Poison

“I take sugar with it!”
“My glory is only a humble ephemeral absinthe.”

Paul Verlaine 

Drinking absinthe has long
been associated with art
and poets and writers.

The Green Muse, a pixie
in the brain
to wake the words,
expand the senses,
make the senseless wise.

Partaking of the Poet’s Poison
is as much of an art
as what is magicked
afterwards to paper.

pour the light chartreuse liquid,
melt a sugar cube –much like
brownstone in a spoon — into
the glass, add ice, stir until it melts
and the drink becomes milky,
cloudy like the memories it
will conceal.

.

Praised and cursed, stories
abound of death, debauchery
violence, lust and liberated vices.
Credit has been given for Van
Gough’s Orchard — and his
taken ear — and Hemingway’s
bells. Picasso painted his absinthe-drunk
compatriot, Wilde explored his words.

The sound of the radio melds into
the background as the sugar
burns and liquefies. Subtract senses,
enhance others with wicked honey
down the throat.

The Muse watches, waiting,
then smiles slyly and begins
her dance.

.

.

Inspired by Shawna’s mid-week word list and a little research into absinthe. Later in life, Verlaine looked back on an absinthe rampage through Europe with fellow poet Arthur Rimbaud in which they used some of their more ingenious verse as currency, never to be recovered: “That dastardly Rimbaud and I flogged them along with lots of other things to pay for absinthes and cigars.” How many of today’s geniuses  and their work have been lost to their poison of choice?