Sometimes the Point Is Red
Bulbous concerns, my right cheek
Starting to glow through his roots, or
A skull holding
Measures of wine dawn jelly flesh
Cattle suck words on haemorrhaging planes
I saw them, learning to watch
A common heart, plunging into the sea
Teeth grinding, if possible
A quiet route
In heaven all the time
My heavy smoking
It was red
The Dinner Party
I have planned the dinner party of our demise, and upon the table arranged only yellow foods. Yellow is the meanest colour. Not because of its pigment, necessarily, though this does it no favours, being the colour of capture and cowardice and gallbladder bile. It is the meanest because of the sound it makes: it screams.
Every morning I stand on the threshold, staining my teeth in preparation, and count the crows and the cats. They are increasing in number and as they gain in mass their conversation becomes apparent to me. The cats sit flat and silent along the branch of the best tree, and the crows hover nose to nose flapping and squawking. Explaining. They are making a list. A list of yellow things.
I meet a woman on the street and she is crawling (hysterical) she tells me about a yellow rain that will come and it will not be wet upon our skin but instead be a sound inside our blood like rain only in that it will ring.
Colours are in this world simply because they are pinned to it. They are the essence of things, yes, but they are also held hostage to them. Yellow more than any other is pinned to that which stings most, like drinking to drown out the static and badness in the name of greed. It feels these pins that keep it in place most fatally, and when a man puts his hand on the back of a neck that does not belong to him yellow screeches with the heat of its immovable fate.
I wanted to invite yellow to my dinner party in the hope that it could eat itself and thus be relieved. I summoned yellow in a dream and it was a woman stood brave against the wind; all the pins that pin yellow to the world were repeated upon the surface of her skin, acupuncturaly. I thought that she was smiling, but it was just the wind tearing seams into her mouth. Through the bluster I tried to tell her that despite the cruelty of yellow I did not resent her, but wanted to help. That it seemed she was turning everything yellow and that the pins upon her skin must be doubling in number and rattling with the burden.
Do not think me sad, you are mistaken. The effigy of yellow spoke.
It is not the colour of me that matters but the sound. I pin the screams to the world, I forbid that they ever be lost.
Hannah Regel is an artist and writer based in London. She is currently completing her MFA in Sculpture at The Slade and her first collection of poetry will be published early next year by Eros Press. She also co-edits the feminist journal SALT.
Image credit: Annelieke B