Tattoo 2

We followed skeens of red thread
to the festival,
met a Chinese puppet dragon, side
swinking like a bad spark, at the gate.
I let you lick a line of rum off my wrist
while we listened to him
complain about the inconvenience
of matchstick mandibles,
and how bolster wood might be better for his health.
A girl with bright berry eyes intercepts,
reeling us in simple as goldfish,
by slow licking a rizla
and sticking it to her top lip.
Terrible though, she is trumped
by a moustache tattoo
inked in laughter
on an index finger.