Slim-breasted
pinch-hip curve
ink-bled handprint--
woe is her segmented
by a spindled press
unless she boasts, sighing
of totemic conquest’s victory.
To read, we inscribe whim
upon her filth-marred primer.
Here the paramour prints
of disjunctive union... there,
the maid of a metal insult.
By delicate turns
over public mound,
she’s rendered erect
and woeful, both.
Indeed,
what woman isn’t
if we are honest?
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