Each wears the slimmer footprint,
conspires to breed that slice of one's gut that thrives
for piqued drawls, relational squabbles,
for a French maid's threads.
One recalls one's thriving gut as
that first graphic novel, explicitly the page juxtaposing 'boobs'
[O but for a French maid's threads...]
with headlights. My First Porn.
Meaning: my first graphic novel glared BOOBS,
was no less than high-class, modern
as headlights. And my first porn,
a piece of art. No other gaze in si[gh]t-e.
So swank, modern less,
if we jade ourselves, what now?
Trade difference for equality?
What now each flick of feathered hair? REPEAT