Abstracts of humanity, solitary vision keepers. The strange, the independent genius, the decadent, the inventive. This is inspiration.
Wired out on caffeine and lack of rest, the afternoon is a playground of teenage zombies.
Remember when, we would spray paint our dockmartins, hangout on the playground after hours.
What ever happened to Ricky Stevens; did he make it to California on the rebellious genre?
I still scream when I pass by CBGB, tattooed lipstick and blue hair.
After dark, lost in the park, the village vanguard would never card.
Poetic renaissance was the genius of inertia.
Train rides to nowhere.
We were angry for angers sake, never time for the fakes;
Plastic – fantastic persona in retrograde.
We had it made.
Always running away, did we ever arrive anyplace?
Still till this day, I see the spark of a teenager.