"ventriloquist" poems
Where's the ventriloquist
throwing voices around
like whistling stray dogs
the voice and the vision
a crystal *****
whispering
with mud in the mouth
the ***** doesn't lie
a yammering vantwilaquist
who's voice springs from a blood cream corridor
with electric lips and rainbow flesh
a lost beast dazzled in endless wander lust
in search of a scarlet women
surrounded only
by aspiring virgins
sworn to be true
by desolations caress
in black ash weddings
with white frilly dresses
weeping for delicate cruelties
they will never know
his father a falling star
his soul
an undulating cobalt shrine
to her
who he can not find
a catalog of discrepancies
a noxious experiment
with a wandering eye
lust ******
embattled between reason and passion
is that look your giving me
shorthand psychic humiliation
for my vile indiscretions I'm trembling to visit upon you
I'm wearing my face like window dressing
hiding the obscenity of my true will behind a curled lip
eyes down cast
hoping to use you like a vacant room
to smear the walls and floors
with your flesh like ************ glitter
too bad
i'm outnumbered by good people
there are sky-fulls of them
agitated with moral concerns
ruining my life with logic
those scoundrels
got pedigree
ideologies
religion
folded ears and moving lips
all monkeys see and monkeys do
who are they
and
were
is
their
ventriloquist
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 12:41 PM UTC
Have you ever had a fantasy boyfriend?
The kind that thinks that you’re
A couple
Despite the fact that
You don’t have their cell number
Nor their name,
often
You never had *** or traded spit
They don’t know where you live
They, in fact, know nothing about you
A little laughter shared
Perhaps
A momentary giggle waiting
for the bathroom door to open
And bam! Like Zeus.
Without your ever knowing, you are a team.
A team that never engages
but together none the less. Solid.
Ride or Die.
Then one day
You have an ugly break up.
You never saw it coming
What did you do, you wonder?
He won’t speak to me!
He’s mad. Filled with resentment.
His eyes are on fire. I am hated.
He will show up the next time we see one another
with a woman
And that’s when you finally know for certain
You just had a Fantasy Boyfriend
How did you rupture?
It’s an eerie realization.
Like understanding in an instant
that neither are you the ventriloquist
nor the dummy
But somehow
you
go back into the box.
Better still, have you ever encountered the sub-species
Fantasy Bad Boyfriend?
Or Fantasy Abusive Bad Boyfriend?
They are perhaps the worst of the lot, naturally.
They don’t call.
They date other women.
They sit in their living rooms assured that you’re waiting at their front door.
In the rain.
With flowers.
Over and over the bell, ring though it might
It pleads on your behalf.
And yet they will not answer
And I was not standing there.
I was at the beach
watching the rain fall upon on the water.
You never called
so when they
disappear
For
Days
And return unannounced
You’re just now finding out that
there are serious cracks in your relationship.
They used you
They played with your heart
They apologize for the treatment of which you are so very undeserving
They never wanted you.
Yet you never spoke.
Never popped over with
Flowers
Nor cookies!
Never sat in your car waiting
You were out town the entire
Time.
You two did see a movie once.
That is true.
But now you’re over.
And he’s moved on.
And suggests with his absence?
that you do the same.
You can tell.
Some days your paths cross.
He stands still as Jesus
At the Hollywood Farmer’s Market.
With his wife and new baby
Or
Dog.
She looks at you with suspect eyes while you think about the tomatoes.
Someone wags their tail and hopefully they will quickly move along
en famille.
You hold your tomato plants and shudder.
You walk over to the double blossom peppermint tulips.
Tight little babies ready to unfurl.
The ones you never gave him.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 9:04 PM UTC
our brains are only
soggy ventriloquist creeps
who never leave home
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 10:31 PM UTC
Sloane swallows.
***** is ****
I execrate extraterrestrial.
We are all kaput to conk out.
Pollyanna is singular hanky—panky.
Little green men are unpatriotic, perverted and naughty.
I verily don’t grease a *****
Oojakapivvycum.
If you are amphibious that means you are an effervescent ventriloquist capable of
Cannibalism, cannibalism and cannibalism.
The fluid inside the android is so gothic and naff
It is knock—kneed in the face of flashing **********
I do not feel that I am on the shoulders of cobber doggies.
I am protoplastically lassoed abutting penetrating vampire and pervert
That penetrate ***** creature.
I have pricked little green men myself and taken pleasure in it.
It is only with the help of bad hair days of groupies that I have not been in Sing Sing.
