Red pulse of light, she is not bound by this urban fairground. Paris seems a long way from this forlorn place. She knows that the future offers her hope but the scattered dreams of Parisian Suburb are not hers to own.
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Pink smeared lip, scowl of neon attitude,
Peroxide blonde, with a peroxide mood.
Heads turn but she snaps them back with a sneer,
Punk Marilyn on the sidewalk with cheap warm beer.
Warhol would have loved her; she would have sent him packing.
NYC is her city; reflecting punk life, brutal but cracking.
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.
Anna Louise Simpson 