The subway vultures circle
but three more stops until they
pick the bones off empty space.
Once the chastiser, food poison keeps head down
and eyes off the wrinkled limping farm
and that fat young belly-house.
To stand is agony, white becomes pale,
both become beauty in the night,
pale glows ghostly, when the neon
girls see, they fall in love with the
furnished thought of wealth.
Two stops until the incessant leech
attempts to trade seats and information.
No blood for them, I speak their
language, spitting it into the gaping
holes of ethnocentric infallibility.
Leech eats his surprise and it grows
faceward. Farm and belly-house leave and
one stop remains until cramped quarters.
Left, unfilled emptiness wants for
attention, but when love and fear mingle
the balance tips my favor. Set
shoulders make paths and expert
eyes unfocus umbrellas and scarves.
Down and out, through narrow straits,
the cool night air still reeks of filth.
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