shapes of woman

 

in the pretext and pretense of a stare
gazes up, paraded on, like a sort
of assorted DNA vectoring packaged
and turn sour; plasticity and plastic
shiv darts of stares and shivering and
triggering from the ostensible practice —

— how do humans so discreetly, discretely possess the habit
of partition of the body? As a woman there is a heightened language
rampaging like a great quake and mortar frost and yet even the silences
are swords and pulleys and daggers and catapults but then it is decimated
to a vulgarity of petiteness , the small of her back, a inline curved inside of a
hip; rippling binary breasts — a ruin, a margin-space in which one is  situated,
jabbed and pixelated in body-morphs hardly able to yell in fear of corseted lungs!
And the cone of peticoats and the padding of stray bras. The empire and parliament
and grapevine and cities and meadows of vagina, clitoris and sensational walls that
have no immediate beginning and end is reduced to a limited scope of “hole”, “fingered
hole”, “fucked hole” and a weird confectionery name of “creampies” and “gaping” — was
there a shortage of sugar somewhere? It felt as though a wide atrium, arc, landscape,
individuality there — walked on by inhabitants was suddenly dropped like a odd
rocket and soon everything felt sterile and medicinal and atomically just vacant.

Her mouth was caught. She had began to speak a language of her own. She tripped on tongues
and the grainy fields of taste buds succulent and non-succinctly abiding into the throes of her
broad and screaming rib-cage. Accentuated its muscles with a glass of air and a whole bag, bags
of air and felt liberated. It was not cantankerous but music. She felt like the men at construction
who could be hard and soft at the same time and never told that they were eunuchs. It pained her
these silhouettes their animosity clicked and chipped in her heels as she attended the dinner with
the dying concaved grace of a swan feeling a snag of death that comes from fatigue and exhaustion.
Elsewhere a maid marveled at her dress and thought differently — she thought that this beauty could run
and breathe and smoke and chastise and scream and maul and jump and skip and dress nice wherever
she pleased and all she could do is be called a “maid” and be lesser than a woman who had breasts as her
not knowing its because of suspicious “non-symmetrical” body position, done firstly by breasts, that the
socialite and the maid were one and so they both wear glass slippers ready to break and put gnaws on
their feet. Cinderella was the maid who attended the ball. She was both princess and a worker. Glass heels
may break if you climb up high. That is why construction workers wear boots. Boots and harness. They can
spiral. They can be dads, money-making people, brothers and even amateur stamp collectors. A socialite
is always that and a maid is mostly that. Known only by the glass heals that they wear. Their coexistent
language find it hard to see each other. Because they cannot feel the vital need to undress and go running
in a pool to dive. They are submerged in some useless corners of fixed places.

Mentally ill women are equivalent to lepers. They are ostracized as soon as their neurosis detected. Those
of a masculine, male path are given lesser punishment and chances to override the possibilities of breakdown.
Males, having affairs, trysts even experimental sodomy and then with a cup of tea can watch all the pornography
to addle their minds. Their brains numbed, their erections pressed and pounded, they feel in masturbation a sense
of autonomous self and a societal paternity to help them rid them of blisters and sores. They have rooms in the
social laboratories of the world even if it be religiously or secularly frowned upon — a boy, a lad, doing what he does
it’s no star struck anxiety. It’ll tame by all the necessary outings and goings between home-life and street-walking-life.
Though there are dangers he is told, encourage that is manhood is strong, in mind and body and can overcome. Hysterically
Historically — female who do not smile 24/7th are a plague, those who smile 24/7th are a plague. Those who cry in unhappiness
should be sent in sanitoriums and kept there to die. Desperation leads to coerced fitful spasms of something that becomes a crude
line attempt at sex or even affection and even their participation makes them “sluts” and “teases” and “bitches” and “slags” and
much much more. If she is too quiet she is boring; but if she is talkative she is a pest. Pornography shows women in positions
that made them scratch their head for last time a test made that look and feel pretty painful. Constructed fantasies that aren’t
her own make her blitzy and she doesn’t know what pleasure is. Just scraps and scrapes at some corridors running just to
get a climax nor else the erection won’t go down. Her morning erection feels painful, knocks out sleep but she still gotta put
out breakfast. And of course if she wants to do anything out of the ordinary people will type her off, other women will too
there are no porn magazines, no gaming tournaments and no tea-party rock for her. In extended isolation, of knowing there
are existing bodies who wouldn’t give a rat about her body she loses it! Screams it! Pounds the walls! — yeah they called
the cops! In shackles and tagged as maddie she is leftover of some system gone bad. No one asks why a person would do
that.

For a woman is usually called a woman first, a person later.  There is something asymmetrically true about a woman even in
her symmetrical decline to madness and grief….— it is manifested strength in different dimensional chronologies that are not
always the linear lisps of boredom.

Woman, like man and yet kept distanced by some added differences. But why is that when you converse with them over cups
of tea you feel that in your male reflection she had added tea-leaves that show you yours as well as her own?▬

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