The only poem about Guinness i know is this sonnet i have written, which if it is the only sonnet about Guinness, means it is the best sonnet about Guinness (he says with bated breath & a head full of self-delusion,& stout, haha). Mine’s a pint.
This white minded dark creature, bitterly
misunderstood— you turn us inside out
: we sing, we dance, we love, better.
Undoubtedly Jungian: its Nigredo & Anima
tryst in the fluid suspense of pulmonary yeast
on the cusp of a kiss in a crop of burning barley,
the breasting flames hop in between them
& sundered, tatter into morning-after
bottom growls & frequent trips to the lavatory
between petting & foreplay, learn
each other from the roast of raw morning breath.
If Lao Tzu was around to see the stout
figure stacked in a pint glass, he’d have seen
& gulping, tasted the essence of philosophy.