Fetched from
Letterbox
When you tap me headward up, lock my
arrays
and cord my large ears- how can I
avert?
Inside my very mind is a boredom
cortex,
and it shakes and it humps against
thought;
why work it off, you know, a woman
behind
the glass is paid to pose and geek you
to a sit-still.
Who is she? Actress. Bitten by
stardom, stitched in.
She may have cod-snout or beaky bra,
but steeply
exists on screens as an attraction.
The very word is indicative.
Any does it, even the merciless awful,
knocked wordward under blech with
trickled,
counterfeit lines.
Ray Succre