Tattoo Co-Operative

We work together my tattooists and me. New images spring forth out of my imagination. They have the means to create something out of nothing. Amazing arty designs forever on my skin. The girls love them and my mother hates them, way it is. Battle lines.

From tarot card designs by Pixie to Great War warplanes spitting death, my inkers do the best. Nothing else will do, no 2^nd place here when my upper body is nearly covered. Arms, legs, chest, stomach and back. My legs are next. A flaming comet drawn by Ruth.

I had my latest tattoos done by Wes at The Inkpot, Oldham. Only good thing in this mental town. My crazy butterflies on my chest. How it hurt, vodka and coke along with man flu Emla numbing cream hardly helped. Pain for art: Luftwaffe and RAF butterflies.

May to September, each week, I get a new tattoo. My bakery job pays for my ink. Fifty quid a pop. I don’t care, I work with Wes or Ginny and they do their art. A unique design is the result. The pain is often like a tip of pure crystal buy hey, art is born. All real.

What do I do when I run out of space? Grow a third arm or get a genetic body, allowing more coverage? My quest for artful tattoos is ongoing. Many different artists, many different tattoos; all high quality and each mine, to call my own. Decades of ink to go.

Ruth is on my arm, not as my Pagan Bride or intimate lover, no. But in our poem. It reads: ‘Flames are tears, tears are flames. Till the bitter end...’ Isn’t it amazing how a gal can inspire me so? More than art and emotions, what next? Ink this space...