meh
Puppet
I am the clock upon the wall,
on your wrist; never
enough, but that is what...
Oh, it is so good to have you home. So,
very, very good, but,
when will you? Yes, we want one,
very much.
It’s all ratings anyway.
I am the gun behind your back,
the dress sun-bleached with virginal lies;
marionettes dance for the crowd,
please,
we miss you. If you will, please,
just one more time;
for the crowd.
I am the ring on your finger,
no, never that.
Vestal children, with
flowers; passed across necks.
Oh, the crowd does love a show.
Maybe, after,
you know, we can
lie.
I am the surprise on his face;
the anger that he, no…
his best intentions,
all he wanted, was, yes,
to hurt you.
It’s a twist,
for the viewers. That’s all.
A little drama never hurt anyone but you.
I am the product of this,
born unto the minute hand’s end,
someone else demanded…
no, I speak to soon…
Will you, then, one more time?
Oh, the crowd does love a show.
Tentatively Entitled ‘Mask’
Let me know, then,
that if the door closes, you will continue to exist.
When you breathe, do so within my sight;
let air be devoured with no guilt and no sense of debt,
make life reborn to be worth the cost of what doesn’t exist to be sold.
Break away existence nondescript in order to run
nails against skin to cut;
to feel;
to make sure that someone is still alive…
or do we
follow blindly the Nephilim ‘til the father decrees
“let oceanic filicide make new justice”
while a murder of crows flies high to exist against beginning;
to live for nothing more than what is said behind.
Let sensation be forsaken and the son be chosen but,
do not forget,
then,
that the pyre is to be built;
we shall burn reason instead of books,
we shall rape logic it its mother’s arms,
we shall dash the head of truth against monuments of segregation.
This is the decree of our father, said by the son when they cast out the light;
and the glory will be mine.
Did you ever know that you could make me bleed?