The Tattoo I Didn’t Get

trapped in a blizzard
of               mink-clad
nymphs
drowsy    with    donor
fatigue
in    the    land    of
edward
scissorhands
where                the
infomercial is king
as   instinctive   as   a
vine
in    the    blue    marble
organism
which doesn’t allow
the other—
the sea or the shore?
“this is me,” says
she,
saying ‘good-bye’
and    the    door
becomes murky
and   I’ve   seen   this
murk before
is    anyone    asking
questions
anymore?
while      in
this        détente
you give me a
“pre-emptive strike”
so   how   are   we
supposed to be
a   six-legged   couple
anyway?
right now, I’m going
to      go
into town and rape
some
grand pianos
intention   is   one
thing
effect is another
but nobody’s name
goes   on
the   small   of   my
back!