She's a pornographer'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?
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What he saw so much of?
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Wouldn't he dream of the thing that he never
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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
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With her legs and leather;
|
She turns to tease the camera, and please us at home,
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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 our hands, over our heads
|
Out of our reach, under this real life
|
Hidden in veils, covered in silk
|
We're dreaming of what might be
|
|
It's out of our hands, over our heads
|
Out of our reach, under this real life
|
Hidden in veils
|
We're dreaming of mystery.
|
|
She's a pornographer's dream, he said.
|
I knew what he meant.
|
But it made me imagine: what kind of a dream
|
He would have?
|
|
-----------------
|
Pornoghrapher's Dream
|
| Suzanne Vega |
