I'd travelled by train to the
well-known Harajuku purely for the piercing experience. Tongue
piercing, that is. Or a nipple, if you were game and your tongue was
already adorned. Sitting upstairs in the studio, I could hear the
sounds rising from the busy streets below. Markets overflowed with
people and wares. The city had a good vibe. It was a place for the
young and trendy. And pierced.
doorstep slices
of white bread, with the
Marmite
I brought from home—
morning sun strains
through curtains never
opened
I was the next in line and watched with
interest: a Japanese boy sitting in a raised chair, his tongue
protruding with an X marking the spot. A large cork was positioned
under his tongue and held firmly in place ready for the thick needle
to puncture it. I held my breath as the piercing needle came down and
the boy’s tongue curled around it, surprised at the assault. A blur
of hands, then a shiny gold bar was poking out from the boy’s mouth
as he paid and tried to say arigato.
stirring
my cappuccino
with a cinnamon stick—
imitation
is something
they
do well here
Five minutes later I was awkwardly
announcing, “It didn’t hurt as much as having my nose done.”
The friend I'd come with was lying on a high bed having Xs drawn on
her left nipple. Her lengthy black hair looked scruffy against the
white pillow. I seemed to be leaning over her in protection, and
couldn’t help but watch as her areola changed from a smooth
yielding circle into its tight brown peak. This was a welcome
distraction from my own discomfort. That is, until I had to avert my
eyes from the sharp needle penetrating it.
before work
a quick bite to eat
at the noodle bar—
from
pictures, we both order
the
same meal every time
My tongue didn’t hurt much, but it
sure was a strange sensation. Imagine someone’s forearm stuffed in
your mouth: the fist pushed hard against your palate and the elbow
jutting down forcefully into the soft base of your mouth. Not much
room left for your swollen tongue, so enlarged that your teeth have
now firmly sunken into the sides. How was I going to eat?
first sip of grappa
sometimes
love burns
last
sip of grappa—
but
he's still on my lips,
the
Italian I met in Japan
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