No darker brew can flow / Than moonless thunder sting / Of rites which echo might.
No darker brew can flow
Than moonless thunder sting
Of rites which echo might.
Come forth, fermented froth,
In spiral swerve you dance
A play of hops reborn.
For matters not bleak end,
The names of change and loss
Which perfume vile and wrath.
Keep loud the filthy blasts,
Chant lyrics between swigs,
Revere the earth and stars.
One day, revenge be met,
The black tapes shall rewind,
Oh shadow, Satan, ID.
Speak before me in trials,
Yours still the language of angels,
Blind dream of waters down the gutter.
All water, soiled it be,
Commutes in heavens deaf,
Though fated be its fall.
Tell them I love beyond redemption,
A flame as plucked heavenly petal
Coveted in my chest far from Time.
You who bear the scar of the eagle,
Grant me your liver ever healing,
For truth is the most bitter of ales.
Close my eyes when they come to find me,
Your unknowing disciples, speech cult,
Traitors by trade, older than harlots.
For who could usurp you as patron
Of the cursed craft of reversing
God’s will since the fall of Babel?
I sin accordingly each sabbath.
The words I tamper light my furnace
And keep my horn from running empty.
I am a local poet in the Dallas Metroplex. I enjoy open mics and dark beers. By day I work as a Medical Interpreter. I have been lucky to be published here and there in VoiceMail Poems and Thimble Magazine. I used to contribute to the now extinct Vaporwave magazine, Private Suite.