Street art

The street - beaten with hands clumsy, doll of concrete with a banging of bumps, with running legs. The passers-by spotted her only when she frowned traffic lights. And they trampled them angrily. Or maybe a bowl - black devils on sticks beating sinners and sinners pass "with links". Mannequins under wigs waiting to shrink them into the Nielsen trash purity. In the glazed menagerie, the chin from the splin, in its cell tame, gray and imperishable, a former bird, a former class dentist, in empty sclerios he spots his bird's mind. Strezes are obsolete, eaves do not keep, a naive mad discusses how they are lying to us. No one hears it. And sore, and angry, in a horn, another man concludes: "Yes it is!" and cursing. The smolt of the neighborhood, another lost atom, always going and arguing. I listen and do not believe - knows more than anyone about the state capo. His conscience shines vigorously at his party. With bird's eye view from the balcony, three floors above, I do not fancy, but assemble the street diva. "The crazy ... crazy are alive!" Said Marco. But I lost the light. And I do not believe in sobriety