The Puppeteers Master
Controlling all his strings
All his movements
All his thoughts
But never the Puppeteers Puppets

The Puppeteers Puppets
Being controlled by the already controlled
Their strings tugging and pulling
To be free
To be honest to themselves

The Puppeteer
Stuck in between
Never allowed freedom
Never giving freedom
But always thinking
About what it'd be like
Being the ultimate Master of everyone else

The ****** of the east and west,
At Your recovery we all rest,
Lord is merciful but the people are not.
Clocks tick and the days goes by,
I'm afraid that you will never be forgotten.
The west will dangle you
Before the eyes of thousands.
For all the thousand things they want
Your agendas are quite right I'm afraid,
Perhaps they thought metal was the answer.
They were afraid as well.
Showed, praised and written about,
Cherished and awarded.
Our dear malala.
I can't help think,
Perhaps you're a puppet
And west the clever puppeteers.
Brave as you are,
I know for sure now that
You don't stand a chance.
Life might be short but it seems like an eternity.
For change is what you want,
You don't reside with the enemy,
You don't accept their awards.
When a government can't assure us change,
What chance do you stand with your words,
For you are just a girl with a bullet hole.
And half this country is drowned in illiteracy.
Brace yourself sweetheart,
Cause you are just another girl,
Where millions others are fighting a real fight,
All you do is befriend the woeful west.

we're all puppets
strangling in strings:
many puppeteers pull
at the strings
tugging us toward
Different destinations
the puppeteers choose us puppets--
or do us puppets choose them?

      and they

use us in their shows,their
Meticulously
planned out games
of desire,
needs and wants
victory and
defeat.

                sometimes!

    some mysterious string
drags us away kicking and screaming
or maybe
we follow that string curiously

and our other strings break,
leaving the puppeteers with the
bitter taste of disappointment

and that other strings leads to the
                                                 painful
               Truth

we refuse
to face;
the Truth
we chose
to avoid
at the price
of freedom.

we play with a retired professional but
none of the other kids mind—
his alcoholism has gotten the better of his muscle
memory and god doesn’t he look bad

the ball is an old piece of garbage made from
a kind of industry plastic
half-flayed alive by loving kicks
that expose the moldy gray rubber inner-
sphere like some soft eyeball

and, behind one of the goals, the
boy who plays goalkeeper only on Wednesdays
lounges like a pimply Greek sculpture—
unable to move as an epileptic fit lazily
puppeteers his body while the players pass the ball into his gut
and I step aside, too—
my stomach aches so badly for the crispy joy
of cold cereal I can’t play—

some days are like that—shed of their seriousness
because it’s more fun to play without a defense
even though we’re always losing **** it I just scored
a goal!

You are the type of boy whose got saltwater in his bloodstream, bones like coral, and a heart made of driftwood – and at this point I’m just hoping someday you’ll wash up on my shore. I have seen the broken glass and beer bottle caps tucked in the folds of your sandy skin. I know how you left cuts on the feet of those who walked all over you. They were never sorry and you always were. Everyone else was too busy molding you into mangled and misshapen castles, only to stomp on them. Your soul was tangled in a mess of seaweeds and deep-sea debris. No one ever saw the brilliance of the sun's reflection in your smile that made you more dazzling than a million diamonds. But I noticed from the beginning that you were more than a temporary vacation spot or a convenient photo-op. and the shark-infested waters in your head shrank to puddles when you spoke to me in words like waves. To this day I can’t figure out what I did to deserve to be the only one you’ve ever allowed to explore your ocean floors, but I am grateful. I pressed my ear to your chest like it was the mouth of a conch shell, and heard the entirety of your ache without you saying a single thing. Violent storms churned in your belly at the hand of faceless puppeteers; made seasick by countless careless captains. But the sky cleared instantaneously the moment I came aboard. The same sun whose rays you’d always been wary of, now kiss your face the same way i wish to, taking utmost care not to burn. Your laughter is a school of fish filled with more colors than I can count and the sound of your sleeping breath is an ocean breeze. I am in love with the perfect shoreline curve of your mouth. Every day I find various buried treasures in your hidden coves and sunken ships, and I don’t think I’ll ever tire of discovering you.

- m.f.

