The camera, on the tripod,
looks like the head of some
crippled three-legged animal,
a hungry beast eating light.

In twenty-fifth of a second
intervals I am constructing
myself, a study in the scarred
arrogance of girl, my body
a piece of distorted pop art;
candy cane colors of white
and red. My face is as round
as the moon, or a pale heart,
exuding a pouty mock innocence.
I dare the lens to capture,
to reflect exactly what it sees.

To the mirrors and the chemicals,
I expose myself, to the fingerprints
of boys making love to visions
of girls on glossy paper, staring
deep into eyes frozen by the
miracle of science. You think
you know my secrets? I've lied
to the camera, and the camera
has passed that lie on to you.

03/03/2004

Author's Note: Writing.com slam poem number eleven, the prompt being artists and models. I decided to write about about self-portraits so I could be both. Posted here after they already posted the results over there, earlier today, so I know that I won this round, which makes the third round in a row that I've won.

Posted on 03/04/2004
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