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she s a ographer s dream, he said.
I knew what he meant.
but it made me imagine: what kind of a dream
he would have, that hadn t been spent?
would he still dream of the thigh? of the flesh upon high?
what he saw so much of?
wouldn t he dream of the thing that he never
could quite get the touch of?
it s out of his hands, over his head
out of his reach, under this real life
hidden in veils, covered in silk
he s dreaming of what might be
out of his hands, over his head
out of his reach, under this real life
hidden in veils,
he s dreaming of mystery.
Bettie Page is still the rage
with her legs and leather;
she turns to tease the camera, and please us at home,
and we let her.
who s to know what she ll show of herself,
in what measure?
if what she reveals, or what she conceals,
is the key to our pleasure?
it s out of his hands, over his head
out of his reach, under this real life
hidden in veils, covered in silk
he s dreaming of what might be
out of his hands, over his head
out of his reach, under this real life
hidden in veils,
he s dreaming of mystery.
she s a ographer s dream, he said.
I knew what he meant.
but it made me imagine: what kind of a dream
he would have?