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. (1)


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.



The New York Times wraps around her consciousness in the harsh NYC sunlight, like cheap trash caught in a gust. If only she could be as NYC as that beautiful rag? Leather cap on and attitude to match, she cleans up the graffiti with a saintly smile. She feels at home here, down on the sidewalk, cleaning up these mean streets but she hides a deep dark secret. By day, she is the NYC Commander but at night she spray paints a new identity on these poor city walls. Drips of paint brush against her rubber mac soul as she fights two identities on these NYC streets.

She is a true NYC street fighter. But she has only one enemy.