Changing faces for nameless places
Nameless people struggling for existence in a nameless time
Worship the incoherent ramblings
Of countless babbling nameless fools
Bread and water lead the lambs to slaughter
Prejudice injustice demanding obedience
Nameless zombies

Becoming the robotic puppet
Of the puppeteers desires
With pre-programmed responses
Feelings not your own

Desensitized children
Of a race of morbid loving junkies
We render them fearless, then cry
At the mass of chaos they invoke upon us

Lost leading the lost
Devouring the beauty in their paths
The scourge of the free man
Who lives under the delusion of his freedom

Prisoners all
While the power sits upon a high throne laughing
Unbelieving how simply they all fell
And obediently they continue to provide
The avenues of deception for his rich existence


© Crystal Erickson   11/24/2007

Sandpaper hands in the black,
steady and sure, no longer pure.
Stained with the blood,
of the forgotten ones,
stars can only watch from above.

Treading lightly on stained sand oceans,
there is no depth, only death.
Why would man ****,
when man has tongue?
Do not question Capitol Hill.

The Man says to do and so it is done,
but would the Man do it if he had the gun?

Charming in his ways and strong in his speech,
he walks all over you and me,
with his big government feet.

Don't let him push,
don't let him pull,
don't let him tug,
on the little ropes.

We aren't the puppets,
we're the puppeteers.
So let them know that,
and makes sure they hear.

Woe to you, my dear Epsilon! You were ill-fated by machines,
Those that breathed life into your *****,
Those that brought bliss to puppeteers.

Alas, poor Epsilon! You  cannot dismantle the tower,
For you are of bad faith, the roots grew deep
Far beyond lamentation.

Play me a song, foolish Epsilon! Express to me your sorrow,
Compose for me the hymn of your alienation,
A requiem for subservience.

We’re all puppets
With scripts to follow
And strings attached
Whether we like it
Or not
Blinded by their lies,
Surrendering to illusions,
Pledging to the Puppeteers,
Above us

Tied to coarse string at birth
All we know is
Curtains hanging
To keep
(Protect, they say)
Us from
Reality

The ones we willfully
Placed on their gleaming
Ruby-encrusted thrones
We gave them wine
Made from our blood.
In Return,
They changed
Our veins to sap
Our flesh to wood.

And so
We, the People
Politely clapped
And nodded.
We, the People
Supported the idea of banishing
Our own kind.
We, the People
Cheered and yelled when the Grand Puppeteer
Ordered for us to be
Isolated and confined
From the Others.
Welcome to the Land of the Free!

like the inconstant moon I change,
cyclical about circumstances,
serendipity and fortune exchange
appearances for second chances,

and as we each alter our perception,
we see ourselves as constant,
each and every change in direction
still seems like a straight line

with no more than closer inspection
looking behind to the distant
fading horizon in the failing light
the pattern of circles and spirals

and zigzags, stops and backtracks
a wandering chorus line of fools
all singing things I can’t take back
the realization that I am not an individual
:
but an average of multiple formulas
complex variable algebra and simple subtraction
a vector resulting from many forces
pushing and pulling and thrusts and attractions

the color of the liquid in the test tube
fizzing and changing with every next drop occurring
an organism that adapts to its environment
to thus fill its requirements and its fleeting yearnings

a flock of birds, a can of worms, a herd of cats,
an untamable unit described in terms
of the time it exists in existing- that is
another illustration, another article, at any other time or mood

a crop whose fruitfulness is determined by unusual farmers
one field ploughed, one weeded, one fertilized, one seeded
akin to the Bible, a book of numerous authors that tries to
merge allegories into a useful, enlightening anecdote with which to furnish the brood

flesh, soul, chemical, inspired, mechanical-Angel
a temptable machine whose springs and cogs
could be found to have been hand-wound
at any given time by either His Rival’s or God’s

and if Made in His Image then I must be both
wrathful and loving, vengeful and forgiving,
quick to temper and eternally patient
yet limited in time allowed to be spent living

the difference is- my choiceful subsistence briefly caresses
this quick struggle and my purpose not yet fully defined
would fate’s justice have me on the gallows for my excesses?
or would not passion for the endowment of living grant reprieve?

where is the solace for the incurably ardent?
maniacally spontaneous, courageously aloof
what cheer can be brought to the seers?
dejected clairvoyants, puppets or puppeteers to the truth

however never simultaneously clever are we
always we must be one or the other each seen
though never seemed to be separate things
now see what difficulty wrecks all my dreams
:
catharsis then epiphany then pensive then somber
an artist, a daddy, a mocked captive, an avid doubter
carouse then abolish then regret then absolve
a spouse, a skirmish, an uncommon asset, an outlet resolved

how do I bring about the determination of the jury?
which of the accomplices will abide full recognition
and be he who will stand to read the indistinct verdict
to the culpable crowd assembled in this the trial of alternation

so contempt be then to the court of constancy!
no thing in heaven or earth adheres to its philosophy
render the sentence that I may be found guilty
yet I am consented to return undestroyed, now let the die be cast

these confines beg for stasis I cannot deliver
my cell itself is afloat without a tether
these customs require that I be a quitter
yea though the pendulum returns to the tock once the tic has passed

The puppeteer is the fool,
delivering drugs like a mule,
unaware of his crime,
he will pay a price of time.

