The Rose on My Ass
Ah, the Turning-30 tat.
Feel the need to mark.
You follow the curves
but are allergic
to the metal
in the red.
Shower, shave your legs, walk them
into the parlor and sweat
while leafing through the black & grey.
Skip tribal, snooze the Celtic, straight to colors,
all the colors
of pine dragons, nectarine nudes, mother's blood hearts, brain swords,
coal
guns, cloud all-seeing eyes, penny crosses, bruise violets, yarns of
vines twisting
and think about pain.
Steel needles
your pelt,
electrocuting ink
over your vision.
It is art.
It is acupuncture.
It might be sterile
or a hepatitis of filth.
Point to a small brand
then, autoclave your mind.
She pins you
with a final stare
as the machine orgasms,
your skin blurs.
A new body,
a renewed youth pretends
before fading hides.
She carved my meat today,
a grade-A sting. You all approved.
What is left Crayolas my crack. Flash
for the flesh in a lasting gen-x romp.
