Wishes beget construction of atomic weaponry beneath the dance ball. Glass slippers tapped patterns of withdrawal on a plutonium floor. The song was forgotten decades ago but I love the sentimentality. Some star is mummified in the urinal and Sergei Yesenin is perched above on a clogged pipe. A group of girls showed me the view from Hell on a white line between numbers. I saw my mom there for a split second. They drug me to the disco ball that flickered along with my aphrodisiac yearning. We danced until I passed out next to a poster that read “Reach for the stars!” The morning reminded me of poverty and a thousand regrets. There's no women here, no euphoria. Just glass shards scraping a bomb like some feline scratching a pole of nails.