Oh, Venus, what shall I do with you?

So you’re not the Anadyomene — suck it up!
Too much pudica peek-a-boo
for a surf girl born of sea-cum*
frothed from the cast-away cojones of Uranus.
Some said Botticelli — Savonarola  groupie —
kept a boy, but that’s inuendo.
Impeccably pubescent you waft on your
scallop craft — an archetypal icebox magnet,
your obligatory shyness pressed flat
against the wall— that’s what gods do!
Legs locked at the knee, I see you, untwerkable,
pearlescent dream of a horny Florentine
flogging his body bloody with thorns
for want of a dominatrix.

*secum (Latin):  with himself