He who has a why to live; can bear almost any how”. – Friedrich Nietzsche

In a weird and wonderful netherworld of sting the spellbound supplicant reclines as voluntary captive; like a sunning harbor seal inside a Fleet Street barbers’ chair. Blood ebbs and flows in silence and no idle dialogue intrude. These sacrosanct moments make conversation unnecessary.

Hysterical spikes penetrate, retract and perforate, changing body to billboard in images appropriated from Modigliani, Botticelli and Picasso. Hieroglyphic marks an affirmation of control creating a true home and fit temple for the spirit that dwells inside it; a trans formative declaration of power, an announcement to the world: I am in control of my flesh.

Needles beat staccato in droning tonal repetitions; pin-pricks plow the earth and break the skin. Capillaries raging in a flood; the tattooist and tattooed together and alone feel the pounding in the blood. Skin etched in eternal pictures, engraved ornaments become everlasting cohorts now until their last day; colorful and exotic escorts to the grave.

The dermis layer penetrated with permanent makeup the Fantasists carve up a bleeding empathy and share a common triumph; one of talent and skill the other of symbolism. By this mutual gift they are joined in sacrificial union, relatives, accomplices, confidants of secrets unknown to any others.

We are all tattooed in our cradles with the beliefs of our tribe. They flow from the center of our self; communicating them to the world. Our personal poetry inked in religious act of scarified soft tissue, branded images that enhance the soul; scarred armor piled high like sandbags to prevent the flood of reality from ever seeping in.

Fantasy now embodied in reality, blood-brothers trapped open-faced like hot sandwiches, making indelible history, sharing quiescence, becoming one in spiritual communion, are in the last moment of their holy tryst bonded and supremely complete.