The Body as a Canvas

Ink veins running down her arms,
held together in sea side charms.
Two ladies dancing, skip over tide,
Legs akimbo, arm shaped suicide.

Snaking slowly into a necklace,
Colours run; ink holds tight her face.
Delicately seasoned butter skin,
Feather boa spreads out thin.

On shoulders, insect wings fly,
in glorious act of soaring high.
As yellow bubbles swim in tandem,
And features inked, for love’s abandon.

Flowered fingers are coded clue,
Initialled partners, she once knew.
Where life moves on, their kiss forgot,
Her famous escorts, her memories hot.

On her breast veils of spider’s silk,
Colours of lust traced to woman’s milk.
The needle inks mirror, broken glass,
And fault line marks her darkest past.

A tree of life or blue love heart,
For many, this is perfect art.
For others, source of true meaning,
and holy ones, in love of dreaming.

But where we learn what she is not,
Our painted Lady’s not from Shallot.
In her dreams, and symbols new,
She is the Lady of Tattoo.