deepundergroundpoetry.com
Absinthe
Crushed up fennel in your crushed up head,
Fresh picked on these eastern shores,
Ground with thoughts of another’s heart,
Pestle you’ve carried inside your skull,
And remembered in your oldest scars.
Once, I heard the learnéd say,
Seasons come, but spices fade,
Children yearn, but young men pray,
So pass the cup, and drink of it,
Let nature grow inside yourself,
And when it’s ripe, touch blood to mouth.
Friends have left me cold and grey,
The sound of sex, the mess we’re in,
I have shared so much it hurts,
Yet nothing but life is spent on death,
And you can always save too much.
Fresh picked on these eastern shores,
Ground with thoughts of another’s heart,
Pestle you’ve carried inside your skull,
And remembered in your oldest scars.
Once, I heard the learnéd say,
Seasons come, but spices fade,
Children yearn, but young men pray,
So pass the cup, and drink of it,
Let nature grow inside yourself,
And when it’s ripe, touch blood to mouth.
Friends have left me cold and grey,
The sound of sex, the mess we’re in,
I have shared so much it hurts,
Yet nothing but life is spent on death,
And you can always save too much.
Published 18th Oct 2010
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18th Oct 2010 10:46am
There's a lot I like about this poem. That first line in the first stanza is so musical. The memory contained within scars is interesting too. And "Seasons come, but spices fade" is my favorite line of all.
