A golden mannequin and a rich son of tewesday lunch in downtown plastic papers, eastern village of the poets, drinking up the streets from the slash and burn cultures, ending a dream and a fantasy at the same time by over doing it, but who carez? the gem by her side, a little smoke and cars that gleam on her jeans, she a voice to those, them in their clubs and fires from nights that hide the stars...message to self, move over, move on and get some, get it now while it lasts, the anarchy looms on the horizon of american devils, saliva on their sleeves, money on their backs, broken ribs from the garden and a sweltering heat that bears visions from her eyes...
