Wormwood and Chartreuse

One day the bow legged man forgot his tinfoil cap at home, entering the world in absinthial, at risk of frequencies that otherwise left him at ease and unattended. Without his fouler he was besotted, frail and weakened with life’s intoxicants, Wormwood and Chartreuse, Paddy’s and Metaxas, a distillery of frequencies and voices. He stove the pain with licorice root and pot-sherry, which he drank from a hipflask he kept on a toggle attached to his wrist. When he was of the mind to, which given his infirmaries was seldom, he would tamp a chock of licorice root into his hipflask, furcating an essence of anise to the pottage.