Because the morning libation spilled wide of the fire means you’ve lost count. Strategically and stylistically, friends don’t let friends lose count. If the pyramid collapses into chiasmus, you want to be there with a stepladder and a few commas before things turn into an anastrophe. A poet of hate can see through eyes of love as long as he’s not blind; a poet of bliss can loosen the ties that bind the stars to the night sky (hands steady!). No sacrifice, but the memory of sacrifice. Trust and prayer[…]uncountable, to the end. The evening libation is a rhythm.
Billy Lambent’s work has appeared in Hobart Pulp, Apocalypse Confidential, Soft Union, and Dreck Lit.