My Poetry

©2006 Tristan A. Arts

The Poetry of Dark Marionette, AKA Lolita Leigh Smith,
AKA Tristan A. Arts.


Pale white and cold to the touch,
I do not like it very much...
The pall of death is borne and sits
While ashes pallid drift and fall.

Grim Reaper's fingers point down from the sky,
Snickering with glee at us who may die...
The fear of death gleaming like a diamond
While precious gems from sky fall.

Bony fingers clutch desperately at air,
Whilst pretending that they don't care...
Even maggots fear to munch this carcass
While Death sucks the air like a Dementor.

Pale white and cold overmuch,
I fear I cannot bear to touch...
The pall of death touches Gaia's breast
While winter heartless comes to call.


Rivers of black sludge wend and weave,
They come from the burning red sky!
A rain of blood has baked in the sun,
The trees cannot live, cannot die.

Twisted forms writhe and despair,
Nightmares may live, but they're dead;
The birds will eat and fly as they may,
Their heads held on by a thread.

Something lurks behind the scenes,
There's a smell of corpse on the breeze;
The heat is oppressive during the day,
But at night you're bound to freeze.

His presence is like a chill in your spine,
The King will feed on your fears;
Like something in the corner of your eye,
Look at him and he disappears.

The chirping seems a little off tune,
And the soil sucks life from the air!
When apathy is the sovereign ruler,
It's hard to get someone to care.


I don't care if you think me strange,
I am who I am and I will not change!
No one can control me except myself,
I'm in control, and nobody else!

I don't care if you think me a sinner,
I know for a fact that I am a winner!
No one's lies will dictate my seeing,
I'm the only one who creates my being.

I don't care if you think me eerie,
I am strange but far from dreary!
No I don't care to hear your preaches,
I'm in no mood to pander to leeches!

I don't care if you think me doomed,
I am not obsessed or consumed!
No matter what you feel like saying,
I'm not going to join your praying.

I don't care if you fear for my soul,
I am quite well and I'm quite whole!
No hell exists, no matter what you think,
I'm not the one who needs a shrink!

I don't care if you think me weak,
I am alive and I will speak!
No matter what your darkness brings,
I'm a dark marionette, but I've cut the strings.


Ticky-tac that falls apart,
Monotony pretends it's art!
"Classical elegance" without the expense,
Unless you count planned obsolescence!

Sameness valued, don't you know?
Why have real when you can have faux?
Houses made from the very same mold,
In with the new, out with the old!

Progress doesn't look advanced to me,
It just resembles slavery!
Why must moving forward mean being the same?
All the pieces are red in this checkers game.

Just like our stuff I fear we'll become,
To end up being just oh-so hum drum;
Though if it's true, as I suspect,
Most people are already bad special effects.


Stern figure of morphing shade,
Desolation in the flesh!
A finger slides across cold blade,
Reminders of David Koresh.

Nectar for the evil one,
Write us a letter or three;
Emptiness is Typhon's fun,
I looked in the void and saw me.

Quietude and solace grim,
Ages and eons go by;
Slowly sinking off to Him,
I wonder if you'd like to die.

Void of meaning or consequence,
Pathetic mewing of kits;
I killed myself in self defense,
The Dark One is now having fits.

There's tension in the mortal coil, Adam's lot are so sad;
Life is a dish they leave to spoil,
Did they know it's all that they had?

"Untitled #36"

Crimson regret as wide as an ocean,
A small figure so lost and alone;
Desperate flailing the only motion,
Lost innocence soaked to the bone.

Horrified screams at the tip of the tongue,
Sinking, small arms pierce veneer;
Disquieting lull takes this wee one,
Who now is quite beyond fear.

Formless demons the color of void,
The breath given Adam grows chill;
Lost innocence is almost destroyed,
Living just takes too much will.

Sunk in the darkness of an ocean of blood,
Anubis has one more to take;
Won't be long before she's breathing mud,
Her life and her meaning opaque.

"Mithra's Birthday"

(This one shows my humorous side.)

A fat round drop of blood suspends
From a silver spider-web...
How it landed on a needle
I can only hope to guess.

One animal is restless
And hits the liquor much too hard...
An aging man nearby
Eats a bucket full of lard.

Colored stars, they twinkle
As Michael guards the scene
A midget dressed in overalls
Makes a statue of ice cream.

Psychedelic shapes appear
And explode, releasing glee!
Sadly must I tell you though,
Only small white birds get free.

©2006 Lolita Leigh Smith /
Tristan A. Arts

Disclaimer: Yes, I am a mid-continuum multiple. I do not have a full-blown case of Disassociative Identity Disorder... I'm just one person with many Faces that each feel almost completely like other people.
If you can't see past this fact, then please go away.