Ancient Curse

 

The tough guys come to jail

So they can sport their tattoos

The need to display the torso

With its intricate pointillism

Of design on the living canvas of skin.

 

The man, influenced by the

Tribal shamans of the orient,

Specialists in needle and ink.

 

The jeweled pirate and the banners

Of legion hordes

Racing from dark encampments

Into the sweat of leather

And the heat of steel

Now bringing the city the booted

Legend and the fast bike

A deployment of big pals

Weary of work

Wanting bright playthings

And shifting a sudden

Side glance of the eye

And a quick switch to a thick fist.

 

Now the caught quarry

Sits like a big beast

In the County Jail

The torso working

Its muscular map

Of lines and loops

While the mouth repeats the

Ancient curse of

Mother fucker, Mother fucker.

 

Ted Goodell

1992