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Sid Jan 2015
I used to be
unfortunately
just jumbled upstairs
with things bothering me.
I had an ole' broken heart,
picked through and fumbled apart.
Until this renegade cowboy said,
"Depression depart."

Noone will ever harm me, not with my tattooed man.
I got myself a bad boy, so come and try it if you can.
And even though he keeps me warm at night,
if you meet him in the dark he's gonna put out your lights.
Noone will ever harm me, not with my tattooed man.

And when the whiskey gets ahold of your head,
you best take care of your tongue or watch him turn red.
And I wouldn't wanna be the one looking at me
if I'm holding his hand, make sure he doesn't see.
Keep your hands at your side
because consequences provide,
and you'll be wishing you had when you two collide.

Noone will ever harm me, not with my tattooed man.
I got myself a bad boy, so come and try it if you can.
And even though he keeps me warm at night,
if you meet him in the dark he's gonna put out your lights.
Noone will ever harm me, not with my tattooed man.

So when you're drinking at night
and wanna get in a fight
because the scar needs a callus to heal just right,
walk away from the man
with the tattooed hands
because protecting his woman's all apart of his plan.

Noone will ever harm me, not with my tattooed man.
I got myself a bad boy, so come and try it if you can.
And even though he keeps me warm at night,
if you meet him in the dark he's gonna put out your lights.
Noone will ever harm me, not with my tattooed man.
preservationman Jun 2018
Full Of Art
Beauty at every mainstream a sight
Tattoos everywhere well almost
But the tattoos were the only thing noticeable, but added was the muscles
As the man walked around on the boardwalk, you could see woman in their personal conference hurdles talking a man of stature
What a masterpiece would be in a picture?
The guy had tattoos that described words of attention and the muscles just added the vision of mastery
It was his shoulders down to his feet
Sheer physique having a look of mystique
You could also hear woman’s hearts throb
Yet with the imaginary of “Turn me like a door ****”
In fact, one woman boldly approached the Tattooed Man in a strong statement, “Love me but don’t leave me”
That put the man in an embarrassing situation
Because it was all in public
So the Tattooed Man wasn’t sure in how he should respond
At first, he just looked upon
But there was a question, “Should he fulfill her request or just take it as being flattered?”
The Tattooed Man later whispered in her ear, and invited the woman to his place
It wasn’t far, but a moment in being no time to waste
The Tattooed Man’s apartment was well furnished and his body complimented his apartment by being distinguished
But his structure got all the attention
Before the woman could imagine, the Tattooed Man picked the woman up, and carried her to his cave being his bedroom
The woman kept stirring at the contour of the muscular body of the Tattooed Man and tattoos couldn’t hide those vascular muscles
Before the interlude began, the woman shouted, “Direct me to your heart”
It wasn’t before after the woman’s heart started to rise
Every stroke seemed like a welcome surprise
Yet with every scream there was a realize
Pleasure having a soothing delight
The Tattoos were like a road map to love
The woman felt she was in love with a Greek God
It was beauty behind the strength
Miles of detail at every length
****** among us
Love out of control
Oh Ob Oh
But finally the interlude was over
The tattooed Man had taken the woman to his love nest home
The adventure was her roam
The Tattooed Man the woman will never forget
Yet she does have one regret
“I wish I had that body of essence mine”
The dotted line being love fulfilled
The secret of love where there was a will.
Maria Dash Nov 2014
Dark cold December , we started well , I've been loving someone , but I've never seen his face.

Every time he says he loves me , I feel loneliness . I'd like to pretend he holds me , but it has never been that way.

I've been loving a stranger ,  something hard to explain , only he knows our story , "sadly romantic" we'd say , I'm in love with a tattooed heart , 16 marks he'll regret , I've been loving a tattooed heart , a heart I'll never forget .

Empty and lonely , I've been for so long . I wish I could touch you , I'd trade my soul , if only you knew , how much I loved you , you'd tattooed my name instead of a phrase.

I've been loving a stranger ,  something hard to explain , only he knows our story , "sadly romantic" we'd say , I'm in love with a tattooed heart , 16 marks he'll regret , I've been loving a tattooed heart , a heart I'll never forget .

