Robots and Punk Rockers

When I was around six years old,
I wore a red robot jacket
with a shiney zipper at every fold.

By then, the crackle
of cassette tapes shed
acoustic sounds for something
less pure, and more...

electronic.

I fumbled backwards,
on tiled grocery store floors
attempting my best moonwalk.

I wanted pink hair,
and miss-matched socks.

I wanted to crawl out of the cradle
of nature, eat T.V dinners,
overlap the earth-tones
with silver and gold.

Beautiful hair,
I thought,
should have crispy-fried kinks,
and pretty pink cheeks
should be painted
with abstract geometrical angles.

Eyes should be outlined
severely, with something
less human, and more...

robotic.

That was my childhood dawn.