i engineer beatitude, from outside in!
let us talk of smile ting
with onset of pubescence, i'd compensate for shoulders small by tensing them, for what—
to widen them, to will them into breadth?!
the opposite effect: they've densified tight against ma neck!
then tenser so to guide my swinging arms around the hips, grow’d-up girl-like!
the rich get richer, and the square-shouldered widen as they loosen & enjoy the swing of fist clear of hip.
girls have a version of the male pref for narrow waist, admit it.
but smile ting, smile ting: i never did explore my face's full flexive reach, cuz it was always edge of itchy.
the wrinkles, too, i worried with my dermis hot & thin—
a mess, so why enliven things?
a Jaat inverts my posture
when the Lakers' high whores are heard affirming over milkshakes they go wobbly in the knees for—what's that long & ropey one, from hip along his thigh to what?—a muscle only Giants have, that heroes all acquire—
i take it as advice on how to sit, on how to pose myself when writing this.
to She who worships men as they're embodied, as they're visible—thus imitable—i listen!
by word of High Whore to a boy who'd like to know her—
i engineer beatitude, from outside in!
all those years uneasy in the Indo-Can diwaan! my over-keen ardency, pert beyond erect! tush sticking out, and my tiny fists set into my lap-crotch to balance my ridiculous lordosis while my Inverse sat ahead of me, my Inverse all around me: a massive Jaat with knees that won't flatten to the mat, o he's a Warrior unaccustomed—tho four & score centuries since Sikandar sat & wept aside the Sindh—to sit Indian-style!
he & me akin, i say: ardent for the Guru's word, but hampered by our posture. mine bows inward, his mounds out—his heavy lats rounding as he cradles knees that won't set down!
his wristwatch is level with the eye when the beeper buzzes, biz of Man insisting in the shabad-stream, phasing with the whoop & click of tabla.
this massive Jaat, i speculate, had under-slacks the long & ropey flexor that the glorious high Assessors do lasciviate at, they hunt all Primate history for, they point at with a long silver falsie in the photospread, cool inside their sleek white diner stall.
they wander with the Contest, they're keeping with the Kamp; they party where the War is at.