The air here smells like cigarettes,
The water tastes like wine,
The rooms reek of asphyxiation,
But everyone is fine.
In the bathroom is a bathtub,
Adorned with a ring of blood,
The walls, decorated with a yellow stain,
From an unattended flood.
The food inside the kitchen,
Is no more than butts and ash,
The pantry, filled with Sylvia's books,
The sink, a pile of trash.
The dark of the room is passion,
Anger and beauty and romance,
One moment there is weeping,
Then fighting, then time to dance.
"Where are we?" you may ask?
This is the artists' home.
Evidence of painting together,
And poetry written alone.
You thought it might be beauitful,
With color and sun and flowers.
You had no plan at all to find
Men self-sabotaging for hours.
Oh, you thought the walls would show
Van Gogh, not evidence of mourners.
Yes, well, Vincent is still here:
He is the man bleeding in the corner.