“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.