Each is an artist-

drunk in fields of imagination,

or sober

and lost on unending motorways of thought:

straddling filthy pavements at night-

stammering in the gutter

red-faced-

and charging crowded city streets by day

passing peasant beggars,

pavement buskers,

street artists, costumed jesters and dying musicians

and then returning to the eternal office/

cramped consciousness.

Dank urbanity of the mind,

Its streets writhing with familiar characters

as if recognized from dark drunk night dream

spent in sticky damp night club

full of midgets, clowns and mediocrities,

angrily content with their role

and wearing nothing!

save the greasy lining of the womb.

Our ceaseless subways, grubby underpasses and sewers

full

(like life is full),

with memories of mother directing traffic

and sweating sweet perfume

which again

belongs to some long lost dream

or

unexplored recess of the mind,

or city;

I cannot decide which.