La Poesia

He had not known anyone before him who could endeavor to create such beauty while enduring such scalding pain. Maybe a tattooist was of the same species, but a different breed, and Hector was selfish with his art. No one could pay to impart his passion on them. Money did not passion buy. How could a tattooist claim to be an artist anyway?

True, there had been poets for ages and more, but Hector was master of the art of flesh poetry. How some could malign his work and call it tattooitry was, well, ignorant. He sat hunched over on his bench. Candlelight was necessary since unnatural lighting was bound to distort the images of his back. By bending over a padded bench, he was able to look down to the floor into a mirror illuminated by his many candles that shone directly into the mirror above his back that guided his hand as he clinched his fingers to move his scalpel slowly, inching across his wide thick muscular back.

The windows were full of noses and eyeballs. Pink eyes that matched the pink liberty spikes of an onlooker were not distraction enough, for this line of work did not permit less than maniacal concentration. The sweat amassed in pools on his back, interfering with his precise incisions, and pooling with blood to distort the image. The drip, drip drip of little droplets of sweat and blood down his ribcage were annoying. But, like an annoying itch deep inside your nose that you dare not attack for fear of being discovered, he ignored the itch that interfered with the purest sensation of pain he had known.

Little children pushed forward towards the glass, hoping to grab a glimpse of the ‘dagger man’ that populated their dreams, that one time or another they had tried to imitate by slicing a fingernail, or maybe even a fingertip. The clamor outside was loud; the children sat slack jawed. At one point, a little pony tailed pair of eyeballs appeared through a crack in the bodies outside the glass, and a blunted scream penetrated the thick glass wall between Hector and his admirers. His hand stopped. He closed his eyes. He knew perhaps that some in the crowd would scorn at his weakness, that they would think the pain was overtaking him, but he could not risk one misspent stroke, so he must stop rather than jeopardize his piece. He wanted to explain to them that it was the damn girl, not the pain, but he knew that they would laugh at his poor excuse. The might say, "Hector the Blade, is good, but not as good as Momo." Hector was master of his art, so he opened his eyes, and again, moved slowly the now dull blade into the second verse. And Momo was a fat ass, and carving the fat on his outer thigh was nothing like carving the deep muscle tissue of Hector’s back, but they would never appreciate that; they were ignorant and he loved them anyway.

And now 23 minutes, 27 seconds later, it read in resonating calligrapaphy, his most beautiful flesh poem ever. The crowd jumped towards the glass, noses pressing hard and leaving grease marks. His assistant, beautiful and buxom in her tight V neck shirt, took a ice cold rag in her hand, and in her other hand, a bottle of Modena vinegar, the finest vintage in the city. As was Hector’s tradition, she splashed the vinegar across his back. This was the most painful part; Hector knew that it was seconds from the cheer of the crowd, and the torture of waiting was murderous.