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This Ink Is My History: Poem by Jonny Virgo

This Ink Is My History
I got the eye on my back because I was a fan of egyptian heiroglyphics
Now everyon thinks I'm a mason
The worst thing about this is I'm blatantly not.
I'm the world's biggest conspiracy theorist!

I got the 360 physical sign on my thigh
When girls go down for the first time they ask why.
But the girl that I love and I might even wife
we're getting infintity signs that means the shit is for life

Because black ink crystallises my insane visions
Black ink is my folly but my folly gives me wisdom
Seeping from the eye that lies behind my brow
I am a squid spitting masochism tattooing a future.

The ink that makes legends legends and makes the truth true
Staining commuting fingertips on the daily tube news
A distillation of killers, sinners, spinners and winners
Cutting edger cunts, crime, stats and kings.
I remember eating fish and chips entombed in headlines of famine
I remember seeing tramps sleeep under headlines bragging
"Recovery on the Way". So that's why I've come back again
cause I want to say something in ink that doesn't fade
So I'm hoping for another pain fuelled, ink stained, needle raped
Ja rule wannabe tattoo on my shoulder.
Some shit to regret when I get older cause
I got to get my ink done, my tattoos mean something to me
There's nothing worse than a tattoo that means nothing
except a tat that means something you no longer believe
So as the ink flakes off the papers and I'm riding on the train
Heading to meet a cyberpunk called James in SE8
I know what every one means to me, that's my pigmented history
A past enigma maybe a stigma
This ink here is my history

First published poem, written by Jonny Virgo aged 15

Metro
It is a bloated heart, valves sucking open
for millions of sleepwalkers. Hawkers
clog platforms in clots. Skins
windbitten and eyes ablaze, they swim
the crowd, form bulges in the bloodstream.
The platforms have doors onto the trains
and on opening, thousands surge out only
to be sucked back in like the sea. A man
begs on all fours and his head, forning
a fifth limb is grounded. A virus
in the channel's vacuole, he no longer
looks where his kopecks come from.

He has a story about when he danced
Swan Lake, white as a phagocyte
and young too. Now his eyes glaze
to a bottle's curve, holding it to
the light for its dregs.
He is young again in the bottle, forever
preserved, the two-headed baby
in a glass, one head eating the other.