One man loved the sorrows of your tattooed face
I think too often of loose,
aged skin with barbed-wire tattoos.
And I think too often of male-pattern baldness
and what it means to grow old toughly.
I've no tattoos of my own,
the ritual surpassed me,
surpasses me still.
But O! How I dreamed
Of grizzled trees with barks
of rich, dark inks!
Of bright dancing bears
kicking hackey sacks!
Of occult symbols strategically
sketched into my body,
sigils which would grant me
power over myself, you;
a drawn-upon god whose
flesh is all our flesh,
ink-laced, ink-ful, inked
from forehead to tippy toes!
Inked a life more pointed -
Inked a shadow self -
Inked to dark matter new dimensions -
Inked so far into the future -
And that is where my tattooed fantasies pause:
the future.
For at my local indoor pool, I've witnessed
the future of tattooed skin.
Eyes infused with chlorine (though I heard
it isn't chlorine so perhaps you should google it),
lines of ink obscured by wrinkles.
So damned tough.
Sat under a needle for years and years.
So willing to suffer for art, symbols,
power, meaning.
So willing to suffer a loss of time.
So willing to suffer...