Kathryn's Birdhouse Reminds Her of Home

I spotted Kathryn in Penn Station earlier this month and asked her about her tattoos. She shared this one, which jumped out at me from across the room:




I had a nice time chatting with Kathryn who referred to her approximately 18 tattoos as a "patchwork" collection, with each tattoo marking a different occasion and/or the places she has been. I totally related to that, although she certainly has a lot more ink than I do.

This birdhouse was the first tattoo she got after moving to Philadelphia. It represents a look back to home. Although the house is not modeled after the building where she lived, it's the same color as her former home, and she associates it with her leaving the nest for the big city.

This piece, on her inner right forearm, is credited to Topper at Philadelphia Eddie's.

Do note I framed the photo so you can see two of the five cherry bombs she had tattooed on her left arm when she turned eighteen. She noted that these bombs were a "loose" reference to the graffiti artist Banksy.

Thanks to Kathryn for sharing her tattoos with us here on Tattoosday!



This entry is ©2011 Tattoosday.

If you are reading this on another web site other than Tattoosday, without attribution, please note that it has been copied without the author's permission and is in violation of copyright laws. Please feel free to visit http://tattoosday.blogspot.com and read our original content. Please let me know if you saw this elsewhere so I contact the webmaster of the offending site and advise them of this violation in their Terms of Use Agreement.

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The Tattooed Poets Project: Debbie Kirk

I always like to finish up the Tattooed Poets Project on a strong note, so today's tattooed poet, the last of this year's series, is the heavily-tattooed poet Debbie Kirk.




It also happens to be Debbie's birthday today, as we check out one of her tattoos. More specifically, let's look at the top of her left arm:






This piece, complete with straight razor, brass knuckles and cherry bomb, bears a banner that proclaims "Bow to your elders, you Emo Fucks."

I mean, what more can I say about that?

In discussing which tattoo of Debbie's to use, this exchange took place:

Tattoosday: "I hesitate to use the emo one because of the language and because I'm sure people will not understand why you would get it, but that makes me want to use it more".

Debbie: "its a favorite with peeps...it has been declared the sexiest tattoo ever..."

Tattoosday: "I love tattoos but they are generally so benign nowadays, so it's nice to see one with a true fuck-all attitude."

Debbie: "Yeah, that defines me what you said right there....and why I got the tattoo. I think that single tattoo is the most ME. I can be a bit honest...which is why people like my poetry."

Where'd she get the tattoo? Debbie recalls " I just remember I got it in Venice 5 years ago from a girl who proposed to me when I told her my idea...I still tell that story. I KNEW it was good with that reaction and she was hot."
 
Debbie gave us several poems to choose from, and the one we selected, she says, is very representative of her work:



Little Frankenstein girl
 
Little Frankenstein girl
has the hands of a pianist
And the heart of a broken organ
With thorns, glass
Bats and Indian ink
Seeping thro…
Sewn together
Crookedly stitched
Like a pastel valentine heart
Filled with mismatched parts


Little Frankenstein girl
Has the right brain of a killer
Her right hand is dominant
While her left foot always faces away
Wanting to disconnect
To run
To be free


To not be part of this
Fucked up experiment
Dreamt up by
A genius dressed in rags
And chased by demons
The kind that really scratch and bite
When you are fast asleep


Little Frankenstein girl
Is not a little girl anymore
The curls in her hair
Dreaded up in the sun
Medusa in the wind


Her loud strong voice
Muffled under the stitches
That firmly binds her lips together
Bondage bringing pleasure
Only to those who wish
To keep her silent
(and they are many)


The little Frankenstein girl
Can’t count the stitches on her wrists
From all of those nights
With her right hand doing
What her left foot
Wanted to walk away from
And her not understanding
That she was never really alive
In the first place


Little Frankenstein girl
All mixed up
And
Mix matched
Returning every evening
With fresh wounds to be sewn
From another vain attempt
To be mortal for just a few seconds
Before the fall


Little Frankenstein girl
Stolen parts
Come with stolen lies
Maggots and flies.
The gravedigger, looking to make a buck
Steals her a kiss
The moistness quenches her lips
He promises more kisses tomorrow
She scurries home
Knowing full well
She’s damned to a life of stolen kisses
And malfunctioning hearts
that spit in the moonlight.


~ ~ ~
Debbie Kirk has published 6 chapbooks and been in 12 anthologies and hundreds of print and online zines. She lives in Santa Cruz with her dog Dr. Gonzo.  She has a website she rarely updates at tntkirk.com but she can be best located lurking around Facebook!  Also check out http://tntkirk.com/.


Thanks to Debbie for sharing her tattoo and poetry with us here as we close out the Tattooed Poets Project on Tattoosday. Also, we wish her a very happy birthday today!


This entry is ©2011 Tattoosday. The poem is reprinted here with the permission of the author.

If you are reading this on another web site other than Tattoosday, without attribution, please note that it has been copied without the author's permission and is in violation of copyright laws. Please feel free to visit http://tattoosday.blogspot.com and read our original content. Please let me know if you saw this elsewhere so I contact the webmaster of the offending site and advise them of this violation in their Terms of Use Agreement.

