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The Puppet Master

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  Puppet Master The narrow, high-walled passage swallowed the sound of my boot scraping a broken cobblestone, the echo sharp in the dry air. Above, a sliver of unforgiving sunlight cut down, carving deep shadows where the damp, mossy scent of the gully was now replaced by the smell of dust and ancient stone. I paused, looking not just at my gloved hand—the leather scuffed from my descent, but at what was attached to it. Thin, nearly invisible lines, like high-tensile wires , stretched from the articulated cuff on my wrist and disappeared into the air above the path. I tracked them with my eyes until they converged on a small, stone figure standing motionless in the centre of the walkway. It was a crude marionette , barely a foot tall, carved from the same pale, cracked stone as the surrounding walls. Dressed in a simple tunic, its blank, oval face held a radiating sense of expectant waiting. Its arms were held out, palms up. I held the strings. Yet, the feeling was not one of cont...
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Head on

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Head on

Locked into a decollation of vision
Somewhere between dystopia and utopia
Of daunting scale and empowered ownership
For the futures of all inhabitants
Especially for those who are unable to prophetize

Through compassion and in hatred, paths are layed
Through rhetoric and within reality gaps, plans are devised
Crossroads are manufactured to include outputs of macabre scenarios
And these vivid horrors repetitively weave throughout our histories
Nothingness as sacred, nothingness as incidental

Our fabricated artilleries are lavished with discord
Of senseless killing and normalized clarification
These roadkills are cleansed though legitimate action
And our carnage is visualised through predictable datasets

Grieve is pushed aside
Knowing that the odds against are in favour
Contained within the numbers
That is digestible
To those in pain, those who ignore and those who can exploit





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