the marionette

imagined by others,

s/he is approached as the

perfect candidate,

s/he is that last

perfect

puzzle

piece,

which will make the whole

monstrosity,

complete &

not a shred of talent matters,

not a shred of ambition is

needed,

not a shred of ideals, not a

shred of intelligence, not a

shred of anything but the

will to obey for dollar bills &

the obligation to keep that

cocaine figure,

with a face that can be pumped

full of twisting

poison, as many contractual times

as possible,

as long as it brings in the

bucks,

as long as it makes the hormones

run,

as long as it makes the flailing hands

throw coins in the coffer

with silent hopes that a blowjob is

just down the line---

and when the marionette finally

makes it rain,

the puppet masters pulling the strings

edge back & hide behind the curtain

allowing for the fresh face

to suck up the credit &

dance the way they do best,

to the sounds of the cameras clicking,

the facefuck posting (tattering smartphone

fingers ablaze), the light speed twattering

& the real time, still human,

amphetamine babbles that come

out as a side effect of anyone glued to

all said screens.

 

now these curious kitties finding

everything via the web, want to make

certain that the dancer is in fact the

author of the piece of work

which they’ve all be masturbating

to overnight,

as it goes viral &

sparks conversation for the first few

hours of the next work/school morning,

but as the hamsters all run on their

wheels,

somebody gets an inclination

that the marionette

swings from strings &

that the piece which they’ve all cum for,

really isn’t authored by the beautiful

face they thought they knew.

 

when confronted, the marionette’s

lips are sealed,

because it’s part of the contract---

it’s all part of the

contract &

the contract is what separates the

charlatans from those who actually

create anything

anymore.