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 face**** 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.