils turning a stinging gray cold
piercing my impenetrable walls built around this fragile heart
chipping each brick apart
cracking the mortar, turning rough stone to pebbles
pulling the flowers petals
she loves me not, she loves me not, perhaps I'm forgetting a step
the shortness of breath
left my hands to tingle in the warm july air
she spoke volumes in her stare
her hands restless running through her hair
her smiling lips were the puppets to the eyes anguish filled ventriloquism
I drowned out her words and let my eyes listen...
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
I am me
I was meant to breathe the meaning I see
I stem my own creativity
two eyes not four
No need to keep myself in check
This is Freedom
No ventriloquism
I'm not a circus animal
Now only yes comes out of these lips
the lips you once loved
the lips you lit up
Now I say yes
Yes to looking ******
Yes to eating that extra piece
Yes to laying in bed all day
Yes to loosing myself
Yes to wearing that
Loosing my phone for days never felt to liberating
With you there was checking in
I checked out early from the hotel
and burned it down
Im on a road trip and I'm never coming back
Loving myself is good enough for me
I am my best match
I am my most intimate lover
I am my funniest comedian
I am my most interesting date
I have friends
I have flings
I have me
I have life
Limitless boundaries all for me
May 31, 2011
May 31, 2011 at 2:48 PM UTC
i am waiting for the strings to pull
i am waiting for the phone to call
reluctant to admit that
you are the one behind it all
i chose the kiss over the bruise
i like to think you let me choose
one thing over another
unaware it's all a ruse
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 7:39 PM UTC
Spritzed me with rain, this morning.
Rooftops unravel inner coating like old scabs
to wounds. Quiescent mercy of the Sun
bleared behind curtains of cumulus. There is a far
more in-depth correlation between an insurmountable
ex-facto and the fruition of affront:
something a sutured lip unwraps, a sotto voce.
Murmuring murmurings,
tousled the leaves to a zither like salad on a depthless bowl:
a coarse susurrus unattainable through lip-reading: tongue’s the
scythe and the message that rummages athwart, something
that rushes in the blood, a scrape on the sinew
as I coil in pain like a thing in womb revealing its fetal nature.
something that speaks for another one – ventriloquism
in its keenest sense, speak for me, you, both of us lost
in frenzied translation.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 1:44 AM UTC
i feel like a puppet
a ventriloquist taking control—
i move hopelessly as their fingers
tangle with the strings,
making me dance,
dance,
dance.
Oct 28, 2019
Oct 28, 2019 at 7:35 AM UTC
It's a still life this
universe
silent
and the voices
we hear are our
own
Sep 7, 2025
Sep 7, 2025 at 10:40 AM UTC