Bring the Whiskey Down on the House

As long as we’re talking in the fractured timbre of mourning, let us walk also with thin black bands and other markers of savage life.

Bring the whiskey down on the house and pray.

As long as we’re streaking dolorous notes across a bleak dawn, let us also cry for the hours lost to the glass shattered underpass.

Bring sleep down on the house and pray.

If you were ever full here with the calas and cosmos spilling from clasping hands, don’t look behind you where the hunger hangs.

Bring the tide down on the house and pray.

If you were ever in the smokehouse with your skin on fire and a mouth of ash, don’t wait for broken bells to speak for you.

Bring flies down on the house and pray.

As long as we’re divesting ourselves of pearls from heart and crown, let us drape our winter coats across the children’s bones.

Bring winter down on the house and pray.

As long as we’re catechizing the queens and corner boys with liquid jugulars, let us also paste our poster love across the asphalt in flesh.

Bring the dice down on the house and pray.

If you were ever barefoot across the sun scorched banks of sharp dry rivers, don’t look behind you for the flood.

Bring war down on the house and pray.

If you were ever shoved on the blade of a better man and bound with bitter weeds, don’t look for your voice on your wrists or grave.

Bring the crows down on the house and pray.

As long as we’re marking soil with rough cut stones and stolen wings, let us spread unguents across our brothers.

Bring the quarry down on the house and pray.

As long as we’re scrubbing souls for abandoned sacrifice and gutted kisses, let us also lay the eyes to sleep.

Bring the whiskey down on the house and pray.

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