The puppeteer approaches his boss,
in a room with some moss.
A man with two tears tattooed on his face,
holds out the his gross overpay and hands him mace.

The Puppeteer walks with what he believes is just cheats,
not hearing the sound of foot beats.
to late to block,
he is clocked.

The puppeteer protects what is his,
the boy beats him without a single miss,
out comes his hero in a baseball cap,
threatening the boy he tries to leave the map.

The puppeteers pride is damaged,
and takes the bat hitting his atter leaving him in bandages.
paying off the right people the man with tear tattoo's
make all the charges become taboo.

The puppeteer reads the news,
the boy he attacked might be set a new,
sitting by the rail on valentines day,
his friend approaches with a blush like a bae.

The puppeteer hears the boy say love,
he pushes his into the wall not wanting to be his dove,
though secretly he feels different,
and his hero can tell and kisses him not ashamed he is indifferent.

The puppeteer panics he is set a miss
for he never expected to receive a kiss,
he shoves him off and yells queer,
his heart is set with fear.

The puppeteer sees him sit down next to him,
his girlfriend near he won't mention it  Kim,
looking for justice an older brother show up,
though he is ignored as his opponent sips from a cup.

The puppeteer hears a shot be fired,
he realises he is deaths desire,
when all went black,
his eyes open to see the gunman be pushed a back.

The puppeteer smiles for he has won,
till his hand touched someone,
looking to the side their lies the hero,
and the puppeteers sanity hits zero.

Complete our dream that is his last call,
before the hero's eyes will fall.
an unmarked grave is mentioned through my rhyme,
nothing can heal the heart not even time.

One goal is set in mind,
and he will accomplish it in do time,
to become an artist of the written word,
only then can the puppeteer become a bird.

The puppeteer lives no more,
for now he closes the past's door.

I have a closet full of shadow puppets
They're funny
Don't you think?
Cuz even though I call them puppets
They're controlling me

Look at them
And you might laugh
Because they look asleep
But if you laugh
You ignite the wrath
Of what lies underneath
Their marble eyes
Like a void black hole
But stare at them
You shouldn't dare
Because from a single meaningless glare
They'll come to life
They'll take your soul
They'll eat you alive
They'll eat you whole

Because these are my shadow puppets
And they live inside my attic
But climb on up
And visit too much
And they'll turn your thoughts to static
They dress themselves in all black
But the fact is
They're not trying to hide
The fact is
If you get close enough
They'll lure you inside

Because these are my shadow puppets
And they live inside my basement
But saying that they aren't alive
Would be an untrue statement
Wooden dummies --
They might look
Hollow
Empty
Broken
Just don't be fooled by their vacantness
Take heed of what I've spoken
And if you enter the malicious trap
Just be aware
You won't come back

Because these are my shadow puppets
And they live on a string
But please don't try and make them dance
They're not as funny as you think
And if you accidentally tangle them
Or wrap their threads around their necks
You'll make them quite unhappy
And I assure you
You'll be next

Because these are the shadow puppets
And they're closing in on you
Let them inside
And you will find
They stick to you like glue
One tap on your bedroom door
Two more from the basement --
They're under your floor
Three extra knocks
From inside your wall
But there's more
No
That's not all
Four bangs from above
They're in the attic
Five pounds in your room
Go check the closet
Watch them creep in through your windows
Let them slip inside your halls
Let them dance up on your ceiling
Let them slink and let them crawl
Let them waltz into your dreams
Let them sleep inside your bed
Let them laugh when they hear you scream
“Oh, I WISH THAT I WAS DEAD!”

...

You have a closet full of shadow puppets
Dormant
Inside your room
Try not to wake them up too often
They surely want your doom

Because these are your shadow puppets
And they live inside your head
It's funny that you call them puppets
When it's you
Hanging by a thread.

I met a woman
with a trumpet tongue
who played her words on
paper, white as truces.
she told me through my stereo
"we've both had days
where the phoenix didn't rise".

we' have all had days
where the phoenix did not rise.
but thank goodness
my birthday was the first time
I heard your lips part
and saw your teeth spill oceans
of blue blankets across my jellyfish eyes.

I wish everyone understood the irony
of writing love poems to a lesbian,
but my hands never seemed to reach
the ends of my arms
like I want them to.

