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First Tattoo
“You bleeding heart!” the tattoo artist laughed, softly blowing dagger tips. The young man feels
a head-ache—wine-ache—fading, swings his feet above the floor as pebbles rattle through his shoes,
such young, young shoes. Twenty years un-old, he gets a first impression: “This will make me, save me,”
whispers youth. Outside, the leaves of autumn press against the cracked glass door. Regret—a word that does not yet
exist, nor does the war or carrying friends away to die beneath palm trees, swaying in goodbyes; nor the three wives or
the tattoo scratched-out of Ruth. Two years from now, he will kiss the salty underworld and know it, almost—
on a ship riding the Pacific, stars shivering in their black beds, enemy planes crying for more sky.
He will touch the inky dagger at his nipple to remember who he is and who he isn’t—one heart, holy, barely breathing.
o0o o0o o0o o0o o0o o0o o0o
She seemed to be drawing a gathering crowd of bed guest she couldn’t out-sleep—escapees from forests with silvery limbs, she thought it was bliss. They called it a civil war diaper jungle, but pleasant enough.
The bed guests were Dragons she couldn’t out-sleep, escapees of windmills, no-stopping-now, they traveled in wheelbarrows, called life a civil war diaper jungle, but pleasant enough, on leave for a dream vacation, freedom holiday lust-away.
From windmills and no-stopping-now, they traveled in wheelbarrows, poured beer in the ocean, a runaway’s Morse code home, on leave for a dream vacation, freedom holiday, oh, to put lust away. They met at a moonless crossroads, praying for a past, a future.
They poured beer in the ocean, a runaway’s Morse code home, to chase a damsel with flexible legs, sugar in her coffee and madrigals. They met at a moonless crossroads, praying for a past, a future. The Damsel saw her curse—it wasn’t her beauty but a people-less bed.
The dragons chased down a damsel with flexible legs, sugar and madrigals, a freedom they could no longer taste, greedy bed guests, arms out. The damsel saw her curse—it wasn’t her beauty but this people-less bed. The dragons smelled retreated youth, a last chance to come in rectangles,
a freedom they could no longer taste, greedy bed guests, arms out, no greeting, no dinner, just a descend of wilted flowers, angry wives. The dragons smelled retreated youth, a last chance to come in rectangles and our Damsel, our Damsel, she seemed to be drawing a gathering crowd. |