He feels the blue-black
chattering of his cheap tattoos.
They pinwheel around
and they tumble down
to greet a broken-track braille
and join its scabby trailing off,
stammering dead-end tempts
to the diminished lots
of unmarked tissue.
You can t-taste it too,
first that rubbery sharp squeeze,
then a streamlined steel’s b-bite
with its c-creeping warmth,
its p-piquant glee
and its promises to quench
those g-glimpses of eternity.
Each promise gets
reneged as soon as it’s replenished.
There’s an art to this steal;
its con is his meat and bone.
Brenda Warren. She's set up a new site for prompts called A Wordling Whirl of Sundays. I did slightly change a couple of the words.