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.