Here comes the end , let's pretend , we lived fully in love , We never cared what they say , we were fully in love , fully .in .love.
nick armbrister Feb 2018
YUMMY YUMMY IN MY TATTOOED TUMMY
I like eating very much, call it a passion coz obsession sounds too mad.                                                            
Give me a sandwich tuna mayo one sliced tomato on bread times two.                                                        
Not enough!
Time for chicken donner on nan with everything on: hot sauce, salad cream with salad, peppers too, Jalapeno style. Add an order for onion barges, samosas and chips in pita bread with mild sauce on.
Yummy yummy in my tattooed tummy!
Half an hour later, an Italian beckons. His pizza looks cool! I say three types of meat, sliced, on top. Extra cheese, deep pan and two types of olives. Munchy time and yes, I enjoy this meal.
Later… What next? English fish and chips with salt and vinegar and a drop of gravy. No mushy peas, I hate them! I’ll take two fish cakes on the side. Traditional English grub down the hatch. Then meat and potato pie on a muffin. Careful not to burn my mouth! Did that before.
Yummy yummy in my tattooed tummy!
Time for some American influence, supersize me! Huge portion of fries, mega big burger and a litre of strawberry milkshake.
I’m multicultural in my diet. Foreign people are cool when it comes to their cuisine. I love Norwegian apple juice, as I need a drink after eating their goats’ cheese on rough white bread.
Yummy yummy in my tattooed tummy!
Chinese crispy duck is desirable, just like egg fried rice and prawn crackers. All available food is welcome, I’ll eat your left over’s on my trip of eating.
Yummy yummy in my tattooed tummy!
James M Vines Nov 2017
A Rose sits high on her breast and a snake slithers up her thigh! She has a heart tattooed on her arm and an evil smile on her lips. In the small of her back the dark wings can take you on a trip. A vine swirls around her ankle with the names of those she holds dear. She has forever yours tattooed just below her ear. She walks casually by and gives you a longing stare. Her wrist has the words Devil May Care. She has long blood Red nails and on her fingers she has love and hate. She loves to make your girlfriend jealous, she is the woman they will love to hate. Across her slender stomach she has no inhibitions tattooed colorful and clear. She has wanton sinner tattooed on her inner thigh. If you see what is next then it is obvious you are her kind of guy. So if you want to get lost in lust, just let her catch your eye. You will follow the map of ink to sinful pleasure and she will rock your world. Be wary of the danger of the tattooed girl.
Arielle Oct 2015
I was about 7 years old when I saw my father’s tattoo
I asked if it hurt, he said no, not even a little.
I examined his hand like it was a science project
It was a name, a four lettered name
But,
I didn’t know what it meant.
When I turned 9, I noticed his tattooed hand again
Now, being more curious I asked who “Beth” was
“Beth”, the name that made my mother flinch, whenever she would hear it
My father never answered me, I’m pretty sure he never did
But whenever I would say it, it was like I was torturing my mother in the most painful way.
I finally knew who she was, but I guess it was too late
My mother said she was just going to the market but she never came back.
I was 11 when I finally knew who Beth was
Turns out, she was my father’s first love
They got married and had children just like with my mother.
But my mother already left us
She left us with this woman whose name
is tattooed on my father’s hand together with their children’s names.
It hurt like hell when I realized that we were never his first.
We we’re never his one and only
And he was never our own.
That was the moment when I felt my world crashing down before my eyes,
Burying that one thing
I thought was my own
Burying the laughs
The smiles
The tears
The hugs
The kisses
The love
Burying everything I thought I had with MY family
With my mother,
With my brother,
With my sister,
With MY father
And his tattooed hand reminded me everyday that we will never be his first,
We will never be his one and only,
And he will never be our own.
I blamed him for everything,
I blamed him for so long.
I blamed him why my mama left,
I blamed him for not being his first.
I blamed him for everything,
Like everything was his fault…
But,
I also grew up loving him,
Thanking him,
And appreciating his love for us
That is when I learned to forgive him
To accept him,
and…
to love him again.
Yes, we may never be his first,
His one and only,
And he may never be our own,
But the love he has shown is more than enough
Now, his tattooed hand will be the one,
to remind me
that, being second is never wrong because I know that he will always love us,
as his first.
Kelsey Rhoads Apr 2018
If you are a suicide survivor
Inbox me your name
And I’ll add it to my tattoos of others

You guys mean the world to me
And I have my own name on my arm
Because I too, am a suicide survivor.
Inbox me your name. Make this go viral so I get names. Hopefully it inspires someone to fight a little harder. Anyone wanna join me?

