You are a living,
fleshly painting of
tattoos and
delicate shades of blue,
layered with
the texture of
rings of metal
and eyes forlorn,
pleading but determined
with splendid grace.
I watch you forensically
holding the hands
of a child
who tugs and pulls away
in innocence and knowledge,
and you rein him in
just like the fear
that flows like drugs
in your veins,
fear as persistent
as the spurt
of red, red blood.
Hurt is smeared
on your static face
like paint on
a madman’s canvas,
and your tight, tight jeans
are well worn,
but not fashionably so,
and reveal your desire
to be something
you can never be.
And your blouse
of faded flowers
cannot hide the
artwork that lives
beneath and reveals
itself at the edges
in all its
macabre glory
and revelation.
Your face suggests better days,
with its grey wrinkled tinge
and patches and spots;
then you see my gaze
of curiosity
and the gentle half smile,
given freely for just a moment,
almost with regret or disbelief,
opens your soul,
opens the yearning
that lives ungeminated
beneath the surface,
under the bruises
and the pain,
and the routines
of violence
that frame your day.
I watch this
living art,
with a cigarette
hanging from
a tender mouth,
see this soft soul
that no one sees,
and I wonder
to where
you will go
in your eternity,
in the silence
that lays beyond
the shouting
and the flash
and sound
of hand on flesh.
22/7/2016