deepundergroundpoetry.com
Ab(sin)the
Within the vapors
of smoky opium filled air.
In photos of black and white
rotating deja-vu like...
Whores of talent and spite
dance their way through the night.
Veiled in opaque silk
these naked harlots...
Flirting with their empty stares
as their hissing tongues caress your lips.
Exploitive fingers caressing your flesh
you have fallen into their den of snakes...
Ab(sin)the poisons your mind and body
masquerading as sweet rapture.
The taste of cherries upon your lips
with dancing wormwoods upon your brain...
The shadows all fade to gray
as the voices inside begin to pray.
You sit stammering over your pen
writing your drugged-muse poems...
With candles standing tall
the wax flows like water.
The flame licks at your eyes
as the night turns into an obsidian hue...
Remnants of the day long forgotten
when you accomplish a state of such madness.
With these whores envisioning a muse
reaching for fame written within metaphors...
As early dawn approaches
a foggy mist covers your eyes.
Shaking off your dizzy head
leaving you to wonder was it a dream or was it real?
Picture by Viktor Oliva
'the absinthe drinker'
1901
[/font]
of smoky opium filled air.
In photos of black and white
rotating deja-vu like...
Whores of talent and spite
dance their way through the night.
Veiled in opaque silk
these naked harlots...
Flirting with their empty stares
as their hissing tongues caress your lips.
Exploitive fingers caressing your flesh
you have fallen into their den of snakes...
Ab(sin)the poisons your mind and body
masquerading as sweet rapture.
The taste of cherries upon your lips
with dancing wormwoods upon your brain...
The shadows all fade to gray
as the voices inside begin to pray.
You sit stammering over your pen
writing your drugged-muse poems...
With candles standing tall
the wax flows like water.
The flame licks at your eyes
as the night turns into an obsidian hue...
Remnants of the day long forgotten
when you accomplish a state of such madness.
With these whores envisioning a muse
reaching for fame written within metaphors...
As early dawn approaches
a foggy mist covers your eyes.
Shaking off your dizzy head
leaving you to wonder was it a dream or was it real?
Picture by Viktor Oliva
'the absinthe drinker'
1901
[/font]
Published 25th Jan 2013
| Edited 26th Jan 2013
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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26th Jan 2013 5:07am
26th Jan 2013 6:21am
Thank you for the comment... as to who painted it I really don't know. The site where I got this from did not have a copyright as to who or even where it came from...
26th Jan 2013 6:56am
in the painting, she's telling him that she feels his pain. the atmosphere in the poem is as thick as the smoke. if this is my dream, don't wake me...
27th Jan 2013 11:42am
Anonymous
28th Jan 2013 10:10pm
This is a delight to come across.
Thanks so much for sharing, B V R :-)
Please pen on!
Cheers
Tidespotter
Thanks so much for sharing, B V R :-)
Please pen on!
Cheers
Tidespotter
