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