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,