Where is that mad god of the night?

Lord of intoxication and theatrics –
shouldn't you have a reserved table in Amsterdam?

Shouldn't you strike a spark, a gleam
in the eyes of these marauders
who wonder like golems through the sidewalks,
looking for nothing with empty eyes?

Men roam these streets in packs like starved and rabid wild dogs.
This weed bestows scrutiny without insight, and no slackjawed,
pinkeyed nineteen-year-old discovers the code for wisdom.

What power do these women hold who bathe nude in redlight,
self-advertising portraits with no eye for beauty?

The drinks pass compulsively,
the roaming is evading, not searching,
and the whores never come.

All of you, wish for the god in vain.

Bacchus isn't here now.
He passed out from boredom hours ago
in the basement of an opium den.

Said you all wouldn't know a wild night
if it shit on you.



About the author:
Jade Sylvan is 24 and graduated from Indiana University in her home state. She lives and works in Boston, Massachusetts. She is currently writing a novel, writing and performing poetry, and keeping up her blog: thebrokenwatch.blogspot.com.

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