If you understand I’m sorry. Stay strong friend.
ariana  Dec 2014
tattooed heart
ariana Dec 2014
you don't need
a lot of money
honey, you don't have
to play no games
all i need
is your loving
to get the blood
rushing through my veins
i want to say
we're going steady
like it's 1954
it doesn't have
to be forever
just as long as i'm
the name
on your tattooed heart
you don't need to worry about
making me crazy
because i'm way past that
so just call me
if you want me
because you got me
and i'll show you
how much i wanna be
on your tattooed heart
wrap me in your jacket
my baby
and lay me in your bed
and kiss me
underneath the moonlight
darling, let me trace
the lines
on your tattooed heart
just as long as i'm
the name
on your tattooed heart
Terry Collett Dec 2013
What's a Mongol?
Della asks Froggie,
her cousin. He sits
beside her on her bed,

flicking through her
CDs. What people
used to call people
with Downs, he says,

taking out a Talking
Heads album, gazing
at the cover. Why?
Who said it? Della

stares at him, tongue
resting on her lower
lip, her eyes bright,
drinking him all in.

Man on the bus said
to me. The *******,
Froggie says. *******?
Della looks at Froggie's

tattooed hands. Not
nice person, he says.
She lays her head on
his tattooed arm. He

flicks some more CDs.
Man said sit elsewhere
to me. If I'd been there,
I'd have floored him.

Floored him? Della
twirls a finger in a lock
of hair. Flattened the
***. She closes her bright

eyes, imagines the man
flattened. Did you? What?
Sit elsewhere. She nods.  
I'd have thrown him off

the fecking bus, Froggie
says, taking out an Oasis
album and turning it over.
She opens her eyes, rubs

her head on the tattooed arm.
Man said I shouldn't be
out in public. Why? Said
they used to lock my type up.

Who was this prat? Don't
know. Stranger on the bus.
Froggie puts down CDs and
rubs her head.  She looks at

him, feels his hand rubbing
her head. Never should have
been locked up years ago,
Froggie says. Were they?

Yes, Uncle said they were,
he worked in a mental hospital
years back. Why? Froggie
kisses her head. People were

ignorant or ashamed; locked
them out of sight. Why?
She hugs Froggie's tattooed
arm. Don't know, Del. She

closes her eyes. Tears seep.
Run her cheek. Froggie wipes
them off with his finger and
licks it. Not worry crying over.

She kisses his arm, hairy,
tattooed, blue and red, yellow.
Put on the Stone Roses. Della
takes the CD and puts it on her

lap top and sits next to Froggie.
They kiss lips and rub noses.
People used to call people with Downs Syndrome, Mongols or Mongoloids.
Nigel Morgan Dec 2013
A Tale for the Mid-Winter Season after the Mural by Carl Larrson

On the shortest day I wake before our maids from the surrounding farms have converged on Sundborn. Greta lives with us so she will be asleep in that deep slumber only girls of her age seem to own. Her tiny room has barely more than a bed and a chest for her clothes. There is my first painting of her on the wall, little more a sketch, but she was entranced, at seeing herself so. To the household she is a maid who looks after me and my studio,  though she is a literate, intelligent girl, city-bred from Gamla Stan but from a poor home, a widowed mother, her late father a drunkard.  These were my roots, my beginning, exactly. But her eyes already see a world beyond Sundborn. She covets postcards from my distant friends: in Paris, London, Jean in South America, and will arrange them on my writing desk, sometimes take them to her room at night to dream in the candlelight. I think this summer I shall paint her, at my desk, reading my cards, or perhaps writing her own. The window will be open and a morning breeze will make the flowers on the desk tremble.

Karin sleeps too, a desperate sleep born of too much work and thought and interruption. These days before Christmas put a strain on her usually calm disposition. The responsibilities of our home, our life, the constant visitors, they weigh upon her, and dispel her private time. Time in her studio seems impossible. I often catch her poised to disappear from a family coming-together. She is here, and then gone, as if by magic. With the older children home from their distant schools, and Suzanne arrived from England just yesterday morning, they all cannot do without lengthy conferences. They know better than disturb me. Why do you think there is a window set into my studio door? So, if I am at my easel there should be no knock to disturb. There is another reason, but that is between Karin and I.

