Long Mannequin Poems
Long Mannequin Poems. Below are the most popular long Mannequin by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mannequin poems by poem length and keyword.
Joe and Shelly’s house is on fire!
It is simply and surely ablaze!
The flames are incessantly higher.
Yet we see him sitting there, in a daze.
Mr. Hamilton runs straight in there,
We see him through the transparent window.
He runs promptly back out with burning hair,
Did you get our neighbors Shelly and Joe?
You will not believe it he tells us.
A mannequin was in Joe’s chair.
Firemen come without a fuss.
The smell of smoke permeates the air.
Tables, computers, cherished photos too
Quickly curled up and died that night
Made Joe’s almost ex a little blue,
What he might do next gave her a fright.
Revenge Joe never came back, that conniving scamp.
He had cancelled his home owners’ insurance a month ago.
Enjoyed the rest of his days playing a guitar in a hobo camp
Making his fearful wandering wife a pauper, that little ‘ho.
In my bedroom the three of us all high:
her, her, and I: pass methamphetamine
in circle, her to her to I, our lean
mannequin forms pressed hand to leg to thigh,
one on my left, one with a school yard eye.
We three are, and have been since seventeen,
friends without borders, like grass without green,
throating for water from skiffs diver dry,
strung out on wire like trout with tin-foil breasts
and pupils bulging black as once-a-star.
In my bedroom, the three of us undressed -
took her, then her, now I - have logged too far
on thirty six strips of backward spinning crests
to hide our heal where love unpeeled is scar.
Millions of lives and souls untold
And to account it all
Words, lines, films
Imagination trims
A sliver of soft, scarlet ribbon
Hollywood rounds
Quills deliver
Writers flare with passion so strong
Filling minds with fantasies, reveries, histories
Tragedies
We consume it all like freshly baked bread
We feed until we are engorged and fed
A viral, universal mess
Ideas and unmade memories
Nothing more or less
My eyes remain glued to the screen
Living it all out
Tears dare to flow—to doubt
I should have thought of that
Can I truly let myself believe,
Someone else lived that!
Pound away your directors, script-writers, fighters
For miles and miles of stories remain unread
While the unknown remain in the grounds of humble malnourishment
Dead
Careers for the mind with a twist of the fable
Left us savage for the meal and the crumbs under the table
I can never let the raw truth rest
Naked, bare and empty—soothed
Nothing more or less
I cringed for originality
Observed the world through the unedited scripts
The very act, the poetry pact
The wild animal drooling in the back
I was slapped in the face by my boss who had cracked
As the reviews bloated less and less
They wanted something awful, something flaw-ful—something new
And this empty brain in agony—HISSED
I have lived in no epic battle of account
Of the collateral sufferings of my brothers
The stories the red carpet smothers
And still I ache to create
Before the other ones discover
I returned with ‘‘oh me’s’ and ‘oh my’s’’
With a work of pure genius—a storybook of lies
Nothing more or less
Little have I lacked to dream
Of contortioned pulls and dramatic fire
Stories that rarely brittle or tire
I fiddled with precious glass on edge
Foully eager for self-damage
As if it would trigger some legitimate spark
Searching for creatures and features in the dark
No one unlocked the passage that night
For the starving idea-parched malice of right
But all welcomed with open arms
A pale mannequin filled with jewels and charms
Consuming, fuming dooming
All ghosts hoping, screaming, looming
Hoping that one day they would find themselves on the big screen
Their legacy real as it can possibly get
Nothing more or less
My muse is smooth, with ivory complexion,
as full, pouty lips point in my direction.
Her face is chiseled; no make-up required,
with breathtaking beauty, never expired.
She would look stunning draped in leather or lace,
showcasing a youthful, "commercial" face.
She inspires me with her gaze of intrigue,
displaying no sign of boredom or fatigue.
She does not care about what others think,
holding a nonchalant stance, won't flinch or blink.
She does not argue, nor carry on a fuss.
It's quite tranquil when it's just the two of us.
My sweet muse is not alive, nor is she dead.
She poses proudly as a mannequin head.
Cinematography of Chaos
Cinematic impressions, climatic sort of dream,
upgraded to pathetic, idiocracies new theme.
Temperament unadjustable,sleets of snow heat wave,
melted in unhappiness, metaphorical life slave...
Mind divisioned split end irreversible destination,
the ends split, nowhere fits, ageless in estimation.
Sightseeing with psychtoherapy,crawl deeper, farther within,
Creative Chaos called Manarchy, the evil mannequin!
It was a tiring day; I was exhausted from keeping the rebels away from each other.
I set my neurotransmitters on their waiting mannequin, carefully plugged them in.
