Red pulse of light, she is not bound by this urban fairground. Paris seems a long way from this forlorn place. She knows that the future offers her hope but the scattered dreams of Parisian Suburb are not hers to own.
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Pink smeared lip, scowl of neon attitude,
Peroxide blonde, with a peroxide mood.
Heads turn but she snaps them back with a sneer,
Punk Marilyn on the sidewalk with cheap warm beer.
Warhol would have loved her; she would have sent him packing.
NYC is her city; reflecting punk life, brutal but cracking.
There is something strange about The Odeon, the old cinema down in the Valley of the Stars. Flashing neon lights make this place glitch every time she walks by. She shivers as graffiti glows hard on the wall outside. A masked woman passes her, nodding shapeless head, a smile stretching the fabric. She feels another glitch come on; the energy is strange here. A Hitchcock wannabe poses outside with grey goose and a perfect pout. But the film directors are long gone and only faded neon lights up her face. Red glitch, yellow glitch, it is a monument to abandoned urban hope.
Her value in the matrix was represented
by a set of prescribed colours and she
liked it that way. It was the ultimate
Movie-star in love with golden aquila,
lay across ancient ruins like Roman goddess
with arched back and five star insecurities.
Rasping vespa screeched around ancient stones,
as she splashed porcelain in crystal clear fountains,
trying to be sultry native with hopeless words.
Don’t let her read the love poems of Catullus,
or she will be forever dreaming of thousands of kisses,
tortured by unrequited love and hooded traitors.
Hallucinating tattooed film stars and la dolce vita,
she was lost to the city and it swept her up,
along with all the other wannabe Italian starlets.
Flashing hearts in this urban jungle, she keeps hers firmly under wraps. Cabs spin past in the burning summer heat; the warmth tempting her charcoal eyes to look beyond the sidewalk. Her love for this sprawling high rise playground is flashing in cold blue neon just outside her window. She will never leave here; this is her patch, her piece of the action. Flash, NYC neon, flash and keep her close to your warm concrete walls.
High rise block in the urban sprawl of Parisian suburb. Flashes of yellow and green, heartbeat of bright red light. Grey blocks of monotone are not the plan for her, no, she has bigger plans than concrete jungle. Couture rags with a broken lining, Parisian Suburb is her home but it does not define her. She came from nothing but she will be something. The pulse urges through her veins like molten colour; bright flashes of pure brilliance. But she doesn’t see them. Yet. She will one day soon.
The day she leaves the Parisian Suburb for good.
Bright sunset glitches over an old billboard full of forgotten promises. Neon skyline flashes over a dirt track in this neck of the woods. This is a digital landscape now; nature has capitulated. Nature is now digital and the neon sunset rules.
Fast nights on these neon streets, she knew it would be this way. She falls out of mint green Tokyo taxi and adjusts her fluorescent attitude. Swaying in between glossy smiles and shining eyes, tequila shots to the brain. Pounding beats hit the Roppongi streets as she sparkles in-between glossy nightclubs. Roppongi nights are the best.
Doesn’t matter where I roam,
Only one place I call home.
Keep your posh Manhattan pad,
Livin’ uptown would make me sad.
My heart belongs to Brooklyn, baby
There is no doubt, no why, no maybe.
Brooklyn is a bit of me,
The only part of NYC.