Excuse me while I shoot you
“Excuse me while I shoot you...
In that exact position”
Said the photographer
To the model.
As he took his one-eyed aim.
Hardly out of school herself,
She contorted to his whim.
But his desire wasn’t hers to feed.
It was our pleasure
She hoped to appease.
Shot again. Snap.
And again. Shutter close.
Hardly daring to breathe,
Fearing he’d see
Her chest
Rise / and \ fall.
Her dolly eyes dry, from widely staring
Not fluttering at all.
He stalked from every angle -
Circling. Searching for his best
Frame.
Shooting upwards,
He shot-down his frozen doe.
Zooming-in, then out
Then in, in, in
On each pixelate of skin.
Lithely prowling and picking himself
Around the space,
With alarming grace
For a man of his age.
She couldn’t help but notice
His yellowing mustache
Shading a lip that curled
In dissatisfaction,
Or seduction –
It was often hard to tell.
And his smell!
That smell. That smell engulfed her
And marked his territory with the stench
Of old fags and takeouts,
Clinging to a stale shirt
On its fourth, maybe fifth, wear.
While she,
Numb and giddy,
(Was it hunger, or lack of air?)
Suffocated silently
In the photographic lair.
Her portrait, to be
The face of…
The face of what?
Told to be grateful
For the pleasure
Of being shot.
Then BLOWN UP.
And left at the roadside
On billboards and bus-sides.
And for how long before she’s erased
And replaced
With another doll-face?
Pulled and pinched in all directions
For inhumane corrections
To a too-young woman,
Fed on nothing
But the empty promises
Of unfilling fame -
She’s starved to be a household name…
Do you know of her?
Thought not.
