From "Dies Irae," from Sunday, which I swear to God is almost done…they've figured out a way to put you inside one of my wacky metaphors. Sure it's wood and I don't think you can drink out of it (give it time), but it kinda freaks me out.

You can't unring a bell, and the two strangers who wish
they were talking suddenly become a chalice for blood–
and you can't unsee it. And that is an anagram for
Sex in one, half dozen in the other, and you say it doesn't matter.
So it doesn't matter. And the guards couldn't stop them anyway.

Found at Book of Joe by way of OhGizmo!