• In the garden of mine shaft canaries one can glimpse the truth of cold arms and blank eyes. So many secrets hid in the precipices of rainbows and fairy dust veils that it bares us down with the burden of heavy words on unconscious tongues. As billboard gorgeous is dropped like bombs on the unsuspecting innocent fawns of generation “ME” we laugh like heiresses and sip to our good fellows of pleasant evenings and sun drenched plastic. Tonight is only so long enough to make the smile a permanent fixture on the head board, ready for morning eyes and curiosity cats like a deadly lure. But to lose ourselves in this suffering is the goal of all tangible and explicit hangovers of lipstick and renegade polyester. The chorus of all the knee-high socks and shoulder-height frocks is sung with the clarity of closed eyes behind iron curtains that beg for the opportunity of adult crumbs. We wish, we want and we pray for a world of vodka flavoured soothers and leather bonnets. For the growth of the mind never truly equals the growth of the media.