Fetched from Letterbox

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,
counterfeit lines.

Ray Succre