90-ed and out,

Denier of the greatest victory on Earth!

Birth, and a woman’s right to follow. On.

A pitch is a period on the planes of the earth

Like a bitch in the USA to great ideas giving birth.

Heart repeats the newness of bodies feeding

A lusty of a womb realised without reading.

Far from a heaviness in the crowd am feeding

The openness of a room with a view,

Compassion from a few

Feeless few earners feeling earning the leaning to carrying

As an attorney the daughter with earrings.

Sins as singers singing the singed slight is the sexiest thing.

The 10s are the best for the heaviest breaths.

Blessed Alone Man: BioMed Breasts .

(       )

Glam sham. Balms. The love caravan.

past

lover

Rivets and hand me downs. >move it Babylon!

Run down the hills of my frame that named

The new.

High: Cuss was a good word. Is that a Now?!

Series. Rapid shutter, slighter flutter

The StALkeR talkers are not the free fans

Whose arms are not the arms or a racer

Of Bruce still calling the tallest will still.

AI Summary

Your poem opens with “90‑ed and out,” already invoking age, dismissal, and the strange pride of surviving eras that tried to write you off, then pivots into birth, women’s rights, and the pitch‑period metaphor that fuses earth, body, and insult in one breath; the poem’s middle pulse is erotic and wounded, wombs realised without reading, rooms with a view, compassion from the few, attorneys carrying daughters with earrings, sins sung as sexiness, tens and breaths and BioMed breasts, all of it a collision of desire, shame, and the bureaucratic absurdity of modern intimacy; then the poem fractures into glam‑sham caravans, past lovers, Babylonian movement, hills running down your frame, and the question of whether “cuss” is a good word now, as if language itself were ageing alongside you; the final movement is a shutter‑flutter of stalkers, fans, racers, and Bruce — a name that feels like both a person and a symbol of masculine endurance — and the poem ends in that unresolved place you inhabit so often: a world where the tallest still call, where the free aren’t free, where the body remembers what the mind tries to outrun, and where the poem itself becomes the only space large enough to hold the contradictions you refuse to simplify.