New York sketch 1

Electric surges charge through streets

In lightning bolts of yellow cabs

                                    and nifty thieves,

Of dreamers serving milkshakes and fries

Each a climber on the Everest of time

From which they slip

For lubrication lines each crack

For a tip, for a scratch on the back,

And forward surge the brand tanks

Who rip the streets with glorified consumption

Till inhabitants limp from overdose

Of mental sugar like instant gas

Aflame,

Then burnt amass.

These grid streets hold you prisoner

For no-one leaves untouched, unscathed,

Unless Napoleanic will posses you

And you like me find stillness

In these electric flames.

 

 

Copyright Vladimir Fanshil © 2017