That as a poet one is ****** to the mirth of a petty merchant peddling simple wares to simpler folk in the smallest corners, the most hidden corners, of the most foreign city.
Always dreaming of wealth, and the big one. That if only this sacred middle man could sling his silicious gear with enough guile and haste
He could transcend the conditions of the deep alleys, forever and finally reaching the grandiose crowds.
It is there that the street fares are in bloom, popping with mysterious, and magnificent, and monumental oddities, and there is no word for abundance, as each day would provide for ones deepest and most primal lust for sweetness.
But it is the foreign city of back streets and narrow alleys, **** and bread crumbs, pigeon ****, sleeplessness, that breeds such acute and worthwhile perceptions which one is compelled enough to share
and (hopefully) transcend them.
this is the common dream, a fools dream, and it is a fools tongue which serves to lash those who dream it, and those who disobey.