They always get stuck dancing somewhere
in the middle.
playing a tune only they can sway to
knowing all the steps
bouncing off every syllable
while others let their wrists go limp
as if the puppeteers needed strings
to tune their fiddle
for a happy song
somewhere far far away.

so take my breath again
keep it wherever it is that you keep
the gasps our ears give you
as your words pull the
heartstrings we forgot we had
that we forgot how to play
to wave our wet-noodle fingers and
conduct a life worth living
so full of blatant love
not afraid to make no sense
my chest was an rusty locket
the day before I heard you
and now I am so full of echoes
from it's tiny, timid click.

For Andrea,
you are a sketchbook muse,
something I have to guess at on my
worst days when there are no words
and the rain smells like a swan song
from the sky.

you kept me writing when there
was nothing left to draw
or sing or smell or see anymore.
when there was black smog
between my eardrums pounding out
the dying breath of clouds
you held me through tinny earbuds
and poems I etched in the moss
running over back roads in my mind

so I hope
you find peace
every time you find a microphone
and that someday, I'll play you a tune
which echoes through you,
with a tiny, timid
click
and a full breath
that resuscitates the open blue
until we are both whole beneath it
until, again, we are true.

And still you're more concerned  with who's in front of the curtain than who's behind it.
The puppets are being controlled by the puppeteers.
The strings are there, even though they're thin and clear; if you're searching for truth you'll find it.

So you think there are monsters that wander at night?
Witches and demons behind every blight?
Laughing hysterically, evil incarnate,
Sowing your fields with their parasites?

So you think there are devils that live in your ear,
Right next to the angel that you never hear?
Examine them closely, and I think you'll find,
None of your actions are from puppeteers.

So you think there are angels that watch over you,
Because they've got nothing that's better to do?
Letting you suffer, sometimes for fun,
Maybe that's why angels go to hell too.

So you think the demons and angels are fighting,
Scratching and clawing and screaming and biting?
Come now, you know it, that if that were true,
Don't you think clouds would be way more exciting?

No, I think you know there's no God in the sky,
No Satan below who can be your bad guy,
No good, no evil, no nothing at all,
We invented them back when our stories got dry.

Scapegoats live down below politics,
Blame is our addiction, and we need our fix,
But there isn't an evil that was ever real,
Because sin didn’t die on a crucifix.

i want to bruise
to be bruised
to have veins crushed
into constellations on my skin

i want teeth
scraping against bone
i want it to be raw
to be stardust in the wounds of
chapped lips

to be honest, to be true
to be rotting hearts

i want ut to be liars,
spitting out the love we have
deceiving eyes and acid

dripping out between lips kissed
so raw they have become numb
i want hate hate hate

crawling behind your teeth
digging into your flesh like worms
devouring you from the inside out
so that you can be hollow

I've been killing these verses for years
Better put my feet up, have a few beers
Better raise your glass, cheers
I've got a huge brain between my ears
The one that vanquished all of my fears
The one that seen me through all the tears
While I'm thankful for most of my peers
Others tried to stab me with words like spears
Thought they could control me like puppeteers
Just when they thought I would disappear
Laughter is all they could hear
That is when I would reappear
And be all like "I'm here"
And they'd be all like "Oh, Dear!"
And I'd be all like let's change gear
Tell me was that crystal clear?
Why does it feel like I'm in the Ionosphere
Well some of these peeps are quite the racketeer
Shame they'll never breathe freely in my atmosphere
gee ****, listen up kid
I think I just ruined it.

like a walking
smash novel
waiting to happen;
this isn't perks,
there's no ****,
and no falcon,
and certainly
no flower grow(ing)
on the wall.

like a british
teen drama
or ******* of
equal magnitude.
this isn't skins,
well it is, just
less exciting,
less meaningful,
less expressive--
basically,
less british

like a discography
from thepiratebay,
or a microsecond
clip of sound waves,
this isn't a teen
anthem, or some
ridiculous ballad
written by puppeteers
who don't know
any better for
children far too
young to even
comprehend
the concept of
       loss.

this isn't about
the strain on their
parents or the baby
in her belly, or even
about the ****** up
liver of a walking,
deceased villain,
no.
it's about the
universal and
ubiquitous:
hollowness.
longing.
strife.

the record's straight,
no thanks to me,
we'll all sleep
easier tonight,
won't we?
who am i kidding.
i writed (clever)
a wrong made so
many times before
it doesn't even matter.
it's forgotten,
no longer verbatim,
content to just be;
people describe it
by saying,
"it just is, man."
and that,
ladies and gentlemen,
is a reason to cry.

