Winged mannequins dot the forest trail,
forest fairies in the dale -
so lifelike in their chalkware skin,
unexpected in the vale.
Stumbling under their glossy gaze,
lost inside a leafy maze -
I back up slowly, turn and run,
clawing through the morning haze.
"Join us", they plead now - reaching, falling,
all of them so sweetly calling
"You need some flowers in your hair",
as I am gasping, crawling.
"You could be one of us", they sigh,
"abandoned here we know not why,
creating almost Xanadu -
we never have to live or die."
At wood's green edge I glimpse the street
and glance back, oddly incomplete:
I see just pallid mannequins
posed stiffly in the summer heat.
The mannequins put on skin
pretending to be human
feigning familiarity
with lives they’ve never lived
performing a pantomime
of proficiency in poverty
the wisdom won from doing without
playing the part of people
they consider inconsequential
believe are below them
with whom it would be unsuitable
to be seen socializing
unworthy of a welcoming word
as they parade about
before the cameras and crowds
bedecked in diamonds and gold
silk gowns and Armani suits
whose value would feed
more than a few struggling families
Contemptible creatures
Heinous and hollow
The Second Year of Barely Breathing
David J Walker
When can we breathe again
exhaling the dust
Of a long-lost day
Safe from the safe distance
Look them in the eye and pray a prayer
Of resistance to the unknown God of goodbye
Our Father
If we ever
get to sit together
again
hear our prayers of common fears
A faceless family of mannequins
Dropped in for a taste of pain
A faithful student of mandolin music
Dropped in from a soaking rain
Our Father
If we ever
Leave the house
again
hear our prayers of preservation
from a death we did not plan
Tranquil mannequins,
You'd think they are showcasing
Perfect harmony,
But their lack of expressions
Is simply restrained anger
My hands are bleeding
My face is dirty
My clothes are rags
This is my reality
Talking to myself in third person
She, her, them
What's with me?
I want to be her too
Walking down the street
Looking at myself from outside mirror
I'm different from those stick thin mannequins
I'm broke, but I want to be that mannequin
Little black dress
Sophisticated pearl necklace
And some bright lipsticks
I will feel like I'm on top of the world
Seasons will pass
Those mannequin change more clothes than me
I want to be that mannequin
Those beautiful mannequin
Touched my face
I looked back to my reflection
Got me realized
That I'm back to my reality
i never know where to start with you,
so i just choose to walk away and end it
it makes no sense to cause anymore stress,
so instead of confronting i bookend it
my life is a hole in the wall circus with bogus clown paint,
and as a result your life is forced to be the same
we find ourselves trying to balance the "fairness" of it all,
however in the end we are just mannequins on a fake makeshift trampoline
Solid mannequins stand in the shop of society wearing clothes that they think is right to wear because of the sheep. Being put, put in poses and having photos taken of there empty faces. They're everywhere surrounding me in places, faces I can't distinguish. People are mannequins until you paint on them. But I don't like painting on society mannequins, they're all the same living the same life as everyone else. Being strung along in the illusion of society. Trends, blends, unwanted friends for a meaningless social security to fit in is what they do thus making them mannequins that stand in the shop of society wearing clothes that they think is right to wear because of the sheep. Being put, put in poses and having photos taken of there empty faces.
It is here
In this alley littered with trash.
Where a man drives alone in the night.
Braking.
Motioning.
Waiting.
Where a high-heeled woman bends down to his window.
It is here
On this street I come to find you.
With your skin that is smooth.
With your face twisted and pale
And a name no one knows.
It is here
In this dark room
Where your naked body glows red
In the pulsating neon light
That I make you do things to me.
Though I stare now and again into your empty black eyes.
People/Mannequins
I speak to them
I sit next to them
What appears to be still limbs
No smiles, only in place do they stand
Yet they seem to no longer
Appeal to the unreserved face of this man
I no longer bother to greet them
Should I
It’s become a non movable film
“a guy sitting in a room full of mannequins”
"writing for pictures"
Iconoclastic lots of marshiest beauty
Clenched sublime altruistic nature bore –
Morals indefatigably humbled, reasoning in bondage –
Bondage of the highest periphery
Blessings encountered in watered chaos.
Blocked nuts with scanty feelers,
Inducing mere bouts of euphoric impasses
Rarely a gift of fatherly nature.
Hay filled tubs called but heads
Preferably a misfortune
To their worthless masses.
Maevius a reader’s delight be
In the fumbling fold
Of this rowdy rendezvous.
More ore less classy oddities
On deferred pedestals
As lovely Mannequins
To display for sale.
Now Hyperion his burning sword behold
None to hear Triton’s call to arms.
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