The women streamed in one by one. Lurid neon oilcloth dress and masks their only uniform.
Graffiti protests lined the walls but their power was stronger than petty words.
Masks hid disobedient eyes and their mouths held a silence that was deafening.
Forgotten bricks, stones of old, grey landscape for days like these. Closing her eyes to the whispers from the past, she traces ancient symbols with cold, long finger tips…
Tree branches track her course, stretched out to try to reach her, to no avail. She is not of this place; she is a spy from another time. Goddess blood flows through her veins and these stones know it. They can feel it in their deep, dark matter.
Her power is not to be constrained and certainly could never be owned by stones like these. As she opens her eyes, grey silence meets her stare. She smiles slowly, stepping carefully back into the past. She has haunted her future for far too long now.
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She was a wraith of sorts; black leather looks with an attitude to match. She hadn’t always been this way but all that mattered was the present. She had no bandwidth for any other scattered moments of time. Ascetic goddess of the future, she ran a tight ship. There was no room for error.
However, in the faded lacuna of remorse, she would sometimes allow herself the luxury of daydreaming of Miami Beach. It was long gone now but she had walked it’s plastic glare in her childhood and it’s memory was more real that it’s reality.
All she had left was that memory; it was a Miami distortion. A 3D projection of a lost reality and a different life.
Scampering down the Walk, a lone fox scavenges for survival, chased off by Burberry-clad local. Pink muscle car bumps past as she scowls hard into it’s broken headlights. This is no place for graffiti visitors, on an AirBNB tour of an abandoned urban skyline. Move along, nothing to see here. We are keeping it real in the concrete ghettos of the soul and this is no place for tartan tourists.
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.
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.
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.
Big sunnies, party pout and a pocket full of attitude. It is time for the Amsterdam Weekender. Bright yellow ballgown mixing it up with american muscle car down by the canal. Elephant masked men bounce along party-lined streets. Rainy day ain’t gonna stop our fun. Smokin’ hot beats and all the beautiful people.
Amsterdam, you rock.