Ishtar

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Ishtar is on the subway. 
Her face is repeated 
Through layers of torn posters.
Her talking heads are chanting 
Sex and war through sacred boom-boxes.
She reigns in New York City,
From uptown lofts, to the 
Downtown candy store.


Ishtar’s smiling faces sometimes 
Float through the turquoise 
Haze. Her teeth are chattering ticket stubs.
They spell out a new code. 
You see it in layers of dead flyers, 
Pez wrappers and graffiti covered trains.
A manual from the underground
To slay the Philistines.


Ishtar gifts you the city in 
A paintbox. You draw black lines
That define the barriers between 
Uptown commerce and downtown 
Creativity. And then, so effortlessly,
You reveal the anatomy of the city,
With a brush-stroke and a cloud
Of weed smoke.


Ishtar shows you colours 
Through New York city rain. 
Taxis queue in yellow exodus,
Carrying you from gallery to gallery.
In your paint splattered Armani. 
You shift from the downbeat of mutant 
Discos to loft apartment parties.
On the boom for real.


Ishtar is on the A train.
She reigns in New York City.
She’s an art dealer,
She’s a bag lady, 
She’s a stripper on Times Square.
Her repeating heads are
Layered on tiled walls.
She is chanting sex and war.


Ishtar is drawing you a map,
An escape route from the underground.
You can see her eyes everywhere
Through the layers of torn posters.
She is tracing the veins of the city,
From uptown lofts, to the 
Downtown candy store.
On a mainline to your skull.

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