This was once a summer-only house, but over the years we have made it our whole-year home. There was much attention given to making it snug and warm. My architect replaced all the windows and all the doors and there is this straw insulation between the walls. Now, as I open the curtains around my bed, I can see my breath float out into the cool air. When, later, I descend to my studio, the stove, damped down against the night, when opened and raddled will soon warm the space. I shall draw back the heavy drapes and open the wooden shutters onto the dark land outside. Only then I will stand before my current painting: *Brita and the Sleigh
.

Current!? I have been working on this painting intermittently for five years, and Brita is no longer the Brita of this picture, though I remember her then as yesterday. It is a picture of a winter journey for a six-year-old, only that journey is just across the yard to the washhouse. Snow, frost, birds gathered in the leafless trees, a sun dog in the sky, Brita pushing her empty sledge, wearing fur boots, Lisbeth’s old coat, and that black knitted hat made by old Anna. It is the nearest I have come to suggesting the outer landscape of this place. I bring it out every year at this time so I can check the light and the shadows against what I see now, not what I remember seeing then. But there will be a more pressing concern for me today, this shortest day.

Since my first thoughts for the final mural in my cycle for the Nationalmuseum I have always put this day aside, whatever I might be doing, wherever I may be. I pull out my first sketches, that book of imaginary tableaux filled in a day and a night in my tiny garden studio in Grez, thinking of home, of snow, the mid-winter, feeling the extraordinary power and shake of Adam of Bremen’s description of 10th C pre-Christian Uppsala, written to describe how barbaric and immoral were the practices and religion of the pagans, to defend the fragile position of the Christian church in Sweden at the time. But as I gaze at these rough beginnings made during those strange winter days in my rooms at the Hotel Chevilon, I feel myself that twenty-five year old discovering my artistic vision, abandoning oils for the flow and smudge of watercolour, and then, of course, Karin. We were part of the Swedish colony at Grez-sur-Loing. Karin lived with the ladies in Pension Laurent, but was every minute beside me until we found our own place, to be alone and be together, in a cupboard of a house by the river, in Marlotte.

Everyone who painted en-plein-air, writers, composers, they all flocked to Grez just south of Fontainebleau, to visit, sometimes to stay. I recall Strindberg writing to Karin after his first visit: It was as if there were no pronounced shadows, no hard lines, the air with its violet complexion is almost always misty; and I painting constantly, and against the style and medium of the time. How the French scoffed at my watercolours, but my work sold immediately in Stockholm. . . and Karin, tall, slim, Karin, my muse, my lover, my model, her boy-like figure lying naked (but for a hat) in the long grass outside my studio. We learned each other there, the technique of bodies in intimate closeness, the way of no words, the sharing of silent thoughts, together on those soft, damp winter days when our thoughts were of home, of Karin’s childhood home at Sundborn. I had no childhood thoughts I wanted to return to, but Karin, yes. That is why we are here now.

In Grez-sur-Loing, on a sullen December day, mist lying on the river, our garden dead to winter, we received a visitor, a Swedish writer and journalist travelling with a very young Italian, Mariano Fortuny, a painter living in Paris, and his mentor the Spaniard Egusquiza. There was a woman too who Karin took away, a Parisienne seamstress I think, Fortuny’s lover. Bayreuth and Wagner, Wagner, Wagner was all they could talk about. Of course Sweden has its own Nordic Mythology I ventured. But where is it? What is it? they cried, and there was laughter and more mulled wine, and then talk again of Wagner.

When the party left I realized there was something deep in my soul that had been woken by talk of the grandeur and scale of Wagner’s cocktail of German and Scandinavian myths and folk tales. For a day and night I sketched relentlessly, ransacking my memory for those old tales, drawing strong men and stalwart, flaxen-haired women in Nordic dress and ornament. But as a new day presented itself I closed my sketch book and let the matter drop until, years later, in a Stockholm bookshop I chanced upon a volume in Latin by Adam of Bremen, his Gesta Hammaburgensis Ecclesiae Pontificum, the most famous source to pagan ritual practice in Sweden. That cold winter afternoon in Grez returned to me and I felt, as I had then, something stir within me, something missing from my comfortable world of images of home and farm, family and the country life.

