She poems his body

Her implements cut
like a tau-tau's caress
to a careful depth
and blood beads the page
of his suppliant skin.
Black lines incise
the ivory plain,
fine strokes, deft patterns.
He wears her words
stained on his flesh
loving the pain.
Bound between the covers
of a slim volume
the imprint will not fade
even when, as will happen,
her nib hums
along the songlines
of another lover's
addicted flesh.



A Piece of Art

(variation on a paradelle)

All my life I wanted to be a piece of art. But people hassled me every time I tried. Art hassled every piece of time I wanted but I tried to be me, a people all my life. When I was a kid mum tore me to shreds. I looped and swirled bright felt pens all over my jeans. When pens looped my jeans tore and bright shreds swirled to me, a kid. I felt I was mum all over. I plastered my face with makeup. Wore it in bed. People said I looked like trash a whore a tramp. I said tramp in my bed people. A plastered whore with trash makeup, it looked like I wore a face. I always wanted to decorate my skin with colour. After the first tat I knew this is beautiful and I’m me. And the first I knew I’m colour always after this. With tat I decorate my wanted skin is beautiful to me. A face said I’m every decorate whore, all colour is hassled. Me, I looped people all the time with my plastered pens. When I first tried to make tat with a tramp I tore up a piece of skin, but mum shreds people and art like I always wore my jeans. After my life swirled over me I looked and knew I wanted to be a kid. I wanted this bright trash in my bed - to me it felt I was beautiful.

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