We are all sadomasochistically decomposing in a heap of our own meconium.
I bore stiff to outstrip yours truly as much as I have room to swing a cat from Ku Klux ****
But I am as complicit in the android’s ****** abuse as it were android ***
Little green men ***** me as I ***** myself.
I ***** bug—eyed men’s ******* types as I have perpetually vomited Molotov cocktail.
I smell little green men’s filth televised on their ******* types.
I feel like I am inside a crust of cancers who delight in smelling others bonk upstairs,
Ad hominen id. Ex post facto,
I am too much of a dastard to throw cold water on myself.
I coagulate gungily to my menstrual gibbering ******
Castrating anti—Semite to flash me abutting crème de la crème.
Strenuously, my ***** gluts under one’s nose because that is all there is.
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 6:27 PM UTC
So tell me
Is it possible to give love
And have it returned equally?
Is it possible to give him your soul
And have it returned whole?
Love.
Maybe this emotion is nothing
But a fictional feeling
The key to misery.
A lie,
Birthed from misleading childhood story lines.
Because I believe
There's never gold at the end of the rainbow
And a heart that's broken can't be sowed
There's no happily ever after
No perfect ending finishing the last chapter
No white picket fence or perfect family to show
Love doesn't exist
Just people here to use u as their personal
Ventriloquist...
Betrayal.
3/16/17
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 8:58 PM UTC
i.
A ventriloquist
When we were one
Putting words in my mouth
I didn’t mind
ii.
A mad ventriloquist
When we were some
Somedays, What Ifs and Maybes
Camo clad ventriloquist
A kid with a gun
We shared a sugar sack baby
iii.
Tired, sad ventriloquist
Even when we had fun
You spoke of days long after
Such a bad ventriloquist
When we were almost done
Mismatched lips, silence, and forced laughter
He doesn’t deserve all the power he has
Yet he remains my
Puppetmaster
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
A Reading from the Book of Puppets
**Her
Ventriloquist venom is never ending
engineering every word I should say**
Pity me as her words drip down from my mouth
Look to me... my paralyzing awkwardness admonishes all attempts at paucity
the ***** of vernacular continues
Manifest as a million babble born words
look at her and you’ll know why
***Would you sell your soul
if you spoke staccato and she smiled sadistic?***
And when she’s not there
***I lay prostrate on the railroad tracks
of her impending presence***
restrained
and retrained in the tailisman rope of your arrival
Look there now, a Tongue tied in knots, a mind firing (shots)
I am reduced
she is labyrinthine, in both style, and substance,
a sapiosexual maze, a soothing syrup mixed with
biter bile
why then does
nothing feel better than to see her smile
Why validate her pleasure
with my defeats?
Stuck and ****** into a singular melodious smile, the tune of which I can’t help but dance to
Why? Because at the end of the day
your eyes jut out
candelabras in defiance the night
notifying the world
of all you want but have yet to receive
a shallow existence .... a marked man... a million morbid motifs
made of mucus and stuttered star beams
You are that rare being, a glimpse at myself both wretched and alluring
A soul already tainted::: still I seek to embrue, the boredom
I am voiceless
in this decaffinated life
a tendril of hair
a woman domestic
a shadowland chaser
a light that’s poetic
The addictive tape worm of my soul
cdh
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 1:15 AM UTC
I hold you in the palm of my hand,
your eyes are hollowed out craters.
In the holes of which, buried deep, are the memories that you and I once shared,
some could say that we still share them,
it would be difficult for me to disagree.
I hold you in the palm of my hand,
your life hangs in the balance,
tipping ever so slightly into the unknown.
We share the same name
and although I have tried in vain to change mine,
it still sticks,
lingering on old tongues,
leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
I hold you in the palm of my hand,
you sit, waiting for whatever will come next,
you watch me with curious eyes, as if i know the answer to your questions,
and it pains me to tell you that I do not.
I hold you in the palm of my hand,
we are a magnificent circus duo,
I, the ventriloquist and you my mindless drone,
or you the ventriloquist and I, all alone.
Our audience laugh at our shared torment and
I, I laugh as well at the situation we have created.
I hold you in the palm of my hand,
and though we share the same name,
the same face,
I fear we are no longer the same.
You are a reflection of what used to be,
of what is now forgotten
and fading away,
as though you never existed in the first place.
And, I , I am the aftermath,
The desolation after an explosion,
I am the one who was left behind to pick up the pieces.
I hold you in the palm of my hand,
I hold you close to my heart,
close enough that the pounding of my being deafens you,
and the shaking of my rib cage engulfs you.
