The masks of Rome City of transvestites, transmitting mobile phone tones, trading tunes across the room. A sparkling colosseum - museum-mausoleum. A gladiator sharpens patterns in his beard as flashing eyes of hot desire ricochet round Rome. Priests in skirts and dresses on vespas scoot past ruins running late to vespers and traffic lights wink sequined eyes as engines roar a rhythm. Ancient ways and viaducts are aqueducts of fashion and passion plays til light rise when satin beauty vampires put sun shades on in mourning as all along the Roman song consists of techno lyres trysting tunes across the rooms. Mediaeval spires jostle for attention and hope for special mention with quattrocento frescoes, repro Michaelangelos framed in crumbling gesso racing the renaissance. Tourists sacking hostels, locals in their brothels the old gods live in bars once more worshipped by transgendered whores. Vandals and barbarians pass catholic grammarians stepping down the Spanish way; the old world’s news still fresh today. Sacred geometrics designer anaesthetics a kaleidoscope swirl of boy, boy-girl repeats the beats of years in thousand, changing the tones and tracing the tune, shooting tunes across Rome’s rooms... the never ending beat goes on in synthesised baroque that marks each second of the clock. But witty innuendo gets a city in the end though. So dress it up or dress it down it’s still the same eternal town. |
