red violets boiling

the slim strings of a fox running before the
hounds of everything, or listen
you think I am mocking you
sitting there with your stethoscope listening for
death
           when you would rather be
           when all of you would rather be
           red violets boiling
           on a stove in anywhere
           quiet.

I
  know this
I
  know that each of us would prefer something
else.

           it’s hard mixing drinks for dull people
           in a $250 a month apartment
           but it is also equally hard
           to need a drink quite badly
           quite badly–
                                  small capital god
everything
trailing
god trailing everything
when the people in the sun are not people in the sun
but something
else
       and the unscrapped hulls of hoary countries lain
       too long in harbor & everything sings behind them
       o like lying history
       books
                  and
I need a drink
unprepared for proper escape–
knotted like a rose dripping red
nodding like a head dripping
I mean and dream scarfs in the wind
flotilla draping
yet all this evermost light in the eyes and
blindness.

Author
Charles Bukowski
This poem appeared in the following books: