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the puppets rise to take the stand

to wear the mask and raise a hand

but who is it who pulls the strings

the god of greed or other things?

the heart of man is deceitful still

a plague for which there is no pill

yet one by one they take a bow

in hope to win the crowds somehow

slaves cannot be freed by slaves

though they preach great plans of better days

their words are hollow as they flow

they speak of things they do not know

the puppet-master mocks, he tugs the strings

the puppets dance, as he plucks they sing

truth like lies and lies like truth 

the hearts of men, 100% proof

the other puppets watch the show

they have nowhere else to go

they’ve seen the play many times before

maybe things will change… so they watch once more

each act is like a scene from hell

it’s all one can see from inside this cell

green pastures painted on the wall

but there is no smell of grass at all

loud songs of freedom fill the air

sounds to try block out despair

hope in hope is all that’s left

the orphans

the widowed




everything in its own time
to meet is merely chance
a bump of heads
an embrace of love
there’s no choreography to the dance

who is the fool,
tell me, who could it be?
the foolish, blind king,
or those who believe he can see?

who is the fool,
tell me, who could it be?
is it the fool of a king,
or is it you and me?

a man alone
together with the rest
missing the ball
but trying his best
together we fall
but we don’t tell a soul
to appear as a winner
is the ultimate goal

not to say,
but to ask
not to lock,
but to loosen
not to shut down,
but to open up
not to fit in,
but to flow out
not to sit down,
but to stand up
not to walk together,
but to run everywhere

deception is a strange, illusive thing
as soon as you start playing with it, it starts playing with you

it’s strange, but you’ll never know

our strength leaks in
through the cracks in the floor
it’s life in the balance
that we can’t stand anymore
so we prop ourselves up
with a meme or a prayer
and we tell ourselves
there are sunny skies out there
but the walls can’t take it
and the doors just don’t fit
it’s not the size of the seat
it’s the fit of the sit

in the days of yesteryear
they dropped bombs on our heads
destroying our bodies, our stock and our land
beating us physically into submission
forcing us to surrender to the will of their force
stripping our ground bare of any life
stripping us of our own produce
and this in the same fields that gave us birth
where we once labored and lived in abundance
in order to multiply the abundance of their own seeds
so that we would serve them forever

in the days of today and for the days of tomorrow
they drop leaflets instead of bombs
and promotional messages are pressed before our eyes
screaming their wares as the nectar of the future
wearing us down, beating us into helpless submission in our minds
silently pressing us to surrender to the force of their will
slowly striping us of our own means of production
relinquishing us of our own will to live in our own lands
coerced instead to consume and produce foreign crops in abundance
injecting their alien seeds into us as carriers
that we may ourselves become the land of the produce
the aphids and the ants in twisted union

alien products dreamed up in the virtual larders of the greedy
new delicacies crafted for their rich enjoyment
they call it marketing
and we are deceived and turn on each other as their marketers
but we ourselves are the marketed
and we are the bought and sold
tricked into buying and selling to each other
tricked into buying and selling each other
bewitched into seeking personal pleasure
personal dominance and power
filled with vain visions of a fabricated self
all to alleviate poverty within
and the poverty without
imaginary fruits of illegitimate roots

yes, the bombs still drop
but apparently only softer
at least to the naked ear
it seems there is little more than the sound of the marketplace criers
swarming, filling the networks
and the desperate bleating of the sheep
who are filled, but left forevermore hungry
enlightened, but always kept in darkness
to be found everywhere, yet remaining lost
even to themselves
while those who have, have even more
and those who have not
lose even that which they think they had
obediently celebrating the rise of the new age
and the freedom chants of the death of violence
songs that sing there are more bullets in the air

but in between the lines
hidden deep in the small print
only a flittering flutter can be heard
virtual leaves, like paper leaflets
falling peacefully to the hardened, barren floor

the stupid don’t believe they’re stupid
most of them don’t even know that they are
how could they?
the wise too don’t know they’re wise
unless they choose to believe the flattery of those around them

the one thing both have in common however
is that neither know the truth about themselves
how can they?
so they are the same

in the end it matters not
all is pointless
chasing after the wind

we want, demand new government
but then we will want, demand again
and again we will demand to be free
free from the choices we previously made
and the circumstance that followed
we, the ungovernable
wanting to be governed
by a government who are themselves endemically ungovernable
demanding that they themselves are to remain unaccountable
to govern in freedom without external controls
uncontrolled by those who demand to be governed anew
to be governed by those who will listen to them
and do their bidding
so we vote again
and again