Ink

I’m at the tattoo parlour, mulling over why the baby didn’t make it. It crosses my mind, all things considered, that it’s because there is a God, and not because there isn’t one.

The man finishing off is large and parades his tribal lines as if they’re his.

Paris Hilton has adopted 20 rabbits. They were promised to some snakes, and she couldn’t accept that. Nature is revolting, apparently. Now the fluffy orphans are owned by a drug-addled, see-through Twit — mommy. Perhaps the belly of the serpent wasn’t such a bad terminus.

I hold the hands of loved ones while ink fills their gaps. If I were American, I could describe them as “being colorized” — but I’m not, so I won’t. The girls get a grip while motorised pricks redirect the their electricity momentarily. The hard buzz of the needle. It’s the sound of a telegram arriving from the soul. The artists coax images from the customer. Personal colours blossom between layers three and five by the hand of these pigmental widwives.

I knew a guy who had his tattoos scraped off so he could become a Marine. And quite right, you can’t kill another man, torch a village, and have pictures on your skin — the scandal. Apparently — if you’re neat, it’s not murder.

The arguments of the untattooed ring in my ears: “what if you change your mind?” — I will, my mind has changed since I started this sentence, dick.

“What about corporate work?” — what about it? You mean I’m forcing myself to be self-sufficient, and live without a desk or tie or boss? I must be insane … “What about when you get old?” — right, so deluding myself that I’m not aging will be more difficult to accomplish?

“Won’t other people think you’re scum?” — probably, but their own lack of intellect being brought to the fore right away suits me better than having it hidden, just like the tattoos they have inside themselves … I prefer my scum out front, not under the robes, where the heat and dark make it fester.

Anyhow, I watch two schoolboys come in — my own judgement kicks in like a dirty cop. One has just had a bad eyebrow job at an amateur establishment, he’s in pain but trying hard to keep eyes dry. It’s a big deal if he loses it here, he thinks.

Someone tries to help him, in the mirrors, I catch him trying to close his eye-valves by pinching his face shut. A silver tear escapes, the little Judas … his friend is frantic that we’ve seen it. He reaches down and grips the his friend’s hand. Amid the cynicism and laughter that’s building in my own clown cloud — I recognise that here is a friend. Maybe getting older means knowing when to cut the crap.

Get a tattoo, it’s good for the soul.