Srpski
New york stinks. It stinks of cheap harsh tobacco and dense exhaust gas.
The traffic jam seems endless. And stinks of hot rubber and stale steam.
People are weird. The fashionista lady with the glowing-green stilettos orders a huge pretzel.
And stinks of lurid street-food of any sort. Cinnamon and fries. Mustard and caramel.
The cherry of the whores bloody-red lipstick melts with the strawberry of her chewing-gum.
The side alleys are just garbage and urine.
But find your way through the crowd of bachellorettes waiting for the male-strip show, and it will be a flooding of tuberose and carnation.
I feel like having a walk tonight. Go get my crab cakes and a burger. And breathe the city miasmas while reaching the place.
