Tattooed & Rude

I can be rude.

I can be rude because I am afraid.

I can be rude because the textures are different than usual but they feel very soft on my skin.

The contrast unnerving, the balance it creates… fresh like flicked parsley.

I can be rude because it’s what the limbic calvary has been trained for.

Equipped with sharp serrated edges, like the perfect bread knife.

Carving through my thoughts on the cerebral autobahn.

Lights streaming faster than falling liquids after watering a clearly, hydrated plant.

Meredith Brooks said it best….

‘I’m a bitch, I’m a lover…

‘I’m a child, I’m a mother.’

And now you can quit singing the song because its just so…



You ::exhale::

You turn on ‘Nemo’s Dreamscapes’ because it places you somewhere else.

Puts you on a whirly, swirly loop-de-loop

Into a field of poppies and gramophones, laced with falsetto Vox

and on every fourth count, a butterfly is lassoed into the shiny bronze troposphere

No way you can be rude here.

Meredith Brooks bitched and got booted.

The ability to push or pull the things around you to find some kind of comfort

To feel like you are home.

Placed in the Lost & Never to be found.

Because Home is a visceral, glass castle that can be swept away by sea foam

Or carried away on the back of a hermit crab

Or licked by dogs

But like a message in a bottle

Floats back into your hands like a frosty Mexican Coke

After a long and breezy bike ride

Wheels floating

Parallel to the sea.