tossing my
ale hither,
an affirmation
of Truth made
upon untarnished
purity, "By My Trowth"
to swear by one's honesty,
stitching together attributes
of my victim and my perpetrator,
one in the same,

Elizabethan insult,
an ale-soused
apple john, By My Trowth,
Thy vile canker-blossom'd
countenance curdles milk
and sours beer, By My Trowth,
I place a pox upon thee,
thou dost make the millstone
seem as a feather what widst
thy lard-bloated footfall,

little moves more
than a trotting pony
today, no f***ing media
to fill the day, I weave
together terms of wit,
suck my own tit,
Here's the company,
the slavey, the drayer,
the brewer, the daughter,
the barrel, the half barrel,
gallon, the half gallon,
quart pot, pint pot, half a pint,
gill pot, half a gill, quarter gill,
nipperkin, and the brown bowl,

give me the
punchladle,
I'll fathom the
bowl, some say
that the firebrand
knows the use of
her cucumber. I
raise my silver tankard
and down it goes, brew
a bold cathartic batch, I
roasted brown barley,
no ale is its match
two weeks to ferment,
two more in the kegs,
time to reflect
on the ale rune;

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The Steed of
Evergreen, lost
when he was
six years old, some
said he was tortured
over a barbed-wire spit,

she used the ale rune,
ale runes were written
inside the cup from which
the woman drank, she thinks
she knows where the steed
roams,

he has protection runes
carved on his hoofs, he
watches from the hillocks,
they slaughter boars, the
one with soot on his face,

the steed feeds
on the apple rune,
nourishment for
limitless expansion,
his powers are inherited,
the ash wand attracts
lightning, courts the
lavender flash, cut at
summer solstice is best,
the results of
runecasting,

he sees the
extinct wild ox
last seen in the
year 1627, she
gets mead for
poetry and watches
the steed watching
the little sauna woman,

she puts on her
fire jewelery worn
either as a strap-on
belt or a pearl necklace,
depending on how she
wants to wear it and
use it, she gets to spend
one night with the little
sauna woman, blackened
from the smithy forging the
anvil, every night twenty three
rings of white gold are forged,
exchanged for a dupe,

shaggy forelock,
the steed of evergreen
hears the rooster
tell him she is coming
ashes, fire, and glow,
she is from the ancient
gild of runemasters, as a
gag for the howling wolf,
they shoved mud in her
mouth, but her mind's eye
turned it into the mead of
poetry, when one of the many
serpents go gnawing at the
great tree, she yokes the steed
of evergreen to a plough and the
plough cuts go west, the first cut
is the deepest...

Copyright 11/04/2009 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist