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 skirts

for tuppence –

the price of

an East End flop.

 

You cannot fix me,

because I am not broken,

just awash on fame.

The absinthe

gives me real fits.

 

De Rerum Natura

to the thirsty press

who want to wallow

in this red ink

missive.

 

Tonight

I crouch beneath

The candle light,

Scratching

On cheap paper.

 

It is sharp,

and when I get buckled,

it will drip

crimson petals

of my guilt.

 

The pen,

being mightier

than

the blade.

Dear Boss………