Come lady divine lay
with me in the slums of
Detroit, to dine on dead
rat and desert on dumpster
cheesecake. As your golden
tresses drag behind us, instead
of TV, let’s go to a shooting
gallery and watch dope fiends
juggle dice by shooting up
junk in their arms. Next, our
date continues on the top
floor of a parking garage.
The lights of Detroit look like
pinpoints, the slums reach
out far into the distance.
We begin to slow dance,
our pulse slows, our limbs
grow cold. We prefer
this. The dance slows,
we kiss, your tresses look
black from the streets now.
A car’s head light’s shine
upon us as we fall to the
concrete. The driver mistakes
us for speed bumps, only in
the slums of Detroit.
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