What is in your power, what candle sways in your dim glimmer, dear absinthe, to make the clearest head see farther than its native commission? Amber oracles, jaded membranes vibed to the gibes–not of this war-lost world–but to the celestial joke, the fascinated flabbergaster, the which in the quizzical widget–the maybe in the byplay twixt man and all the rotten gods that laugh at us from the hollow portal of their gun-grey heaven.
Absinthe! Granular lave for a fascinated tongue! How you bless and stupefy–framing my meditations in oblivion. On what authority do you erase my grace? I sample a pull of your muds, and struggle to a stratosphere made of my own torn veins; another cup, and my brain has sheened to lead, a dull semi-protruding orb held in a Cro-Magnon’s skull. Soon, I am nothing but stone; rolled, doomed stone. Whatever of soul or spirit persists and operates, does so without connection to my bludgeoned body, my desecrated nest you have drowned in your six ounces of sipped infamy, absinthe.
Now the experiment takes on a tone of the eternal–the longed for, the real.
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