The orange and purple synapses were still lit, their excitement not easy to smother.
I had to power them down completely so I could get some sleep, a win-win.
My mind could not power down; I had difficulty resting, even with my sleep mask.
Those pesky neurotransmitters had turned themselves back on, unknown to me.
How can this be? Have they morphed into superintelligence? Heard voice ask.
My own internal voice, pondering this science fiction scenario, less than delighted me.
I spoke directly to the mannequin. Is it true that you are alive? Did I really want to know?
A sharp shrill ring startled me. It was three forty-two a.m. Of course it was my phone.
Get rid of your headset, my commander in chief screamed. They are evolving and it is bad.
Mine lit up on full power; it was suddenly alive, powered up, and ready to rumble.
It is better to burn down your house than to go back there, my commander said.
I had left without shoes or shirt, grabbing my pants as I jumped off the bed.
The neurotransmitters organized and became our next army to fight.
They were savvy and sleek, and organized at my house each and every night.
A child blew past my windshield today, yes, the wind was that strong.
But surely it was a doll, or a foam mannequin. You are absolutely wrong.
I slammed on my brakes, and I looked in the ditch where I saw the child fall into a leaf pile.
She looked up at me and she put up her arms, and I cuddled her, admiring her wide-eyed smile.
I walked her all over the neighborhood, going house to house which was a lot of fun,
She was so sweet, and innocent and young I did not finish until I had hit every one.
Her mother was hot, when she arrived home, as big brother had forgotten her, entranced with his phone.
I thought I was going to have to raise another child of three, but when her darling Mommy got home, I knew this was not meant to be.
I gave her a kiss, and a pat on the head. And they invited me to supper, where we had homemade bread.
So if a child blows by, take it from me, stop and help, because it may be Louise, and she is only three.
They travel
Distances
To work at the new factory
At the mall
To sell
To persuade
To show
To ring up sales
To stock shelves
And keep merchandise neat and attractive.
Customers
Look
Touch
Examine
Feel and perhaps
Buy.
Standing on their feet
Workers wonder
How does an
An $8.00 an hour job
Minus benefits
Zero coverage
Negative career
Compute
In their lives?
Their parents had jobs
Some for thirty years
In a real workplace
Free from outsourcing
Goods made in China
High unemployment
And foreclosures.
The store mannequin tells workers to break it up
Back to their counters
To do what they’re being paid for
But there is much more beneath the surface of his words
A threat
Real or imagined
The workers listen
Because there is nowhere to go
Nothing else to do.
In the new economy.
The young have energy
To organize
To demonstrate
To petition
For real change
Time is on their side
For a better tomorrow.
Deep silence veils fond sale:
A touch of magic here,
A tempting fairy tale,
Promise consorts with cheer.
By shoppe window display:
Two solid mannequins,
Pretty posture cast sway,
Welcome looks spell sanguine.
Busty curves womanly:
Elegant form factor,
A charming touch you see,
A fine dress that matters.
Bright lights beaming a gaze:
Plastic pout frames details,
Fine nose lift to amaze,
Designer touch avails.
Fashion wears a fond style:
Finesse in a bold dress,
Eyes feast on sightless wiles,
Catch the trendy touch stress.
Silence speaks in colours:
Vivid display aura,
Fragrance in grand flavours,
Desire floods agenda.
Branded exclusive store:
A famous name now calls,
Glimpses of wanting more,
Craze at the shopping mall.
Leon Enriquez
13 June 2017
Singapore
Dummying Up
by Odin Roark
Once mannequins rocked.
Utilitarian heroes propped up
Behind steering wheels,
Windows,
Doors,
Even beside display animals.
Such were the iron-hearted
Of atomic testing ground history.
Today, Saks 5th Ave windows
With their sophisticated still-life-reality,
Serve the well-to-do shoppers,
The not so well-to-do looky-loos,
And of course, the anything-will-do bag ladies.
In Washington there resides flesh and blood versions,
Animatronic wonders,
Their brain circuitry void of action voltage,
Their suits, ties, tans
Makeup, coifs and dresses
Never askew.
Yet…
These elected reps continue more immobile
Than their lauded ancestry,
Those once sacrificial creations of purpose,
Now but a desert’s dwindling radio active dust.
Yes…
Dummying up has come a long way
To its glorification as our US Congress,
Where nonsense requires one dummy-up opener
So “I’ll see that and raise your wealthy-class
Pandering with five more tax cuts.”
At which point, they break for another fund raising junket.
Unfortunately…
The game will pick up where it left off on their return,
A mannequin mentality becoming more and more inflexible.