Poetry, that's a part of me, retardedly bop; I drop the ancient manifested hip-hop, straight off the block

I’ve spent a few hectic days in New York with my male heir, y’know wha’ I’m sayin’, and despite the otherworldly sensations that arrive with tricky time zones and travel tedium I am happy to sign in and salute comrades. We stayed at the Roger Smith Hotel, a reassuringly old-fashioned establishment in the heart of Manhattan’s East Side and a fabulous base from which to stride purposefully out, clad in Zoot Suits, each morning. Amid varied weather (blistering sun to torrential rain to, absurdly, snow) much was packed in. I enjoyed the hipster-run independent record stores in the south of the borough and picked up some wonderful CDs that I’m sure I’ll mention here soon. There were plenty of new experiences to appreciate, from bloating oneself on diner breakfasts, craning one’s neck at too many skyscrapers to count, haring down the avenues in yellow cabs to strolling contentedly through Central Park and drifting in and out of wonderfully eclectic thrift stores and flea markets. I’d like to return.

Some photographs are proffered. The top features the male heir and ‘oodied hepcat in front of the Flatiron Building. The author stands before the Empire State Building in the middle digital daguerreotype image. Eyes should then be lowered to the bottom image where one can marvel at the view from our hotel room’s window.