There were no strange colors in the streetlight.
No wet streets. No musk. No absinthe twilit
in jazz. No moon above roofs like a blight
in the sky. Just you, dead thing; while misfit
living things went flitting around inside
their hells. They make hell home under their skin
for their frail godheads; call themselves, “Brides
of,” and claim that shuffle-shlick is a sin.
Now it’s too late, dead thing, to place my hands
around their cunts and squeeze until their lips
form a heart. How the living waste living
astounds … even in this city’s wastelands.
Shuffle-shlick while the cum on your hand drips
since there’s nothing but you, dead thing, cumming.