Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.” —T. S. Eliot (via vvolare)
hoping to get
but all I could do was to
worse, the bar patrons even
there I was trying to get
pushed over the dark
and I ended up with
while somewhere else
son-of-a-bitch was in a hospital
tubes sticking out all over
as he fought like hell
nobody would help me
the drinks kept
as the next day
waited for me
with its steel clamps,
death doesn’t always
when you call
not even if you
from a shining
or from an ocean liner
or from the best bar
on earth (or the
only makes the gods
ask me: I’m
72.” —Charles Bukowski, The Suicide Kid (via depressionparty)
Red was your colour.
If not red, then white. But red
Was what you wrapped around you.
Blood-red. Was it blood?
Was it red-ochre, for warming the dead?
Haematite to make immortal
The precious heirloom bones, the family bones.
When you had your way finally
Our room was red. A judgement chamber.
Shut casket for gems. The carpet of blood
Patterned with darkenings, congealments.
The curtains — ruby corduroy blood,
Sheer blood-falls from ceiling to floor.
The cushions the same. The same
Raw carmine along the window-seat.
A throbbing cell. Aztec altar — temple.
Only the bookshelves escaped into whiteness.
And outside the window
Poppies thin and wrinkle-frail
As the skin on blood,
Salvias, that your father named you after,
Like blood lobbing from the gash,
And roses, the heart’s last gouts,
Catastrophic, arterial, doomed.
Your velvet long full skirt, a swathe of blood,
A lavish burgandy.
Your lips a dipped, deep crimson.
You revelled in red.
I felt it raw — like crisp gauze edges
Of a stiffening wound. I could touch
The open vein in it, the crusted gleam.
Everything you painted you painted white
Then splashed it with roses, defeated it,
Leaned over it, dripping roses,
Weeping roses, and more roses,
Then sometimes, among them, a little blue
Blue was better for you. Blue was wings.
Kingfisher blue silks from San Francisco
Folded your pregnancy
In crucible caresses.
Blue was your kindly spirit — not a ghoul
But electrified, a guardian, thoughtful.
In the pit of red
You hid from the bone-clinic whiteness.
But the jewel you lost was blue.” —
Red by Ted Hughes