Absinthe

Indignance and rage controlled

Appointments imagined are waiting

Gritty like printer ink, another saws

Legs off chairs to varnish

Alcohol, and other drinks of substance

Forsaken for the joy gathering

What is true, none are false

Roots awash in epilepsy

A shallow mind, not twisted

He thinks yes, very much so

Just the common inspiration

The scrawl and sprawl of

of

No more bars for me

Ice, like his heroine

Added to his favourite

Eighty-two percent

It wishes so wonderfully

And their flames he

Drinks to his heart’s

Wondering whether he

silver

Think, the Cheshire crescent

Of many moons, all present and

Not here, in his own

His own

Lines

The shallow four, of first

Unclear as they are

The immense noise awakens

None since they

Ambush and wait

A deluge of

I can’t

Tell

He switches on

I’m controlling

And no, it’s still

More

of

I know, he stands

And you see, he knows

I do I am

Yes I

him

Sim

pli

ci

ty

slides.

twenty-six

un

shaven

I forget

tired

in my

rage

indignance

and

my

eighty-something

ink.