Bearing their supernatural tits,
the bronzed, succulent nitwits
arch and flex across our screens
glistening in saturated pinks;
wet with research, slick as ink,
they populate the dream machine
with smiles white as urinals,
caught in an eternal prime
concocted to remind us time’s
a fickle friend to lovely mammals.
It takes a smile precisely cold
to warn us that we’re getting old,
a rigorously empty head
to waken our sincerest dread
without putting us off our feed.
If things are bad, there’s always hope
in model land; they may be dopes,
but they’ve got the remedies we need,
the clothes, cosmetics, leaders, cars,
island sunsets, sleeping pills,
purveyed with such exquisite skill
we wake in sunny Zanzibar,
our bathing suits two sizes small,
wondering why we came at all.
3 comments:
But, John, what would we strive for, surely you don't expect us women to be any less than supernatural perfect?
No, I love comedy.
True beauty lies so much deeper.
I wish more people knew that.
Good work, John.
Scarlett & Viaggiatore
PS - Every time I see that sheep in hose photo, it makes me think of the Shameless Lions Writing Circle lion photos (Minx & I are in that) but instead of a lion, it's a sheep.
Sheeps and Lions go well together though, don't they.
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