I got my first tattoo in January 2018 and it was designed by the amazing & talented Zeze who is based in Auckland, New Zealand.
It is based off a Chinese fable called 猴子捞月 (the monkeys saving the moon) – if anyone is interested in what the story is about, I’m happy to provide a translated version.
I’ve been trying to write a poem inspired by the fable, but it just wasn’t working, I think it was a tad too restrictive. Instead, I wrote a little something very loosely inspired by Zeze’s artwork alone.
I think that’s one of the best things about art, how it can be re-discovered, re-imagined and re-mixed to produce unexpected results and then interpreted every which way too.
Either way, a life update & a poem, I hope you like it.
Look! The lovers are throwing themselves
over the moon, as the lost ones fall into
gravity’s embrace – stumbling, fumbling
children making their homes in the forest of thorns.
Tendrils of worry fill their mind as they wonder
what sins they were paying for, bodies bruised,
egos torn, instinctively clinging onto themselves
and each other in the shadows of the stars.
We set our fears on fire to remember who we are,
reminding ourselves that the dying galaxies
blinking so innocently up above are not ours to
wish upon and that we must keep moving with the
rise of the morning sun.
Even though there is an itch at the edge of our hurt,
fingers trembling, we shall resist the urge
to crush our capillaries into unfamiliar shapes of kindness
we were never afforded, we know we cannot gift it
without mixing in shards of bitter bone, swallow
words like they are contraceptives against rejection.
Let the blood pool inside these soft shells,
bathe our fragile hearts in our own warmth, realise
there is nothing in the world outside us worth
latching our teeth into.
I wonder if there is anyone
that will ever understand me
as I try to stretch my
rubber band dreams
to a land
beyond the valleys of my
rocky self esteem
but idealistic thoughts
mixed with anxiety
are like boulders
too heavy to launch
against the gravity
and this cold and heavy heart
can no longer see
the beauty of shooting stars,
no more than ordinary space rocks
that fall from the weight
of all the world’s wishes
they were never built to fulfil.
though who am I
and still want to send
my feeble parodies
into the sky?