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?
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!