Art Over Art

She is covered

in tattoos,

and the way she moves

is mesmerizing.

Her tits are out

and I try not to stare at them,

but my eyes wander,

and I stroke my beard,

as if I am pondering some profound thought–

like I am some great writer,

when really,

I am just young and horny.

Her hair is dyed red and black,

and she has a lot of makeup on her face;

they pair nicely

with her shy smile.

You can just barely

tell how pale her skin is

underneath all of the ink.

It’s almost as white as a blank canvas…

She has art on her body,

but her body,

like a lot of female bodies,

is also art.

Art over art

It’s a weird concept…

Imagine if I drew a picture

over-top of this poem,

and you could see a little of this

through a lot ink.

Although ...

The female body

is much more beautiful

then this,

that’s for sure.

I suppose it wouldn’t quite be the same.

But still…

Art over Art

Maybe I will do it.

Maybe it’ll trend.

Maybe it already is a trend,

and I am behind the times.

That seems likely…

And this desperate piece of writing,

from inside this bar,

is hardly art,

in comparison to her.

Her tattoos express much more

then this does.

I guess that’s the point

of

art over art.

-C.H.