Back in Sundborn this little volume printed in the 18th C lay on my desk like a question mark without a sentence. My Latin was only sufficient to get a gist, but the gist was enough. Here was the story of the palace of Uppsala, the great centre of the pre-Christian pagan cults that brought us Odin and Freyr. I sought out our village priest Dag Sandahl, a good Lutheran but who regularly tagged Latin in his sermons. Yes, he knew the book, and from his study bookshelf brought down an even earlier copy than my own. And there and then we sat down together and read. After an hour I was impatient to be back in my studio and draw, draw these extraordinary images this text brought to life unbidden in my imagination. But I did not leave until I had persuaded Pastor Sandahl to agree to translate the Uppsala section of the Adam of Bremen’s book, and just before Christmas that year, on the day before the Shortest Day, he delivered his translation to my studio. He would not stay, but said I should read the passages about King Domalde and his sacrifice at the Winter Solstice. And so, on the day of the Winter Solstice, I did.

This people have a widely renowned sanctuary called Uppsala.

By this temple is a very large tree with extending branches. It is always green, both in winter and in summer. No one knows what kind of tree this is. There is also a spring there, where the heathens usually perform their sacrificial rites. They throw a live human being into the spring. If he does not resurface, the wishes of the people will come true.

The Temple is girdled by a chain of gold that hangs above the roof of the building and shines from afar, so that people may see it from a distance when they approach there. The sanctuary itself is situated on a plain, surrounded by mountains, so that the form a theatre.

It is not far from the town of Sigtuna. This sanctuary is completely covered with golden ornaments. There, people worship the carved idols of three gods: Thor, the most powerful of them, has his throne in the middle of the hall, on either side of him, Odin and Freyr have their seats. They have these functions: “Thor,” they say, “rules the air, he rules thunder and lightning, wind and rain, good weather and harvests. The other, Odin, he who rages, he rules the war and give courage to people in their battle against enemies. The third is Freyr, he offers to mortals lust and peace and happiness.” And his image they make with a very large phallus. Odin they present armed, the way we usually present Mars, while Thor with the scepter seems to resemble Jupiter. As gods they also worship some that have earlier been human. They give them immortality for the sake of their great deeds, as we may read in Vita sancti Ansgarii that they did with King Eirik.

For all these gods have particular persons who are to bring forward the sacrificial gifts of the people. If plague and famine threatens, they offer to the image of Thor, if the matter is about war, they offer to Odin, but if a wedding is to be celebrated, they offer to Freyr. And every ninth year in Uppsala a great religious ceremony is held that is common to people from all parts of Sweden.”
Snorri also relates how human sacrifice began in Uppsala, with the sacrifice of a king.

Domalde took the heritage after his father Visbur, and ruled over the land. As in his time there was great famine and distress, the Swedes made great offerings of sacrifice at Upsal. The first autumn they sacrificed oxen, but the succeeding season was not improved thereby. The following autumn they sacrificed men, but the succeeding year was rather worse. The third autumn, when the offer of sacrifices should begin, a great multitude of Swedes came to Upsal; and now the chiefs held consultations with each other, and all agreed that the times of scarcity were on account of their king Domalde, and they resolved to offer him for good seasons, and to assault and **** him, and sprinkle the stall of the gods with his blood. And they did so.


There it was, at the end of Adam of Bremen’s description of Uppsala, this description of King Domalde upon which my mural would be based. It is not difficult to imagine, or rather the event itself can be richly embroidered, as I have over the years made my painting so. Karin and I have the books of William Morris on our shelves and I see little difference between his fixation on the legends of the Arthur and the Grail. We are on the cusp here between the pagan and the Christian.  What was Christ’s Crucifixion but a self sacrifice: as God in man he could have saved himself but chose to die for Redemption’s sake. His blood was not scattered to the fields as was Domalde’s, but his body and blood remains a continuing symbol in our right of Communion.

