I do detest in all your base glory. All pregnant eyes
and barren possibility.
All falsehood cultivated like the aspidistra
burnt from your lips,
has no place in the roles you play.
A whore, beauty, that’s how I see you,
all pleasure tinged with guilt,
joy with shame, and my
voyeuristic tendencies are made to tamely dance,
to parade, some Red display,
for fear of the dogs.
The dogs owned by you, Beauty,
My enjoyment is my own, Beauty,
record what you will.