Extortionate fashions

by on February 4, 2015 :: 0 comments

Tattoo, tattoo;
I know my brain.
I’m going to let people see it.

I’m going to make
an irreversible decision.
I’m going to buy personality.

Surely if I have
curly-wurlies or barbed
wire bicep badges,
I’ll be praised down the pub
and considered cool.
Ken will have transformed me.

I’ll be a sheep.
I’ll post a Facebook status
saying I NEED another tat.

It will be hard
to go under the pin.
I’ll literally
be a martyr.

I know my brain.
I know my fucking brain.
I’m going to tattoo my forehead.

You can’t top that.
I’m the daddy now.
When I hit sixty I’ll be proud.

I could have been an artist
or a cellist, or a saint,
but I wanted to line Ken Fleck’s pockets.
I’m fucking cool. I’ve got a tiger in my tank.
Your lack of ink must be boring.

editors note:

It’s all the rage; from tabula rasa to illustrated man. Ink, Baby! Ink! – mh

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