We've put her on a pedestal, a prisoner entranced,
we cameramen, the boundaries of her dance.
Our eyes flash, bulbous, calling the shots,
her poses captured in each head's shadow box.
The edits cut her heart into pieces of ass.
Our heart race with it. Need to get home. Fast.
One buys a Visible Woman, and bedspreads her nude,
puts her model bits together with semen from a tube.
another mounts his wife like a netted butterfly,
pins her wings down carefully, so she'll look alive.
A third comes back empty, picks-up a toy phone,
touchtones his Princess, hoping some woman's at home.
Playboys, Playgirls, in our bubbled tubs:
What will we be when we grow up?