City lights, City lights of winged light houses. 

The vandilation of every solitary atoms; 

I see no complains for not smelling you among this flaky crowd. 

When you fly, when you kiss my lips, my hands, my penis I crave for a smoke, 

Whiskey and jamming of the extraterrestrials. 

How I wish…no, how I want this city full of unattained melancholia to know this soullessness. 

Today alleys are a bit more black, a bit more love soaked but high with godsend dope. 

Perhaps one day this poem would be just about you and a fuzzy light and a proud addiction and an arm wrestling and shredding every god-damned clothes. 

You see neon lights have more elements to be surreal than those weird nebula plucking planets.