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Quotes about l'absinthe

The colors

Morning
Absinthe leaves
Silver sea
Raw blue sky
Bubbles of light
Inner reality
Inner light
Of bubbles sky
Blue raw sea
Silver leaves
Absinthe
Morning

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I understand that absinthe makes the tart grow fonder.

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There is only one absinthe drinker, and that's the man who painted this idiotic picture.

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I took a bottle of pills. I'd been in Europe and I had a lot of absinthe and I was just drinking and drinking, trying to, you know, just shut my body down.

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Circling

A bucketful of moon
falls on my door
with the smell of a salted night
on frozen shoulders of a punctured landscape.

I start expanding
unseeing a sentimental lake.
Life was asking a very high price
for the purple bruises.

Why do you land on the sea of names?
Only one face sinks in the spill
of words. Would you put the green
rain in my glass of absinthe?

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An Instrumental

There was honey on the thigh of her bow
crying in time with his piano steps,

dripping down their hands
into sticky dilated pools


of heavy hymn.


Melting bedroom walls
sucked seconds

off the face of time
like absinthe

Heated heaving breast breaths banged like
heads

[...] Read more

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True confessions

In my youth I was often told
That confession is good,
good for the soul.
In a darkened wooden booth
I was expected to tell the truth.
First a good act of contrition,
Confession and then absolution
Penance would be meted out
Thus expiation came about.

Nowadays that’s thought
Old fashioned.
My local barkeep
hears my confession.
Of course he grants no absolution,
He pours Absinthe
and shows compassion.
And I may or may not
Tell the truth
While contemplating

[...] Read more

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Long After We're Gone

absinthe, and rose,
your gypsy hips.
explodes from within,
your trembling lips.

batlles fought and lost,
bodies by the roadside.
we've come too far,
we have nothing to hide.

flame on the water
that never goes out.
every mile, every minute,
there can be no doubt.

falling stars wrapped,
lives in a thimble.
no deeper beauty,
than the pure and the simple.

[...] Read more

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George Meredith

Modern Love XXV: You Like Not That French Novel

You like not that French novel? Tell me why.
You think it quite unnatural. Let us see.
The actors are, it seems, the usual three:
Husband, and wife, and lover. She--but fie!
In England we'll not hear of it. Edmond,
The lover, her devout chagrin doth share;
Blanc-mange and absinthe are his penitent fare,
Till his pale aspect makes her over-fond:
So, to preclude fresh sin, he tries rosbif.
Meantime the husband is no more abused:
Auguste forgives her ere the tear is used.
Then hangeth all on one tremendous IF:--
If she will choose between them. She does choose;
And takes her husband, like a proper wife.
Unnatural? My dear, these things are life:
And life, some think, is worthy of the Muse.

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Live

I like punks
And shopping centre drunks
Not monosyllabic spiel
from the learned
That never feel.
I like rebels
And kids with pebbles
Who skim them across a pond
With Harry Potter's wand
Watch crowds swiftly abscond.
I like Goths
And inner city moths
That wake up with the night
Who joke and swear and fight.
They rock man
Out of sight.
I like poets and artists cliques
Absinthe laudanum
Radical freaks
That dare to write what others just feel.

[...] Read more

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