Gunsmith hands that brush against my cheeks in dreams only
That once were wet
The clean smudged hands of a body artist who had the perfect sculptor
Far from me in every way
How can I even remember what these gunsmith hands feel like when they are not dripping with beer and ash and too much chlorine?
When I cannot simply scream I want to feel these hands again and even eternal art will rot away
When all I know is a sharp edged nose that doesn't know its worth and I overstate my own.
When an infinitely edged flame refuses to burn underwater, we must leave our hands above the surface, our counterculture body-canvasses submerged, fingers freezing in the real world.
Drink some anti-freeze and smoke some hope
Bathing in boiling cheap wine is somewhat less glamourous but will nonetheless help you forget how cold it is outside the pool -
And I'd like to forget again in any way that I can,
what it's like to be out here.
I'd like to forget my own body and remember another - the sharp soft body of ink and metal that comes along with gunsmith hands that brush against my cheeks in dreams only.

This Way............................................................That Way