I hold you in the palm of my hand,
I tell myself that it is to protect you ,
but in reality I know that I am crushing you.
I hold you in the palm of my hand,
your eyes are hollowed out craters.
In the holes of which, buried deep, are the memories that you and I once shared.
But now you are gone and yet I still remain.
Those memories intact but not looking the same.
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 8:56 AM UTC
.
V
e e n e
n t r n
t i l t
r o r
i q u i
l i s l
o t V o
q e n q
u t u
i r i
~
st
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 5:35 PM UTC
It’s in newspaper ads, and on T.V,
Pasted everywhere for us to see.
A new entertainer in town, they say,
Giving a performance before going away.
Who is it this time, I wonder,
Who is it that people go to with a cheer?
It’s a ventriloquist, a puppet man,
He’s supposedly made everyone his fan.
And so it was to see the show I went,
It was a boring life’s escapade, godsent.
Robby Rob, was his name,
This name so engulfed in fame.
He was spectacular, and really good,
Now everyone’s excitement I understood.
There he was on stage,
About twenty five years of age.
He and his puppet, joking, laughing,
To everyone happiness he did bring.
Then the show was done,
He left with a smile on his face,
We had had our share of fun,
While he and his puppet left in grace.
How happy he looked, how content was he,
He seemed to be satisfied and filled with glee.
But, who knew what was really happening,
In his life from the beginning?
For in his room,
So full of gloom,
The ventriloquist was a different person,
One who looked glum and devoid of fun.
Who knew, that he was an abandoned orphan,
Who had struggled for obtaining a bun?
Who knew, the problems in his life,
His heart cancer, his huge bank debt, his eloped wife???
The lifeless puppet, his only friend,
The only one who’ll stay till the end.
As he sheds his tears,
One falls near his puppet’s eye,
And as he is filled with his ever growing fears.
Along with him his puppet does cry…
They hug each other, close and tight,
For them, nothing seems to be going right.
And yet, and yet, I walk home with envy
Thinking that the Ventriloquist’s life is happy and carefree…
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 10:09 PM UTC
And I’ll swear by forty swords
If a sword is what will appease you
“SWORDS!” I’ll shout with mock obscenity, “Oh, swords!”
And you’ll wordlessly curse me through pinched eyes
And you’ll inform me that I am not a jester
And that you are not my mother, nor my caretaker.
But I swear, (swords!)
I swear that my mother has never hatefully condemned me for making light of a situation
Never folded her face into contorted revolt at my weak attempts to mend a fractured conversation.
And yet it seems as though I’ve prodded you with too many swords
You’ve plastered your negligible scars with bandages irrelevant–
Trivial, for though once wounds, they’ve since been healed.
Like a puppet master, like a ventriloquist
You’ve got me speaking in idioms
A foster home, I’ve adopted your character
And, doing so, determined your actions foolish
And you the fool and jester.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 3:29 AM UTC
I saw pig wearing white fronts
I looked
Perplexed,
Confused,
Laughter,
Then came out,
*"Never wear white, with an **** like that"*
Trotters to small to wipe,
"Skids bigger than the grand canyon"
Brown with white, I
Gagged,
Heaved,
Smelling,
Like crap, I just looked as it went
Past, I started to follow as it
Trotted along, It stopped turned
"Growling at me"
Woof Woof GGrrrrr...
"Ok its not just me? don't pigs OINK"
I stared open mouthed, fingers in ears
Making sure no wax had altered the sound,
"Did you just bark and growl at me"
"Ok I'm now talking to a barking pig"
It stared for a moment
Me at it , it at me
Then it clucked
Cluck,
Cluck,
Cluck,
Front trotters flapping wildly in the air,
And then quiet
From the white which turned more brown
Now fell an egg not white
You can guess what dropped upon the floor,
Shaped like an egg, but smelt rotten to the core,
Then it walked off on all fours,
"I was puzzled"
"A dog"
"A chicken"
"What more"
"I am forever off eggs"
Never seeing them the way I saw before,
It trotted to a farm,
A farmer I saw before my eyes
Opened mouthed, hands jested towards
The pig, dog, chicken thing,
O you meet harry, he's special you've seen
That's nothing wait and see,
"Harry what do you wish to tell the gentlemen"
"Dear sir"
"Would you mind paying up"
For what I confusingly said??
