Soul Sop
Detroit, a soul sopping vampire, her only desire is to have and hold you for all eternity.
Drained lifeless, catatonic, but present in ones little cage. Hopeless to ascend beyond the height of her mouth, an addictive opiate venom that makes men dream of waking dead in her mouth the only warmth she has and you, her only possession that gives her worth, security, assurance that she is alive and a woman. When you are in her mouth she is full orgasmic vocal with ecstasy, otherwise she is a wounded bitch, howling in the streets, drunken in sports bars filled with men under tables, drunken from proving their manhood, dreaming of women that don’t emasculate them in her rants of the injustice, of violence, pornography, materialism, bad traffic, the things men do to win women, bad hair and the lack of money and not having a man, because all men are dogs.
Right or wrong I must mark this place in time. I live in Detroit, a city where the best women are akin to the food at late night diners called Coney Islands, cheap, utilitarian sustenance, nothing for the taste buds to savor, nothing for the eye to caress, nothing to remember except in a drunken hunger, drunken is the lucid state of all wise men in Detroit, still, ever present, the only place to fill the empty space when the liquor and drugs that veils reality are gone, is called Coney Island. A waste land of past amusements held up for nostalgic reasons, Coney Island the only place to go at four AM, where everything taste better bathed in flavor masking sauce, her where you go when there was no one you wanted in the bar that wanted you. Always better looking through the bottom of a beer, clothed is dim lights and loud music always a better lover when you’re both drunk, in the dark, beneath covers and clothed.
I live in a city that lives to drown itself in escapist devices, a city that is nothing, if not exactly what one sees on the surface. I promise there is no beauty beneath the Formica finish, Chinese woven vinyl nondairy whipped toppings, expensive materials and name brands, not even in the construction, only a demonstratively bovine, sedentary, lethargic, complacent fuck, desiring you become the same, and only belong to her. Do not attempt to look into her soul, you’ll only find a cavernous void echoing the desire to be filled with dick, cars, meaningless trivial material and money.
Detroit is a city of secret keepers with nothing to keep secret and that is Detroit’s only secret. After you’ve done it once, you’ve done it. It will keep you coming back because it’s cheap, a steal in fact. There’s a hair salon in every other basement, a lottery machine attached to every church, a liquor store adjacent to every nursery school and a single mom in every third car. Detroit is the temple of the goddess of the temporal vortex of thought and imagination. The church of the god of the latter day pimp the almighty Jesus of spending, hording hustling and the enlighten dollar. Detroit, where questions are answered, “I don’t know”, and answers are answered, “I knew that”.
Detroit is a city with nothing to trade except sweat and blood. Its greatest export is its talent and its greatest import is imagination. It sucks like toothless French street whores, only desiring another payment in exchange for loyalty. Pleasure here is a tool of survival a weapon of deceit, a city where women desire to be mothers and then housewives, where girls wish to be seen as sexy and beautiful and the transition between the states is ugly or never occurs. Where love is a transaction and worth is set by the price.
I live in Detroit a city dedicated to the cause of keeping “it” real regardless of the costs. Where happiness is a possession to be flaunted in a Nana fashion at people who don’t have whatever or whomever they person possesses. “I gotta man and you don’t”, even when her man is dissatisfied with her and always seeking something better, Detroit is determined to stay the same, real, consistent, cheap and over priced. And I love her. I could never be in love with her. She’s too simple and two dimensional. With Detroit there is the pleasure of the drunken fuck and the pleasure of bitching about all that is wrong with Detroit, it a one way thing there is no reciprocation. There is an exchange of goods and services. An exclusivity contract and a non disclosure clause, a man in Detroit can do anything and stay in a relationship as long as he occasionally brings in some money and is never found having sex with another or making love.
Drained lifeless, catatonic, but present in ones little cage. Hopeless to ascend beyond the height of her mouth, an addictive opiate venom that makes men dream of waking dead in her mouth the only warmth she has and you, her only possession that gives her worth, security, assurance that she is alive and a woman. When you are in her mouth she is full orgasmic vocal with ecstasy, otherwise she is a wounded bitch, howling in the streets, drunken in sports bars filled with men under tables, drunken from proving their manhood, dreaming of women that don’t emasculate them in her rants of the injustice, of violence, pornography, materialism, bad traffic, the things men do to win women, bad hair and the lack of money and not having a man, because all men are dogs.
Right or wrong I must mark this place in time. I live in Detroit, a city where the best women are akin to the food at late night diners called Coney Islands, cheap, utilitarian sustenance, nothing for the taste buds to savor, nothing for the eye to caress, nothing to remember except in a drunken hunger, drunken is the lucid state of all wise men in Detroit, still, ever present, the only place to fill the empty space when the liquor and drugs that veils reality are gone, is called Coney Island. A waste land of past amusements held up for nostalgic reasons, Coney Island the only place to go at four AM, where everything taste better bathed in flavor masking sauce, her where you go when there was no one you wanted in the bar that wanted you. Always better looking through the bottom of a beer, clothed is dim lights and loud music always a better lover when you’re both drunk, in the dark, beneath covers and clothed.
I live in a city that lives to drown itself in escapist devices, a city that is nothing, if not exactly what one sees on the surface. I promise there is no beauty beneath the Formica finish, Chinese woven vinyl nondairy whipped toppings, expensive materials and name brands, not even in the construction, only a demonstratively bovine, sedentary, lethargic, complacent fuck, desiring you become the same, and only belong to her. Do not attempt to look into her soul, you’ll only find a cavernous void echoing the desire to be filled with dick, cars, meaningless trivial material and money.
Detroit is a city of secret keepers with nothing to keep secret and that is Detroit’s only secret. After you’ve done it once, you’ve done it. It will keep you coming back because it’s cheap, a steal in fact. There’s a hair salon in every other basement, a lottery machine attached to every church, a liquor store adjacent to every nursery school and a single mom in every third car. Detroit is the temple of the goddess of the temporal vortex of thought and imagination. The church of the god of the latter day pimp the almighty Jesus of spending, hording hustling and the enlighten dollar. Detroit, where questions are answered, “I don’t know”, and answers are answered, “I knew that”.
Detroit is a city with nothing to trade except sweat and blood. Its greatest export is its talent and its greatest import is imagination. It sucks like toothless French street whores, only desiring another payment in exchange for loyalty. Pleasure here is a tool of survival a weapon of deceit, a city where women desire to be mothers and then housewives, where girls wish to be seen as sexy and beautiful and the transition between the states is ugly or never occurs. Where love is a transaction and worth is set by the price.
I live in Detroit a city dedicated to the cause of keeping “it” real regardless of the costs. Where happiness is a possession to be flaunted in a Nana fashion at people who don’t have whatever or whomever they person possesses. “I gotta man and you don’t”, even when her man is dissatisfied with her and always seeking something better, Detroit is determined to stay the same, real, consistent, cheap and over priced. And I love her. I could never be in love with her. She’s too simple and two dimensional. With Detroit there is the pleasure of the drunken fuck and the pleasure of bitching about all that is wrong with Detroit, it a one way thing there is no reciprocation. There is an exchange of goods and services. An exclusivity contract and a non disclosure clause, a man in Detroit can do anything and stay in a relationship as long as he occasionally brings in some money and is never found having sex with another or making love.
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