The Trade Name.

When the green fairy

kisses my lips

with sweet anise,

I take the grand wormwood path

just for jolly, wouldn’t you?

Cachous,

to mask her breath

of juniper.

A road

to mothers ruin.

The gas-lit fog

cloaks the backstreet

opiate dens,

where wretched

addicts lie.

Pastry faced women,

lifting ski...

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