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For The Children Of Detroit
The killing of the children rather than the adults of Detroit makes sense. They are smaller which makes the job easier. They are killing the children in New York, London, Sydney, Paris and Toronto. In every city a child is molested by a relative every three seconds. There are one in four men who are molesting children, and only two out of fifty child sexual abuse cases will be taken before a judicial system. Of course these are statistics. Nothing can be proven. Did you see it happen? In every city there is a woman looking after two thirteen-year-old girls whose mother has been shot dead. In every city a five-month-old baby is burnt to death by fire in the ghetto. In every city two toddlers are involved in a fly-by shooting. In this city it makes the nightly news. Detroit is a sound box for the rest of the world. In every city a boy is run down in a police car chase. This time they were after a drug dealer, even though they knew where the drug dealer lived. The boy's pushbike lay crumpled in the dirt, a sneaker left behind, a spinning pedal. In every city a fourteen year old boy saved a thirteen year old girl, when his brother him and a friend tried to murder her in a dilapidated building, He said, 'I pulled the plastic bag up from her face. She looked up and say, "please help me.'' Man, you never heard anything so desperate come outa her mouth. Cause she knowed she was gonna die. So I just lifted the bag and untied her and she run off.' Later he testified against his brother in court. He said, 'What they was doin' was wrong man.' In this way he lost the remainder of his family, who are now threatening to kill him. In every city as in Detroit, the children will save themselves. The children of Detroit will find nature and store it for the winter. Their most memorable childhood experiences will not be of a shopping mall, but of a creek beneath a bridge or a favourite frontyard tree. Detroit is river of rubble from another burn out. It is foul smelling steam that drifts out of the manholes. The city is alive with false nature. A siren calls out like the last bird at the end of a street of closed theatres. Armed guards are escorting people from the Saturday night carparks into the restaurants. Detroit is where the paedophiles have a right to know where the children are, but the children don't have the right to know where they are. There was no peak hour traffic on the inner city streets, but the cars honked if you moved two inches towards your side of the line. Everybody is armed and on edge. Try not to look anyone in the eye as they get upset. The whole city from across the river is a heart ache, an upset stomach or a failing organ. Detroit is crying while its killing its children. The dogs and cats inside the house were dead. The waterproof skin of what was believed to be an otter was found cooking in a saucepan. A bloke on the TV weeping in the gutter told the interviewers, 'They killed the most precious thing on earth, when they killed a dog.' The dog's spirit fell apart inside him and dissipated, although he had tried to hold it together. He bawled on the local news like a little boy. In those few seconds he lost everything precious, of what it might have meant to be a man or to care about a dog. I'm not about to hide that this society is corrupt. I am not about to hide that my lover and his last lover could only get stimulation by having him slap her in the face whilst she repeated, 'Yes, I'm your slut.' I'm not about to hide that the whole street, including myself and now the welfare, know that that child is being fucked by her step father. And still they send her back to him and every time she comes back to the welfare, workers with blackened eyes and hardened hands have to check her hymen. Then one day when it was broken, they asked her what had happened, and she said that she had tripped over in the swimming pool, and had hit her vagina on the concrete edge. That poor little girl, she was taught to hide it but I'm not about to. They seemed to care a lot about whether her hymen was broken or not. But they cared about her stepfather too, so they still kept sending her back. By the time her hymen had been broken, her two front teeth were also knocked out. Her skull was cracked along the forehead. She had begun to pull her eyebrows out with her fingers, until they had to give her rewards of cookies for her to stop doing it. But still they sent her back. They had not learnt from the other children who had died on Erie Street. Her name was Natalie. She was cheeky, liked fairies and witches, had freckles and wanted a pony, and one day she disappeared as well. I saw her depart from this world with Gabby the black labrador across a field of light. She was holding something small, cold and dead in her hands out to the wise spirit-dog. At first I thought it was another dead kitten that had been found and given up. Then upon looking closer I saw that it was her own heart. |
