Blow

Intimacy dies here, like smashing glass,
A bible of neon glows here, a place void of traffic,
Pleasures fade here, tearing us apart,
We shouldn’t have smoked that blow.

Kreuzberg calls us, weakening our walls,
Something at the windowsill, something sacred,
A candidate for disaster, blood on our fingers,
We shouldn’t have smoked that blow.

The lyrics of their songs, come alive before us,
Breaking boundaries, breaking bricks,
Lines and stars, fuzzy and swaying,
There’s the pink elephant we shouldn’t speak of.

And there’s a party in your bloc,
Because the arcade went on fire,
And there’s a division in our joy,
Because of the music we each desire.

It all becomes one disjointed blur now.
We shouldn’t have smoked that blow.