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…