Ready-made girls, submitting to holders of fans made of green bills,
You all need that air resembling the one contained by printing shops,
The only place you come into contact with that liquid glass we drink and breathe in every day,
We fill our cells with its compressed heat,
While we keep on dreaming of vast landscapes.

You live on the tip,
As you glide on the tip of your jewel-like toes,
You are nothing but an instant glow.

I wish I could call you "daughters of the eternal, ethereal light,
Draped in shiny clouds, angel-like, with your blue eyes-patches of sky"
Yet I can't see more than stripped color palettes walking by...
Impressions of plastic.

On the tip of the spoon, grains of sugar fall apart,
into the incandescent tea.
On the edge of it, volcanoes pretend to be real and erupt.
The new Vesuvius, you have it right there, for you,
Fake and small as it is.

On the tip
Get the grip,
Staccato stepping stones,
for the high heels you leave right before heaven's door.