Parisian Dream

The distant vision gazed again this morning
of artificial paradise, the landscape of dreams.
A mingled eternity witnessing this hellish masterpiece - 
coat-covered afternoon trotters batter city cobblestone streets 
and swat at angels that search for utopia in the sewers. 

That’s where the real writers hide: in the trenches of pure existence, 
whispering poetry in the catacombs; sinking into flea-ridden beat hotel bed sheets;
humming dizzy rhymes in sweat-stretched electric trains. 
Their immortal souls gather in the bushes beneath that sparkling tower, 
secret society meetings soundtracked by the beggar’s shaking cup.

There they are again: crawling among the ambitious traffic;
pouring blood into metropolis veins; mapping out mad vibrating visions 
produced by last night’s high; cultivating unimaginable torture 
under the second story watchman - beady Ginsberg eyes that know 
here, you’re closer to heaven on your feet.

_{Ruby Brooke, 21, England. Instagram: @writingjane.}