Teenage Woes

I really don't know what happened.
Munching on new foliage of mulberry,
I fell asleep on the tattoo artist's chair.
And awakened to a rude change.
I've lost those curves and all my pretty feet.
My appetite's not the same.
I can't stand to chat with those sissy coloured flowers,
With so many annoying boys flitting around.
They say I've transformed into art on wings,
But I just want to go back to my cocoon.
Metamorphosis, my ass! It's the tattoo guy's fault.
I'm pretty sure I didn't ask for a blue Jesus on my lower back.

Ready for the Kiln

Your fingers.
Those long artistic feminine reins
With flesh, bone and supple skin
Met mine
Manly, unpretentious and calloused.

Your little palms
Were lost in mine
Finding comfort in the gaps.

Emotions cemented skin on skin
Contours and crevices well-fused.
We held our fate lines
In one firm squeeze
With the head and heart in place.

Giddied by your touch
My thick stubby hands
Transformed
Into dancing dervishes
That whirled and swooned,
Pivoting slowly
Around the wheel
Of your assertive palms.

Those small stern hands
Were indeed your own.
But in yours alone
Mine were clay.