This city is made of wolves and gods,
nymphs with hacked off hair and kohled-up eyes,
wide-eyed prophets slurring over a bottle of Jack.
Ares dons leather as he prowls outside the club.
Mottled bruising spills into the half-crescent below
his eye – a bar fight left him bloody, laughing.
Old Lucifer and his host of rebel angels smoke Marlboros
in the alleyway. Abaddon spent the night in a holding cell
last weekend, head bowed and teeth gleaming.
This time, they keep to the shadows. This generation,
these new party monsters slicked with glitter and sweat,
birthed from smoke machines and sticky dancefloors —
well, the prince of darkness knows better than to meddle.
Here, we are the wolves. Divinity had the sense
not to touch us. Instead, we bare our teeth, clutch bottles
like lifelines, soak up the messy beats, hide in the
darkness between the strobe lighting.
In battered neon lights our names are written,
like stars, but less.