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.