Angelina-Aphrodite, fresh from the sea
She stands against a deep blue sea and an azure sky, does Ms. Jolie. Stands visible from the breast up (a bust and then a bust, we might say) and giving us, her adoring public, her panting men-children, the once-over. Her hair is slicked back, wet with ocean; the moisture glazes the skin of her face and naked shoulders; her eyes are narrowed, under arching brows, and though the pupils barely show, floating just under her long lashes, she is looking down at us — down on us — from the height and hauteur of her beauty, of her unavailability, of her aquiline nose, her slightly parted lips (the lower plump and sensual).
Her lovely face is pointed — that is, her nose, her chin, and the down-driving angle of her regard, and they’re pointing us in a direction too. Her naked shoulders and chest, her chest and the tops of her breasts, are driving us, relentlessly, over the cliff of some decision we will regret (this is an awfully beautiful woman and a clever photographer / image manipulator). What else can we say of the tattoos — the locked black horns, or antlers, delving down, pointing low, just above her declivity, and the twin pink roses, cum leaves and tendrils, gracing the heaving top of each breast cupped in the black retro bustier one-piece? Except that the head of this deer, this buck, this black buck points down, like the head of the phallus itself, toward the proving ground of our pleasure.
Yes, she’s just risen from the ocean, this siren. And our best chance is to strap ourselves like Ulysses to the mast.
She is saying, says a student of mine, a frank and horny young automotive technician, “Eat me!” And no doubt this is true. She is saying eat me up, you swine. Feast on me, you lowly beggars, and despair. Buy my images. See my films. Worship me from the dirt where you writhe, you worms. Eat me and secrete me through the sweat piss shit that pour from you as you make your painful way through life’s dirt, which is your portion and not mine.
Eat me, vermin, and then die.
