Tattoos

Why does the sky
keep bleeding into my wounds
while I am not finished
with my own inner cuts?
I have a punishing need
to hold down the stars
to my own, tasty part
which I do always devour.

Betrayals and bereavements.
I have schorched the grounds and kept the books
out of those who can be trusted
to have a deal with.
To share a meal with:
whether its food or love.
Lovers and lunches
are all best kept most real.

Adorance and absolution
are the rooms of  the growth: 
I need to follow those roads
like a  lil' cosmic Alice
who finally has found
her inner sound
and the tunes of lunacy
are swirling around
of the neverending skies
landing down onto my skin.

I keep on tattooing myself into
a better sin, into a  future.