On The Underside Nothing Grows

The tat
covered his
back in the
same way
six elephants
discussed how
every human
they'd stepped on
seemed flat
for the only
native he'd
known was
his birth dad,
who gave sperm
and alcohol
before walking
back to Tennessee.
His mom traded
for a new model
made of pure anger
whom all made
sure never to
call less than
Mister. That
still just don't
explain the
full spread
eagle stretching
from blade to
blade on his
reddened back
that merged
with a poison
idea of fun
and a pure sense
of rage passed
by blood from
his step-dad.
No one noticed
he was inked
save the ones
he wanted
with gnarled
yellow locks
and without
the years to
tell them
how drink and
rage had given
birth to metallic
clamps digging
in to untouched
nipples and
(gradually)
wondrous ways
to control the
windpape via
digging fingers
and horserope
twisted just so.
A dye job
marked "Daffodil"
only dissonated
the outer from
inner because
the guy we
loved and the
dude we thought
we knew bedded
half the gene pool
and never got
noticed for
doing something
so stupid as
piercing his
scrote after
the only
book he ever
read claimed it
could delay
orgasm while
you still
kept it up
yet it was
the trickster
in him who
firestarted
this little idea
that left another
person-round-the-campfire
with swollen balls
and shriveled pride.
That was influence.
That was him.
There should have
been more.
Since then I have
met many in
his league but
now look back
at his flatness
with the misery
of seeing someone
so unaware that
the shadow above
that cloaked the
tribal tat upon
his back
was the underside
of an elephant's
foot and I wonder
if he ever wondered
how twilight came
so goddamned early.