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The Fée Verte Absinthe Forum - The Oldest, Largest, Most Authoritative Absinthe Forum. > The Monkey Hole > Mr. Creepy's Art Hole
absinthist
The man stepped slowly down the guilottine
His hands shook desperately
He exchanged kisses with death whose lips are green
And drowned absintheletely

His soul covered wamth
That from hell may have its beginning
Yet from heaven,
Divine place came this fiery meaning

His heart ran away
And passed away like a damaged old granny’s clock
He saw the green making heart again beating
But his eyes were then tightly locked

He sat comfortably on his own crucial consciousness
Took another sip
And fell in drowsiness
Being still low and deep

Nightmare’s not over
Neither the dance will fade
In the aniseed glory
Only the benign shall not pray

The change of vision flickers rapidly
Bringing relief to the monstrous pain
Something is falling, soemthing very dear
A green rain…

Ideal solution is not achievable
Other may claim its beauty’s past
Such memories are memorable
And dead, at last

Thoughts chase the brain’s going high
Man slowly awakes
Takes second sip and cries
The life into two halves breaks

Yet the light won’t provide
So much of a mad happiness
Just have the last try
Before being caught by the sadness

Heart stops
The brain disappears
Happiness is a victor
Man forever sleeps…

21.12.2000 22 38

I was of intention of hijacking Patlow's thread (yeah, how absinthist's typical harhar.gif) but decided to make it on my own since I am rarely drunk (enough) whilst writing poems.
Nymphadora
Sheesh......how can people be so articulate and poetic when they drink? My most profound moment while drunk was thinking G-O-D was D-O-G spelled backwards. Then I giggle and fall asleep.

Hats off to you, man!
Patlow
i like your poem!!! it's cool!!

hey, at least people haven't trashed your drunk poem (yet)... they hate mine, but since the majority is almost always shit, i take it as a compliment. people here are sad old smart-assed cunts with nothing else to do but check in on a drink that time forgot. forget about it. this is cool. cheers!

abs-cheers.gif
Kirk
I see your poetry is improving, Pat, nice.
Absomphe
QUOTE(Patlow @ May 2 2007, 10:24 PM) *


people here are sad old smart-assed cunts with nothing else to do but check in on a drink that time forgot.




Thanks for my new sig line, you Poet Laureate! abs-cheers.gif
Head_prosthesis
That's a fine lookin' poem, Absinthist.

Patlow,
Thanks, I appreciate you checking in on us losers.
hartsmar
QUOTE(Nymphadora @ Apr 22 2007, 09:13 AM) *

My most profound moment while drunk was thinking G-O-D was D-O-G spelled backwards. Then I giggle and fall asleep.


Well, you know - that is truth. Right there. Reality. Not poetry and pretend-madness.
That means, you still have a brain while you're drunk. That's good.
Did you know that D-O-G is G-O-D spelled backwards? I'm allergic to dogs. Make of it what you will.
Patlow
[/quote]

Thanks for my new sig line, you Poet Laureate! abs-cheers.gif
[/quote]

You better fix the capitalization of first word in sentence or else the grammar police will come after you as well... They've been busting me for years!

And thanks, Kirk.
absinthist
Thanks for all. Unfortunately, the other poems absinthe-soaked are in Polish, however anyone willing to torment his tongue, please tell me and I shall add'em.
Absomphe
"You better fix the capitalization of first word in sentence or else the grammar police will come after you as well... They've been busting me for years!"



Nope.

I want to keep it real authentic Patlow. evill.gif
Patlow
Cheers, mate!

abs-cheers.gif
absinthist
I have been puttin' lotsa my papers in order and stumbled upon that: (it was final exam at the end of the 1st year in writing classes), so there you go (I have got A for it):

After 13 days, their rations were exhausted and they were dying of hunger. The end was approaching and probably no one could prevent it from happening.
Antonio and Francisco were staring at their leader-Pedro-the only one responsible guy for their not so witty situation.
In the ruins of this monastery they were supposed to find peace but no one told them about death, sudden and quiet, hidden deep in the grey walls covered with bullet holes, murmuring Her sad solemn song.
The melody that any soldier would never like to hear again. The melody of Her wings, the ones that bring an endless dream.
The war broke off suddenly and no one, except for Pedro, who was in Moscow for instructions, could believe that streets are empty or fulfilled with gunmen on every corner, shops closed or connected with never-ending queues.
The socialism, Pedro was so beautifully talking about in Alvaro’s home (Alvaro died on the first day of war, 1936 shot in the head by a drunk policeman) exploded like a soap bulb and seemed to be an illusion never to be reached.
The present situation proved it was a nightmare-with bloodshed, merciless bloodthirsty demons of Earth.
After two and a half years of war their group-about 7 men, 2 never reached the monastery-died because of severe wounds and the other 2-were murdered like rats in the trap, was hiding in these ruins and the only thing bringing some sort of relaxation and oblivion was a half dried bottle of “green fairy”-that very bourgeois capitalist drink so adored by the working class, and in general so popular in Spain.
The next day the monastery has been bombed and wiped out from the air.
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