The Kebab Houses Of The World
i have seen the cities of the afternoon
the red flare of suns strung together in their silent concerto
and i have hitchhiked through China and forgot the emptiness felt on waking on morns in unknown towns with unknown people
and i have ridden through the mountains of Pakistan on the back of tractors and trucks and choppers and rickshaws, observed how the sheep and goat doth do confer on the meadows in those parts,
and slugged good champers, danced through the dawn of 4 days, caught dreams and stored these for other times,
and i have, too, wondered at the kebab houses of the world and how there is nothing much more perfecto than than the sizzle of marinaded lamb and chicken and beef on the hot grill, the breads of Turkey, Greece, The Caucasus made fresh before you, salad and yogurt and olive oil for dressing and two icecold beers drunk fast and hard as the stars perform their dazzle:
the kebab houses of the world:
these true palaces of
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