{An ode to AKB48}
There she is, again,
beaming, juxtaposed
with a photoshopped baby – not a fly in sight.
It’s her fifth portrait today.
This one she’s in a bikini with some others,
beaming, beaming, and rapturous, eyes piercing us all.
I’m supposed to want her?
Of course not.
Want her music?
No, of course not.
Oh.
She’s perfect from some angles,
nothing to do with light catching her sculpted nose and
tweaked chin.
But something that wasn’t hidden,
devoured by our culture of perfectamundo,
is the run of bags under her teenage eyes.
She was weary today – it was getting to her,
her propagative smile couldn’t hide that vein of calcic
decay scoring her face.
I wonder if they told her she’d need plastic surgery,
that is,
to do what she needs to do for their product,
their lies, their product, their lies.
I wonder wonder.
Tomorrow’s shadow and I see her spent and forgotten,
her radiative smile blurring as she paws along the
cornerless maze she was sent into.
Man, I hope she can come out of that game she’s in with her
soul intact;
I hope all of us can.
I hope all of us can.
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