Ripped Jeans...

Karl Marx’s dad was a banker. He loved the mark, adored the dollar, pondered of the pound. His main interest was the interest rate; he could hardly contain himself when he counted up his capital. Karl, the son of a banker, banked his all on a capitalist fall.

It never came. A socialist science doesn’t need to theorize greed. Motor-sport; who owns it; what makes it run? Remove the cigarette money, and the wind no longer puffs your sails. Associate smoking with risk taking petrol-heads, the speed-demons of the track; ‘Smoking Kills’ is now inhaled for the thrills and spills. A fast life requires an expensive habit; a certain style needs a specific brand.

Weathered jeans worn through on the factory floor; skin peeking out, breeze blowing through. ‘Excuse me, would you knock some money off these jeans, they look to be in a pretty bad shape?’ Thin at the knees, weak at the back, falling to bits on the changing room rack. ‘That’s the look Sir, the high prize of fashion.’ Your next motor will be at the cutting edge of fashion, delivered with a bald tyre, to match that worn look. Go on, smack through every fourth wall in your house, rugged and weathered is the style.

Do we beat our parents through rebellion; accept cancer as a friend, and follow a defective trend, just because we must.

“Every generation laughs at the old fashions, but follows religiously the new.”