dimmed off in the middle of a virtual nowhere, where the tiny, fragile violet flowers silently choke outside the windows. dropped off half-asleep, half conscious from a deluxe 1950s model candy apple red Ferrari that crashed down the street by the loaded bus stop; the fumes were lavender cotton candy sweet and expensive lace.

the gypsises with the clickety clack gold and silver bangles and charms were midwives to my birth; they predicted my less than glamorous life based on my being born feet first. they said, she's beautiful but she'll spoil, later, she'll starve. and of course a woman's intuition is inarguable. i'm an artist, or so i used to be back in that phosphorescent city of accents, lights, beaches and rich, delicious food. i am the starving artist allusion in a multi colored bikini and red chinese silk print plastic flip flops wandering the streets of this typical suburban country madness. damn hypnotizers, damn the world; there's always punishment paid to the undeserving Jesus blasphemers, myself included thank you very much.

i'll tell you where it's at if you tell me where i am, i know, so distant from my bleeding angel back in the noisy city. he's a grenade counting down the moments to his last breath in an eruption of blood. i'll tell you where it's at would those gypsies return my luck, cradled in their arms like the most precious bundle.

it's a sensation among artist groups, rippling the landscape and begging for more. it's a sensation infection dragging the hours from beneath our feet. my oh my i've got the rambling disease. i'm tripping along the asphalt streets, i'm tripping over my shadow, i'm tripping for him. venom blood flowing through my veins. my kisses are venom and infectious; he's got it, he always had me, held me, unleashing the symptoms of the rambling disease, a plague at my knees, shooting the breeze and lifting my crushed hopes.

underdressed i am running towards the ten o'clock shops to lift my spirits buying those red and white striped tube socks and victoria's secret underwear. i'd say i want feathers and ruffles to cover me nice and safe but i'm an artist, and fuck that, my emaciated soul could not demand more.