*"I'm the worlds only ventriloquist"
"Porker"
"Now you have experienced the show"
"Now pay up"
"I may be a porker, but I not stupid"
"The talking is extra"
What,
Why,
What,
Is all that spilled from my mouth
I handed over notes,
£10
£20
£30
Mouth still open, as I walked
Before I knew it at the hotel I strolled
In to my room, friends standing around
"What you get up too"
"You'd think I was telling porkers"
"Want a bacon sandwich"
I look at them opened mouthed
"Really"
They say I was as white as a ghost
"No"
I replied,
"I'm a vegan"
Since when they asked??
"Since about thirty six minutes ago"
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 8:55 AM UTC
you enter my dreams with such audacious curiousity;
examined the void with intellect- deprived precision,
inspected every crevice painted in colour.
you left the blue for last because you say
the amphetamine matches my eyes.
you sample every syllable ever borne from my mouth,
denude the metaphors to their unchaste nakedness,
reach inside for unfleshly meaning.
you say all my filthy secrets implode into
ugly saliva bubbles on the brim of my tongue
and that is why you bite it off.
you make the drain spin out water. you make reverse hurricanes.
you euthanise my suffering mind with vulgarity and sliver-veined chalks.
i like it when the moon is yellow and not white.
spread me across your bones, you make me cold
**** in flesh. you wear me on your head as you would a stubborn fever.
you lick the lily, burn away its petals and
then you use the ashes in your next drag.
there are ghosts in your hair, they want idiosyncratic judgments.
they want anatomised angels and amputated wings.
they want ribs, signals, vessels and chlorine and aileron segments.
and electric ***
i am thinking of lexemes and lycoris, the vulnerability of artlessness,
prosthetic fingers and cigarettes, the umbrella under metal rain.
i only remember realities when they are expired.
the ribbon between cognition and the ventriloquist.
the psychology in undesired sentences.
this is the only immortality you and i may share; amongst ourselves
like teenagers filching answers before algebra, like dealers exchanging
eight-balls, pipes and profanity, like animals in chemical heat.
this vanilla immortality that we no longer need.
i'm watching the end of the world
from underneath your clothes.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 6:42 AM UTC
Mental midgets
reach for the top of the high horse
as the self assured
self righteous
self proclaimed
black sheep huddle around steel barrels
feeding the heat with self indulgence
The ventriloquist feasts on the bones of the innocent
and goes home to the rat-hole
across the street
from the used bookstore
on the verge of chapter 11
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
now not anymore
the Island that isn’t
a loneliness but
Choice without being
There we were sitting and
The Sea was coming and
We (me and you) – a gorgeous staple,
Hooked,
were creating and
we saw him (after years and years) how
he was entering
like a rainbow huge
unattainable and
slow
brown – like a beam
(to hold for it)
nonpoetry - the other one is breakable
when the meaning they wave –
a hand of an insane man before a mirror
nongame – the game is dead
after Joyce and like a child is screaming
for the sandy tower after an adult
(a cynical stone) carelessly and with no reason
forded through
the dolphin is a life vital
and his existence aside of the genesis
and whole in the sea and whole
is reflected
nonliterature – the literature is dead
implicated into shape and ad of
the language but
where is here the Rapture
of the dolphin – glamour
oh forgive me I am entering
a someone else’s territory
I am not a ventriloquist too
I do not practice knowledge
there’s nothing new here each
new is unnamed
a vital place without a place
in a movement moveable
smooth like blue
fused in a deep bare
white
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 8:45 PM UTC
feigning performance
pleasing the convinced, clapping crowd
of duped deafs
Dec 3, 2011
Dec 3, 2011 at 9:42 PM UTC
Sitting at a table in a pub with some other people who look really upset, nay
aghast at something I've just said
And I have this ventriloquist's Dummy on my
knee
His nose is very red as are his ears, even his
cheeks have a reddish tint
And he has this crazy wild look on his face
And he's also wearing this funny disjointed jacket which has all these very
flamboyant colours on it
Just like the colours of all the Bottles of
Spirits hanging over at the Bar
And I'm there and I'm pointing at the Dummy
explaining to the other people
"It wasn't me, it was just the Drink talking!".
May 6, 2023
May 6, 2023 at 11:41 AM UTC
In my sister’s shoes, I sit here talking
Waiting for the moment she’ll walk in balking
I’m no impersonator, no, no ventriloquist
I don’t pretend to be so
I won’t pretend to be so
I feel more like an actor thrown on stage
Without a script
I lost my ID card somewhere around here
I think someone ran off with it
Stealing identities
My friends keep calling me by the wrong name now
No matter how I try
My corrections are taped over with permanence
I wonder when they’ll realize
It takes people a while you know
They discriminate what they shouldn’t
Choosing words they like over words they don’t
I hear love
Well I said hate
How hard is it to understand?
