Puppet show

Greetings all. Today, I have another semi-mechanical poem, inspired by the below picture by the lovely and talented Sarah Hogman. Enjoy.

Puppet show

Mimes in the form of god on high,

wandering, wishing at the will of the one,

the one who rules from the clouds and the sky, the one holding all the strings, commanding, controlling all these misbegotten earthbound things,

this battalion of half-baked, blank-faced creatures on wires,

hanging slumped, jaws slack,

joints swiveling, like someone started building toy soldiers, someone had a dream of something great ,

something that could lift earth to the heavens, shine brighter than an immortal soul, and talk to gods.

But the toys turned ugly, and their creator could not stand to look at them, so he abandoned them, twisted his dream, and started trying to drag heaven down to earth instead.

And now these half finished crash test dummies hanging like a world full of incomplete suicide attempts,

and all the demons staring up at a torture even they couldn't devise:

Hundreds of marionettes hauled up by the strings and made to make war on each other, no evil in their minds, no goodness in their hearts, because they have no minds to manufacture good intentions to pave the road to Hell with, no hearts to be pure of to ascend to heaven with,

so nobody wins.

Except for the termites feasting on fallen toy soldiers, littering the rocks, because eventually when you make puppets dance long enough, kill for long enough,

they cut their own strings.

and eventually the termites will devour all these puppets, and nothing left but sawdust.

and eventually the demons will find other worlds to corrupt.

and eventually all the gods they made will fade into failure, just like their string-bound servants.

But those marionettes are laughing in whatever afterlife they may be occupying, singing:

"I've got no strings, to hold me down,

To make me kill, to make me drown."

and the gods would be enraged if they hadn't disappeared when their minions had.

and eventually in this empty land of sawdust,

new rulers will arise over all others, simply because they are the only ones left.

and eventually every world ends in dust,

every mechanization ends in rust,

and the crown always falls down to those who are willing to survive after all others have died.

and, eventually, in a land of wooden warfare,

the termite is king.

Yet another mechanical poem

If you are wondering, yes I do have a fascination with things mechanical (although I have virtually no knowledge or experience in the area) and have several poems on the more philosophical side of machines, and which I have made an effort to explore in my writing recently. So expect to see more in this vein in coming weeks. Enjoy!
Wired

Electric connections hold us together,

I've got my own animatronic birds of a feather,

We're past the point of now or never,

now it's nevermore.

Like a bird made of wires, it all comes together in an engineer's mind, an artificial world of perfect clockwork, always ticking, never talking, mocking all the real things that never rust.

Combust, all the metal in the world will melt, and the heat will be felt by the sun, the son, the one, and still the engine never stops moving in slow-motion towards the furnace of failed attempts at steel immortality.

Free, from all those pesky things like breathing and blood and body and mind, mine, mining the depths of the very surface of a home sweet home on the ranging from cities made to build themselves, to a clockwork mosquito that steals the iron from your blood.

Flood, of liquid gold shining like the fires of Hell in a hall of mirrors, reflections of reflections of a world that could be drowned in steel, steal, stolen the dollar signs from our eyes, used them to build an empty room with walls lined with lead so the sound of the silence of all the things once alive can't leave.

Believe, in something more than life itself, a land of barely remembered ideas in the engineers scrapbook, where lizards lay in wait for their gears to rust, for all the creators in every holy book to come down with screwdrivers and make them again, men, sending spears of misinformation in formation flowing through the veins of an automatic homeless man with a tin cup,and a sign saying:

fix me.