Self Possession

A study of anatomy.
A naughty picture in a book.
A glamour from a magazine.
Pick it up and have a look.
 
Run your hand across the cover
And use a sweaty finger
To crease the paper; mark the spot
Where you’d like to linger.
 
See the words but read them not,
Let your sight rest blind.
Don’t shatter with reality
The dream you’d hoped to find.
 
A symbol of a fantasy,
A vessel for your lust,
A film script or a novel,
With legs and hips and bust.
 
But this disposable reality
Does not belong to you;
A public commons copyright.
No author takes their due.
 
This volume’s from a library
It’s been returned to the collection
Each time a viewer tired
Of their own plastic reflection.
 
And those who did go further
Than to simply have a feel,
Who peered beyond the cover,
To find a truth to steal,
 
They scarcely knew it better.
They only found the fact
Already sealed and chosen
Of a predetermined act.
 
This story an example,
A case study to prove
A version of reality
That keeps a well-worn groove.
 
A darker kind of fantasy,
A tale of hate and blame
A judgement and an edict
An assumption of my shame.
 
But this book of flesh, these words of mouth
Invented by such liars,
Have no more truth in their dry lines
Than snowflakes last in fires.
 
For I am not a fiction
And I have no confession
To gratify my readers.
I just have self-possession.