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The Tattooed Poets Project: Gerry LaFemina

Today's tattooed poet is Gerry LaFemina. Gerry put together a narrative about his ink, which makes my job easier, and gives us a detailed view of his tattoos. Let's see what he has to say:


Photo by Joy Gaines-Friedler
"My first tattoo–I was 19, I was a punk rock kid, and I had been thinking about getting a tattoo for some time.  I had had a dream in which I had a tattoo of a skull and crossbones design in which the skull had peace symbols for eyes.  When I was shaving the next morning, I was surprised I didn’t have the tattoo.  So I called up my friend Melody, whose uncle was Tattoo Ray–one of the best tattooists on Staten Island.  She made the appointment and came with me to her uncle’s house.
            In New York at the time (the mid 1980's), tattooing was still illegal: most tattoo artists worked out of their homes and their clientele was through word of mouth.  Ray was pretty famous–and I have met a number of people over the years on Staten island who had work done by Ray. He was funny, sarcastic, and quick-tongued.  I remember asking him about his needles (this was in the midst of the AIDS epidemic) after all and he asked me right back “How clean is your blood?”
             I liked him immediately.  He did the work.  His niece and I talked.  I just remember being surprised how much the tattoo gun sounded like a dentist drill.  The little whine, the humming buzz.
            My second tattoo: I got my senior year in college.  We found somebody in Westchester who did the work in his suburban neighborhood house.  I remember little of the experience.  The tattoo was not the one I wanted: what I had hoped to get – Tigger with a microphone and a mohawk jumping on his tail – I ended up not being able to afford.  Instead: I went with symmetry – and more pirate stuff: a rose with crossed swords above the left bicep.  In hindsight, this tattoo has held up better than Tigger probably would have....

Photo by Joy Gaines-Friedler


            What lasts though are the tattoos I wanted to get but didn’t: After the rose I wanted to get Charlie Chaplin tattooed on me.  I asked several artist friends of mine to make me a design, and I got a few of them, but none of them “worked.”  And for several years I wanted the logo for my old band tattooed somewhere.  But neither happened.
            So I went with two for a long time: but I often thought about getting new ink.  I wrote.  I taught.  I created a program for young writers in northern Michigan called the Controlled Burn Seminar for Young Writers.  I committed 13 years to that project, and after the tenth seminar, I thought I would get its logo – a lit cherry bomb – tattooed on my right forearm.  The logo was important to me: I believe poetry and all art should be a lit cherry bomb.  It should be a potential explosion.  But it should be fun, too.  I looked into it a few times, but I finally made the decision on a lark a few days after my birthday.  I was walking on Carson Street in Pittsburgh – tattoo parlor row.  I liked the name Flying Monkey Tattoo.  So in I went.

Photo by Joy Gaines-Friedler


            The tattooist was a kid, He could have been one of my students–he was finishing up his apprenticeship and mine was one of his first tattoos.  The seminar after the ink ended up being the last one.  It seemed fitting that the creative writing kids got to see it before the seminar ended.
            And now I’m back to collecting designs: this time, though, I know who’s going to do the tattoos.  The next one will be a Buddha carrying a tattered pirate flag on my back.  These are the two strains of my life.  And I want the MG logo somewhere.  I’ve been driving an MGB for 15 years.  The tattoo is a commitment and the things I am committed too, the things that define me, that continue to define me I want inked on me.  I spend much of my life putting ink on paper.  I think it’s only fitting to have some ink on me, too."
And now, for one of Gerry's poems:
 

Alphabet City
            Avenues A through D, Lower East Side, NYC


After the ambulances left but
before the sun finally rose above Avenue
C, I walked toward Tompkins Square Park where the heroin
dependent rockers slept, addled on benches, while
ex-punks huddled in their leather jackets
for the morning was still damp. One of them called out,


Gerry? What was I to do when I saw her, recognized
her hesitant familiar eyes. How could I have
imagined things would turn out this way when I’d call out her name —
Joanna — those sleepless nights of high school &
kept a photo of her deep into college.
Longing has such a sense of history.


Morning was approaching in its colorful coat.
Not once those months of kissing her, had I wakened beside her, but
oh — I’d wanted to. She was thinner & glanced away when I nodded;
pigeons surrounded her bench but would take off
quickly with the first sudden movement or when the next squad car
revealed itself in flashers & sirens.


So what did I do? What could I do?
The three five dollar bills folded in my pocket, what
use were they to me? I gave them to her, she who’d once been beautiful. How
victorious I’d felt that first time I kissed her.


We didn’t look at each other, nor did we look askance. I thought of the little
xiphoid syringes she might load with that money. This was my sin.
Two young black kids with dreadlocks walked by singing
Zion! Take me back to Zion! & I knew I’d never be saved.


– Gerry LaFemina
from Vanishing Horizon, 2011 Anhinga Press


Gerry LaFemina is the author of seven books of poems, most recently Vanishing Horizon (2011, Anhinga Press) and a collection of short stories.  He directs the Frostburg Center for Creative Writing at Frostburg State University where he also teaches.  He splits his time between Maryland and New York City.




Thanks to Gerry for sharing his tattoos and poetry with us here on Tattoosday!


This entry is ©2011 Tattoosday. The poem is reprinted here with the permission of the author.

If you are reading this on another web site other than Tattoosday, without attribution, please note that it has been copied without the author's permission and is in violation of copyright laws. Please feel free to visit http://tattoosday.blogspot.com and read our original content. Please let me know if you saw this elsewhere so I contact the webmaster of the offending site and advise them of this violation in their Terms of Use Agreement.

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