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Norman Crane Sep 16
A billiard table imprints its damp shadow
on a yellow wooden floor. The game still
unbegun, mere fragment of the sorrow
felt by the patrons whose wilted heads will
still be here tomorrow, if tomorrow comes.
Red walls distended by burning lamps
and burned out hearts beating blood through ear drums:
Reverie to the night god /   Dreaming tramps
drowning in their heads in lakes of absinthe
color of the ceiling better than being
awake but indefinitely absent.
The lamps blink, eyes floating, speak all-seeing:
Vincent, let us meet before you entreat
the crows out of your head into the wheat.
Inspired by Vincent van Gogh's painting The Night Café.
CAL Jan 16
fairy liqueor
they will steal you away from here
cyan and mint
cyanide and menthol

the fae will transport you
to the old forests
the marsh will swallow you alive
and call you deary

they like honey and molasses
so put salt and iron in your tea
dont takes the gifts of nature
or the fae will take you away from me

mushroom rings and salt circles
silver blades and playful masquerades
count the fingers of the beggar-men
lest you give your name to the fairie magician
if ye meet a man on the road, count his finger lest ya deal unknowing with a fae
Sister Sinister Nov 2019
Soft, green vortex, beckoning
tender brush of eyelashes on skin
The lush hue of May looms
on butterfly wings

Fleeting as a sigh
and faint your fragrance
Of feline grace your footing
and elvenkind your posture

leaves
the wish to dive
beneath the surface
to touch more than skin

My mind is ablaze, with clumsy
step I attempt the dance
am bound to trip
to burn the moths, you beckon

A hot sensation
rolling down my throat
You fill this night to the brim
and I drink in full

Gazing into the eyes of my Absinthe.
Not a native english speaker. I'm taking votes for either surface or skin. Hull sounded so technical..
J J Sep 2019
With a fly across my lips, your paisley wall,
Like the interior of a chandelier,
Floats like a cartoon span sporadically
Into motion.
Commotion, as the grimmoire that observes
Every moment as they occur,
cauldron that stirs the blood
Through the vein, is broken free.For a moment
The sky was loose, we were free and we were floating;
But now we watch as insects dawn our skin
And dismantle our presence.
My hand spirals the green neck of the bottle
That splits us, departing our lips indefinitely,
And you intercept to top your own glass first.
The absinthe was poured
Soon thirst will be quenched
The water then added
The green fairy did change
So my brain could be drenched
And my mind would derange
What was peridot green
Is now most opaline
The fennel and anise
Are present indeed
But the taste of the wormwood
Is the flavor I need
Evan Stephens Mar 2019
16 miles and change,
26,000 steps
end with the ten
to the absinthe bottle
and back to bed,
dizzy with heartbreak.

I spent years
trying to change,
but I am more myself
than ever before.
The truth slips
over my neck.
My eye is dark.
Absinthe vanishes
from the glass
smooth as vapor.

She invited
my deepest hurts
so I gave them
in cries that
sunk into her
shoulder blade,
more than I've
given to anyone.

Time is a broken floe,
drifting and cold.
I am more myself
than ever before.
I wish I wasn't,
Oh god I wish
I wasn't.
Butch Decatoria Nov 2017
Sweet green alchemy!
Let’s drink to forget the pain,
Love’s absence and strife.
Edit repost.
Brandon Conway Sep 2018

The blood in the bottle usurped
the blood in my veins
I love you I burped
but it was in vain

You're drunk again
why do you cause this pain
it's fuel for my pen
and I cannot abstain

I guess I am weak
with no self control
with a future so bleak
and a shriveled dried soul

It fills the page
can't you see,
it fills your rage
and that's fine with me

Today you left for good
so I bought a new notebook
and a bottle of wormwood
laid out in a small nook

Watch as these pages like feathers
fly off in the wind
lets get back together
so I can do this again
David M Harry Oct 2017
The memory of your lips, stained in a stubborn
shade of November is my favorite affliction.
Frosted absinthe dripped from your tongue,
spilling from those November lips, forming the words
which fertilized the garden of my anxieties.
In the nocturne of my imagination, past the perennials
of blue memory, I still nurture an orchid of deep
reverence for the irreparable manner in which
we damaged each other.
I endeavor to tend to this garden, to finally take care
of it.  Of me.  But all I manage to do is **** out my confidence,
settling for the deeply rooted progress of paralysis.
I regret letting you drink from my cup.  
Absinthe did not mix well with the curve of your complexity.
When it spilled, I watched it drip from your mouth,
knowing, with no uncertainty, that you would slither into my mind.
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