Brewing in the confines of my mind.
I stole him from refrigeration
With a muggy headiness looming…
Better to take than smear salt
Into the burn - that would hurt
Like a cat scratch, and linger, like
A faint wail in a Hitchcock matinee.
I can’t justify the Miserere.
It doesn’t taste like beer because
It’s ancient, like Mother Teresa.
That’s my excuse, I say before
You feel the incinerating burn.
A perspective on deep dark sins
Requires a placating grip on
The reality of the world -
It’s raped time like an unwrapped
Gift, given to you on the 25th,
Only for you to spout it up, allowing
The insides to settle in remorse.