so this is how being nude before vultures feels— film dripping from wounds anew, plasma, saliva—thumps and chews; from whom to who, onto whose lips does the flesh land first, do the yelps land a few? the hungry, the emancipates— all here, all watching. for whom? on whose toppling tray? it’s always a game one can play. what half-truths will make the news? louder decibels, lower pitch, muscular words, lazy language? so this is how being naked is: presented, pivoted, plagiarized— your truth served as a palatable lie in honourable clothing, in hide. but again— their pants half hang, their shirts fall off their bellies like handkerchiefs reserving chastity. while they claim my nudity, they are naked too— not as much as me though! they are powerless too— not as much as me though! in the chain of synergy, is this how eagles be, and the fishes, and the fishermen when eye to eye, longing for the hunt, yearning the taste of enemy. so this is how bigotry before culture vultures feels— lamented, undertoned, disguised. where the air meets water—salty, warm, and heavy, unlike the applause for the meat at butcher’s altar, at the vultures’ beak, at the poking fingers and digging nails, shining with oil, smelling of spice. heavy is air—heavier I breathe, salt lays on me naked, but sugar coos cost me all— all the more, all the rest: a life of unrest.