The night has a pulse, and he
is what makes it race.
Streaming light and booming bass,
he likes to watch this world shake.

He only ever dresses in shades of bruise,
black and blue, purple too —
he won’t admit he’s still convinced
that lends him an ancient royalty
none of these sinuous sweating souls
could ever dream.

Because they are all under his thumb,
the lonely, fucked-up dancing ones;
they tuck the moon under their tongues,
don’t care whether they ever see dawn come.

And he will drink from all their shattered cups,
accept no less than raving splendor,
wine and blood-soaked surrender
until the sun comes up.