Fling with a tourist

My 60's student rioting in Paris. Germaine Greer, has been here. Abhorring a system that bore you into Dr Martens. You're the pin badge of slender punk. Your accent giggles over your sensational, consciously conditioned lips. The pearls of your mouth flip your face into a glorious light of life. You are life. You are a lava lamp at night. You're my underwater moon woman. Stunned and stunning. Your fresh face is the morning. Your fresh face; I'm already mourning.

2012

The whirring of computer parts has replaced smooth jazz in a world where we, the smoke soaked cretins are rendered irreversible. Solidly invisible. As a generation of starved scientists contently strive to force us extinct. Our breathe, once lay on a mirror surface in the cold like a headline across the daily paper, now seems futile and outdated. Loose teeth and cracked finger nails, flaking into the sweeping brush of an unqualified and perturbed janitor won't make the cut in our cleaned up neighbourhood. This is the avant garde.