Night of the Fresh Tattoo

Slitting the throat of our contemplation, let delusional lamps cast luminous strands to defend us from this sleet, a thousand unwanted shards of poisonous candy, dying breath of March.

Let oil burn the paint away from winter’s walls, bereft of ornament.  Let the couch be stained and full of purpose.  Let lust claw at our twitching spasms of crave, our lonely lonely lonely, our waiting wanting maybe getting.

Pretty people ink their necks and ankles, take their medicine, reinvent themselves in the sauna or while traveling another country, one-eyed Jacks and pin-up Jills whose winks and wry smiles are reason enough for catastrophic hopelessness, for giving up completely, for the preacher to carefully undress and eat a pastry.

 

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