Between the idea and the reality, falls the shadow

With sincere apologies to TS Eliot

You can be a writer,
but of what good is your ink to me,
if I am nothing more
than a voluptuous body of work,
a passionate figure of speech?

Neither can I be
a code you crack,
a server you hack,
so that when you come to bed,
I turn into another zesty programme,
an agile hyper text.

I'm not your crash test dummy,
or a designer clothes horse,
or the heel you reinvent,
or your latest Big Bang Theory.
And I cannot play the Dinner Bell
to your Pavlov's Dog.

Take your interpretations and notions
and misgivings and texts and theories.
Burn a nice big effigy
of your picture of me.
Then maybe we can discuss
what this is going to be.