Tattooed

On his arms he wears

Diagrams he chose,

A snake inside a skull,

A dagger in a rose,

And the muscle playing

Under the skin

Makes the rose writhe

And the skull grin.

He is one who acts his dreams

And these emblems are a clue

To the wishes in his blood

And what they make him do,

These signs are truer

Than the wearer knows:

The blade vibrates

In the vulnerable rose,

Anthers bend, and carmine curly

Petals kiss the plunging steel,

Dusty with essential gold

Close in upon the thing they feel.

Moistly once in bony sockets

Eyeballs hinted at a soul,

In the death’s head now a live head

Fills a different role;

Venomous resilience sliding

In the empty cave of thought,

Call it instinct ousting reason,

Or a reptile’s indoor sport.

The flower’s pangs, the snake exploring,

The skull, the violating knife,

Are the active and the passive

Aspects of his life,

Who is at home with death

More than he guesses;

The rose will die, and a skull

Gives back no caresses.

William Plomer (1903–1973)