While Pray for Japan plays Pauline, who is frying, undoes her lumberjack shirt, revealing her red bra as she revels, the only girl dancing.
Too many dicks on the dancefloor during a love-song,
The girls sitting it out on stools,
Or are off in a corner getting memorialized by a photographer with all the trimmings, a flash on his camera, two umbrella’d cans rebounding the light about.
At the bar, another photographer places his triachnid tripod on the top and photographs Melissa, the bartender, as she takes his order;
A collector, unabashed until he sees me staring:
His face turns red and he doesn’t make eye contact again, embarrassed at being made, unaware I’ve been doing in a different medium the same.
Marlboro Fairies (Brand Ambassadors) clad in red shirts with technology slung off their shoulders give coupons for dollar packs of cigarettes, which I decline,
While a hippy-dippy looking chick ambles on the dancefloor and gets dipped one of the dicks.
In the backyard is a burger van and a man and his wife are munching away,
He has a truck himself, sells barbeque,
But hasn’t considered the breadth that technology might help him succeed.
Inside, the next band gets set to play,
The sound guy, looking like a thousand other sound guys with ponytail and a van dyke, twiddles knobs,
And satisfied suddenly, goes to the bar and gets a beer.