I unroll the latest watercolour cartoon of my mural. It is almost the length of this studio. Later I will ask Greta to collect the other easels we have in the house and barn and then I shall view it properly. But for now, as it unrolls, my drama of the Winter Solstice comes alive. It begins on from the right with body of warriors, bronze shields and helmets, long shafted spears, all set against the side of Uppsala Temple and more distant frost-hoared trees. Then we see the King himself, standing on a sled hauled by temple slaves. He is naked as he removes the furs in which he has travelled, a circuit of the temple to display himself to his starving people. In the centre, back to the viewer, a priest-like figure in a red cloak, a dagger held for us to see behind his back. Facing him, in druidic white, a high priest holds above his head a gold pagan monstrance. To his left there are white cloaked players of long, straight horns, blue cloaked players of the curled horns, and guiding the shaft of the sled a grizzled shaman dressed in the skins and furs of animals. The final quarter of my one- day-to-be-a-mural unfolds to show the women of temple and palace writhing in gestures of grief and hysteria whilst their queen kneels prostate on the ground, her head to the earth, her ladies ***** behind her. Above them all stands the forever-green tree whose origin no one knows.

Greta has entered the studio in her practiced, silent way carrying coffee and rolls from the kitchen. She has seen Midvinterblot many times, but I sense her gaze of fascination, yet again, at the figure of the naked king. She remembers the model, the sailor who came to stay at Kartbacken three summers ago. He was like the harpooner Queequeg in Moby ****. A tattooed man who was to be seen swimming in Toftan Lake and walking bare-chested in our woods. A tall, well-muscled, almost silent man, whom I patiently courted to be my model for King Dolmade. I have a book of sketches of him striding purposefully through the trees, the tattooed lines on his shoulders and chest like deep cuts into his body. This striding figure I hid from the children for some time, but from Greta that was impossible. She whispered to me once that when she could not have my substantial chest against her she would imagine the sailor’s, imagine touching and following his tattooed lines. This way, she said, helped her have respite from those stirrings she would so often feel for me. My painting, she knew, had stirred her fellow maids Clara and Solveig. Surely you know this, she had said, in her resolute and direct city manner. I have to remember she is the age of my eldest, who too must hold such thoughts and feelings. Karin dislikes my sailor king and wishes I would not hide the face of his distraught queen.

Today the sunrise is at 9.0, just a half hour away, and it will set before 3.0pm. So, after this coffee I will put on my boots and fur coat, be well scarfed and hatted (as my son Pontus would say) and walk out onto my estate. I will walk east across the fields towards Spardasvvägen. The sky is already waiting for the sun, but waits without colour, hardly even a tinge of red one might expect.

I have given Greta her orders to collect every easel she can find so we can take Midvinterblot off the floor and see it in all its vivid colour and form. In February I shall begin again to persuade the Nationalmuseum to accept this work. We have a moratorium just now. I will not accept their reasoning that there is no historical premise for such a subject, that such a scene has no place in a public gallery. A suggestion has been made that the Historiska museet might house it. But I shall not think of this today.

Karin is here, her face at the studio window beckons entry. My Darling, yes, it is midwinter’s day and I am dressing to greet the solstice. I will dress, she says, to see Edgar who will be here in half an hour to discuss my designs for this new furniture. We will be lunching at noon. Know you are welcome. Suzanne is talking constantly of England, England, and of course Oxford, this place of dreaming spires and good looking boys. We touch hands and kiss. I sense the perfume of sleep, of her bed.

Outside I must walk quickly to be quite alone, quite apart from the house, in the fields, alone. It is on its way: this light that will bathe the snowed-over land and will be my promise of the year’s turn towards new life.

As I walk the drama of Midvinterblot unfolds in a confusion of noise, the weeping of women, the physical exertions of the temple slaves, the priests’ incantations, the riot of horns, and then suddenly, as I stand in this frozen field, there is silence. The sun rises. It stagge
To see images of the world of Sundborn and Carl Larrson (including Mitvinterblot) see http://www.clg.se/encarl.aspx
sabrina paesler  May 2015
tally
sabrina paesler May 2015
I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.
David Nelson Apr 2013
Tattooed Baboon

jumping man leaps many frogs
feathered water jugs burst with buttery bubbles
tattooed baboon screams absolute delight
  
Gomer LePoet....
an attempt at Haiku yet again

— The End —