Iconology
Iconology
Capturing Melbourne '08
By: Brad Axiak
he takes a pair of tangled surgical gloves stretches them over his nimble fingers
on his chair, he rolls over to where you lay flat on your back, staring up his tools lay in a line at the ready, he selects the gun and adjusts the elastic band warily you turn to your head, as if partially paralysed from the shoulders down the walls are cluttered with sketches of demons and the photographs of strangers from another time
tiny statues question you with their unwavering eyes he wets a cloth with a clear solution, that he squeezes from an opaque poly plastic bottle dabs your skin wipes it, this way and that you feel it evaporate from your pores, like a refrigerator door opening and then closing nearby you’ve been planned for this thought it all through argued the point with the non believers and taken heed from the late night dreamers you’ve searched the streets and questioned those who’ve been here in this imitation leather bed surgical recliner you don’t know him but you trust him enough to break your skin and wipe away the blood when rises to reveal the marks of evidence the proof you made an art part of your life primal part of your skin and in the ardour of pain, you’ll let god in behind you, voices move around and hang on the air laughter you can’t see, creeps in past a curtain it bounces off the remaining parts of the mirror and sits like a reassuring friend at your side he pushes his foot down on the pedal, just below your bed the lamp dims just above your head, as the buzz of the gun groans he dips it’s pointy end in the red you hold your breath his neoprene fingers stretch your skin
you hardly know him but the ink flows and you let god in
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