Summer heat wafts

stench of rotten garbage

across my face

on wings of dark flame.

~

You smile –

to yourself –

a dark smile of gratitude

and doubt.

~

Green turns to gold as

you tilt the bottle up.

Your fine mouth

curves around the glbum,

and your tongue

laps at the opening.

~

Your raven hair

gleams in the sodium light.

~

The green fairy trickles

over the blessed

cube of sugar

lodged between

your tongue and your palate.

~

I love you,

dark one.

~

But never forget that

it was all those

blowjobs

I gave on 8th Street

that paid for

this

bottle of bliss.

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Absinthe is gay

and I can’t rhyme

Roses are blue, Violets are read, I ****ing hate poetry.

I’ve heard of people doing crazy **** to get their hands on absinthe, but maaaaaan…. this takes the cake.

**** SUCKS

There is a great lack of poetic appreciation in this thread.

I applaud the poet’s grace at martyrdom for the self-destructive habits of her beloved. Brave spirit. Log in to see images!