Drunk On New York

By Peter


Madness is unrefined passion

Passion is exonerated madness

Yak’s milk is sweet

and I drink to no end


No end

like these streets—

I walk every one

and never grow tired


knowing even eternity won’t last forever

and I have a train to catch

out to the countryside, where a mad yak

waits for me


with an infectious smile

with pure milk


which I drink to no end

and think of the endless city streets—

with bronze idols, glass walls,

cemented paths


That is all behind me now

The streets are behind me

The train is behind me

The mad yak is behind me


goading me to keep going to no end

goading me to drink her milk to no end


until the last sap of life is drained

so she can sleep to no end


so her dreams become my dreams

and my dreams travel beyond

the endless city streets

who refuse to sleep


They drink me to no end

consuming the same mad yak visions

that gestate in the womb of slumberless nights

who give birth to babies


that overrun the endless city streets

with cries for yaks milk.

The wails resonate

off skyscrapers as


an admission of want for nothing

other than mother,

an omission of subways, stadium deals,

condo complexes, dreams of electric sheep.


A call for transformation

of pavement to pasture

and the world’s city citizens

to sprout curved horns


grow hooves, don thick coats of fur

and udders and udders

filled with the passion and madness

of yaks milk

Drunk On New York

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