Clearly written out to comprehend
Just listen for once, no, no
Not ‘your’ definition of listen
The real one
Maybe then you’ll see
But probably not
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 9:47 PM UTC
There was a little boy named Andy...
He was only nine years old when he died...
They buried him under a willow tree...
His father was so sad that he went insane...
One night he went to his son's grave...
Dug him out quickly...
And carried him home on his shoulder...
He then made him a dummy...
Turned him into a wooden dummy...
Painted a stiff smile on his dead face...
Put his play outfit on him...
Sat him in his favourite chair...
In the living room...
Put some music on...
He has gone home...
He has gone home...
He sang so loud that he got tired and fell asleep...
In his dream he saw his son dancing...
Bouncing around...
Singing out loud...
When he woke up his dummy son had disappeared...
He was not in sight...
He sought for him all night long but he could not find him...
He did not know...
While he was asleep deep in his agony...
Somebedy broke into his house and stole his dummy son...
Sold it to a russian ventriloquist for a few pennies...
He cried all night long...
He went back to his son's empty grave...
Crying...singing his sad song of loss and loneliness and agony...
When he went back home...
He found his dummy son sitting in his favourite chair...
With two bleeding hearts beating on his lap...
The hearts of the man who took him away....and the russian ventriloquist...
His father blurted out his happiness....
Held his son's cold wooden body tight....
Stroking his grinning dead face gently...
His son sat back still...
He stood still...
He was just a dummy...
Just a wooden dummy...
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 2:34 AM UTC
hes a bone fetcher
in black leather
with a better vendetta
to rip your netherworld
to split your feathered murals
to leave you striped, cold and curled
watching you unfurl
as you beautifully twirl
into the abyss
by that in which you enlist
by that which is not
dismissed
by the soft kiss
from the whispering lips
of the ventriloquist
never to commit
to the ****
never to admit
to the thrill
the anti
of human will
the hand
that crush and ****
the vigilante
the potion in a pill
the loyal fan
the scope glare from the hill
Everything and nothing
in one inverted exhale
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 4:49 AM UTC
Sometimes when I come (home),
I want to make a found poem out of
all the memories I never had
/(have yet to create).
It's all those words that I wanted to apply,
like "free" and "full" and "release"
and "unencumbered ventriloquist" and
"owls".
Just for the sake of sinking my teeth
into someone else's dictionary, vocabulary
(early morning rituals.
Perhaps I can slink into someone else,
if I adopt their lexicon,
and prepare my coffee the same way).
What are you spewing into the atmosphere?
What are you defining,
bringing into breath based on your action and reaction?
I could feel my hands
(plucking, grasping, ******* tearing)
your letters and phonemes and characters and verbal intent.
They're still on my pillowcase, I just don't know if you want them back.
I left mine buried in your red hot chili peppers lights,
you can keep them.
We have so many different endings.
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 12:44 AM UTC
"THE AGE OF BLOOM"
the evening is busy
growing the garden
the grass works tirelessly
at its quotidian task
only time
seems asleep
silence casts
a long shadow
leaving it to evening
to hurry along a tree’s leaves
and to shade in a sky
with a blue blackness
making a night that fits
together bit by bit
supplying just enough
gravity for an apple to fall
into the lap
of the classical statue
the flowers practice
their colours
like actresses
waiting in the wings
the stars craok
every frog - a ventriloquist
the white statue laughs
unashamed of its ******
as are the lovers
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 6:24 PM UTC
Samantha was caring, Samantha was kind,
but sadly she fell for the wrong guy.
He said he loved her, and she was such a find.
You'd never guess he was amonster in disguise.
The bruises, and pain; she lived in fear.
Clinging on to the "hope" she lasted a year.
He the ventriloquist watched his puppet swing.
Samantha couldent escape her "masters" string.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
So I was sitting on the sun,
Drinking coffee and wine.
The moonlight shone down upon me,
Smirking in silvery pride.
I took a paper and drew a globe,
I sat thinking of the colours in monochrome.
A frightened breeze flew by,
As I sat on the sun, looking so dry.
A ventriloquist came by,
Asking for shade under a tree.
I looked at him and laughed,
For I sat on the sun looking so free.
So sitting on the sun,
I observed the earth so far.
But I sat on the sun,
Drinking iced tea from a jar.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 2:55 PM UTC