A glitch in the matrix, a bitch in the making. Lady Gaga does a magic trick. The museum of desire shows an ad of two scoops of strawberry icecream and topping, saying ‘you’re the one being naughty’ Looks like a Lady’s breasts after a man has come on her chest known as a Pearl necklace. It’s my pornagraphic art and big heart.
A blend of smoothies in Mr Coppin’s cafe are raspberry heaven, fantasy, passion storm. I order a chai latte take away and come to Dame Nellie Melba memorial park with the music of Lady Gaga in my ears. I sit at the back in front of twin elm trees touching leaves. No one else is here. I wept in my crypt, I swept her off her feet.
Sometimes it’s Lady Gaga and her wicca withcraft on the twisted yellow brick road. Sexy fame and the sweat of the dance. She burns in the pop inferno, fashionable Lady fighting the fascists. A lightbulb moment in the basement to the penthouse of the enlightened mind. She knew there is magic in music and the entertainment industry is based on the occult.
