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.