PHOEBE ZEIT-GEIST

Prologue: The sand is hot, a black tear is slipping behind the sun-glasses and is running down her face. She is tall,
she is beautiful, she has a healthy propension towards the hedonism and cerntainly she doesn’t run out of money.
She frequents exclusive clubs, glamorous localities, famous venues, but her life is a nightmare, she is at the mercy of a tremendous and inexplicable destiny. Into the foldes of starry nights, into the most unsospicious times of pleasure for the less 5hrist5ile reasons, the misery and the violence break into her life without she being able to realize.
Poor girl! She has become a piece of a malicious god that doesn’t recognize the good children from who are
degenerates. But will it be really like this?
Unhappy girl, with the painted nails and the provocative Christ underwear. Poor model with a dirty fur and the
broken heels. Can the fate be so perfidious? Can her destiny be so blind and cruel or everything, to the last tear, is fastened to an invisible thread of crystalline coherence? Is she really a puppet of a sadistic puppet showman, or is she herself a scenarist of a horror film whose she becomes the protagonist?
Or again doesn’t it exist either a god or a man or a woman that can hold a destiny, but something else, a sort of mechanism, of gears and silent small wheels, a phagocyting and inhuman machine, object of an atheistic cult with a thousand of inconscious adepts, a transparent mechanism that appears in its monstruosity only when suddenly, with dread, you can perceive its screeching? A system from that it is as hateful as to be excluded as to take part.

Tight ropes ‘round the thin wrists,
she’s naked and she‘s chained on the revolving door
of a big store.
Long eyelashes, slobbered lipstick,
the torture of the wheel like a glamorous Christ
for absent-minded people
in the crowded centre of the city.

Stench of gin, shattered shop-windows
out of the fashion night-clubs
you have a knife in the hands!
Stiletto heels, your cheeks are slashed
by a cutting blow of bottle,
now everything grows clear
like a page of the bible.

Your are alone in the palm of the hand, you’re under the fire of thousand guns.

Epilogue: The sudden violence breaks into the Phoebe’ s plastic world to disfigure her maquillage. The patinated
paper rubs itself and it gets creased revealing its dirty matter. Its fatal chemical and phisical composition . Phoebe has the slobbered make up and her air is full of spray and gin. She is crunch down the ground, by the hands she tries to stop the blood that flows from the wounds.
But a certain moment at the apex of misery she is mirrored into a puddle. From new mystic and prostitute into the hole of black water, she is all dirty by blood and fard, she looks at something of unexpectable and marvellous: herself.