Trans
lucent

This man goes by,
And there are pockets under his skin,
Filled with fat, oily and yellow.
He is soft, slow,
Wearing an olive hat.

Two men,
Old Transylvanians in graying suits,
With bushy, sweeping brows,
They lean close in the conspiracy of their addiction.
Their lungs are lined with wet garbage,
The fruit of black melons.

A girl,
Flat chested,
With the hips and ass of a boy,
Passes cautiously.
The hairs gathered on the soft white skin
Beneath her belly are
Faintly drawn.

And the man in the white shirt
Has blood underneath his fingernails
Because he is a butcher.