Rat Holes and Absinthe

The basement smelled like damp carpet and stale beer.
Peeling paint curled from the walls like forgotten letters.
I sat at the desk with pen and paper.
A bottle of absinthe, sweating in the dim light.
Van Gogh stared back at me from the label, his eyes wild,
full of madness.
Madness I understood all too well.
Jagged, vivid swirls of chaos.
Poor fucking Vincent.

Jenny came over that night,
scandalous and dangerous,
disturbing my solitude, my sanctuary.
She’s a street woman with eyes like broken streetlights
and a soul like a feral cat.
All I wanted was to write.
All she wanted was more meth.
The bottle of absinthe shimmered between us,
green liquid sloshing like broken thunder.
She said, hey, if you get me a motel, I’ll give you head.

We walked to the cheap rat hole on Federal Avenue.
Neon halos bleeding into rain slick asphalt.
The room was like a coffin, fluorescent lights buzzing.
I carried my pen and paper like a shield.
All I wanted was to craft the word, the line,
my way through this silly, twisted world.
All she wanted was escape from the streets.
Her laughter sliced through the quiet,
like shattered glass.

I woke up hours later,
phone gone, wallet missing,
room spinning like a carnival freak,
head pounding like a bass drum,
the bottle of absinthe with just a spider of liquid left,
its green ghost fading into the ghastly light.
The world outside didn’t give a fuck,
just another morning in the blitzkrieg I called life.