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Mangled Story Of Mishandled Marionettes

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Mangled story of mishandled marionettes


On a masked planet floating in space,

we hear the cry of the Joker, invoking justice.

“Is the doer identical with the reaper of his actions?

He is neither the same, nor a different one”.


Are these mutations or discontinuous transformations

from person to persona, leaps of consciousness

or a place where you cannot see yourself -

where you become a marionette or a silhouette

in the bent light of an engineered superficial

unknown cherry blossom blight?


Does our origin sing in the voice of the dead?

Do we have to know the masked night?

To meet the dread of earth’s distorted silhouette.

Do we have to stumble into the dark world?

of elusive winds in our hands

dying fires in the golden eye of our bellies

receding moistness of the earth in our hair

trembling polluted water in our breaths.


Are we dancing marionettes?

puppets on genetic strings

in the satire of innocent consciousness

controlled by vaccinations and rules

where no reflective thought is possible

and where our words are dying?

Are we each other’s food, each other’s prey -

what would the Joker say?

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