A Writer's Strike?

Where is my mannequin?
I can't dress without him.
I know art has changed
Since Babylon days
(Unlike porn movies)
But still
I blow a kiss
You take flight
And I am music.

Words are dopplegangers,
Lines are logs too wet to burn,
Sentences are railroad tracks to reach the execution
And paragraphs are what non-believers know of God.

But fragments strung together?
With something more substantial
Than fantasies arrayed like paper curls?
Things to give life meaning?

The only art is to make things seem
As if distilled to sense,
Until it seems now there is no sense:
Our heroes are gone
We're bored with ourselves
The machine we are in has no brain.

The scribe is on holiday from drink,
The newspapers are for once unmolested,
He closes his eyes, chews on straw,
Lays down on an actual hammock.