And if you say that they are the rulers,
then what are we?
Dedicated fools behind a blind notion.
Puppeted by clever puppeteers.
There are better things to come than those which we leave behind.
I might agree
But my mind is already made.
This world is planned ruins,
And we are the veins.

Gliding her fingers from soft to tight
The gilded marionette makes a move familiar
Around my neck, between my legs
She pull/plays my manhood the one who pegs
The tips of index, middle, ring and pinkie
A dismissive look,
with an intent to shrink me

Chased by insanity
Chased by a pseudo-chaste ****-ring tease
yarn controls my escape,
ears to ignore my pleas  
strings of sadistic strings of laughter  
strings saunter strings of master
strings of *******, yet still i walk her
as a ghostly orbiting satellite stalker

******* purple::: smile lust sensation
As the puppeteers rope cut my circulation

Only then can she strum her favorite tune
The Pinocchio Waltz played on a five string loom
She tunes her string with every finger
A dismissive giggle plays the part of singer

The middle for the daily “*******” because she can

The ring will be for another man

The pointer lets you know her needs

The pinkie for the soul that bleeds

The thumb is for the empress’ judgement  

Till she slaps you down, (I ******* love) her ****** bludgeons

Thoughts of the self-spoken
Left me wandering;
Tangled into the parable visions
As we gaze through the celestial eerie.
Mirrors from side to side,
I still can't see the myself inside.
Mazy patterns were confusing my mind.
Despicably appropriate,
Whereas the heavens of alas contemplate.
In this empty vast,
We see light from present to past.
Scourging sun diminishes darkness
Over light in distant visionless.
Blinded to see the real vision of the race;
To acknowledge the imagery painted to praise.
Entire race failed to obey,
Garner the intellect of marionettes strings,
Puppets of the mischief,
Puppeteers of a sheep,
The scent of the blood,
Descends a ripple from hate.
Cast the spell upon yourself,
And let the bloodshot eyes tell
How it visions the dark world's hell.

Its frightening how
being alone and being lonely
are not the same.

A wise Greek spoke of a cave
and a fire in the back of our minds
with lips pressed to our palms
casting shadows of false reality
and puppeteers with hidden strings
and chains that sit
comfortably on scathing skin.

We were born in the cave.

I've come to realize
I am not the same person
at three o'five AM
and half past eight.

Razor sharp
Always ready on the mark
Grit your teeth
Prepare to meet
Sharks and velvet puppeteers

Stiff suits clean cut collars
Spurting jargon to impress
Some other false pretentious scholars
Identically dressed

Fully focussed
Humorous jokers
Turn their backs
Once reached their purpose

Urgently directing to impress
The next unsuspecting guest
Who will help them next?
Meet those targets be the best

Never glancing back or forward
Losing sight of what’s important
They don’t care, are unaware

I realized one of the peacekeepers tonight
And, as always, I spoke honestly
But against tendency, I was specific
-Maybe it was the drunken haze, but the vision had so much clarity

I spoke words to him, that formed without thought, nor doubt of mind
And when these naturals were vocalized, there was no need to speak uncertainty of that what was said
- in fact, these words, alike these at the making of my fingertips
Felt as though their mortality through speech or visibility, gave them truth that me or my subconscious could question.

This drunken conversation that was in obedience to circumstances
Was extreme and unnaturally passionate
Yet, disorbedient to sobriety, was fluid and understanding
I feel now, possibly to be regretted in the morning, completely confident in the impact made

He is good- as good as he is a keeper of peace
And my words spoken, although never able to be retold in accuracy
Affected me as much as I, possibly am mistaken to believe, he was to be
But here, in this poetic security, I wish to share them

He is a peace keeper, I am sure
As we conversed I looked to the greenery around us and they showed no warnings
Their leaves , as they do in sunlight and rain, continued to show love without worry
And that love, I felt strong, and thanked as it kept my speech strong

I asked- or even in my possible dillusion  of high spiritedness, commanded, this man
In all the goodness that I possess and could show
To pass his negativity to my mound
As I do to all that seek peace rather than create it

You don't need to fight in this battle, my friends
For your role, is one much needed when the time comes
So save your fight, and save that energy
For your light is strong, and crucial for darker times to come

Should this message, this realization raise alarm
And the puppeteers ask of you those sins frequently ask,
Don't worry, don't hesitate, don't fight against their orders
Just breathe, sigh even, and act as you always have

I see your hearts
I feel that love long forgotten
The fact that you don't want to obey is in fact in our favor
Because we all know, deceit is their favorite game

But this deceit is the beginning of their downfall
As your want to avoid passing me the negativity, will unnaturally cause them to cast it in rebellion
But I am strong, and my strength is yet to show
I have your back, because I know you will soon have mine.