His neck smelt like dusty streetlights and
he had them hanging on his every breath like
the other pretty gods, except his voice was thunder
with a hint of cinnamon.
He would click his fingers and twine their heartstrings
around his waist, and twirl them round the throbbing floor
til their throats were wild with hunger and their tongues
ached for a drop of his sweat
ambrosia on the rocks, vodka with a kiss of fire,
straight from his callused skin.
They bathed in milk and danced in nothing but
paperclips as a symbol of their devotion,
and he would pull away their modesty
bit by shimmering bit, while they laughed off their shame.
A whisper of his thirst, and they would
slit their wrists and press the blood to his
fevered lips, begging for the
thrills of death against his mouth.
He gambled with their lives and souls,
and at intervals, allowed them to taste sin,
They fell upon him like wildcats.
And every dawn, he would beckon to a girl
or three, and they clung to him,
giggling like intoxicated pixies as he climbed up to the roof,
where he gave them a ride to ecstasy
and then fell asleep in time to their murmuring lips
"I'll be good," he'd say, "for a lullaby."