I got a new tattoo today,
Of a cat peering round a corner
That Sylvia Plath herself once drew.

It was printed out and traced around
And then put on my arm
Up tight against my skin,
Where the blue ink could leave it's picture.

I sat on a stool with my arm outstretched
And he followed the trace around
With a needle dipped in black.
There was sharp pain
And tingles
And my arm started to go dead as he leaned on it.

He wore a sailor hat over his dark hair,
Tattoos up and down his arms,
Is that a tattoo of an oven?
Yes.
And we talked about old comics,
How they all started as horrors,
Penny gruesomes they used to be.

The ink was injected beneath my skin,
So that i could how onto Sylvia's drawing,
for the rest of life.
SP, it's signed with.

Guess I'm a literary type.