doom street

it’s a cracked hard afternoon
sittin on a wrecking ball
naked given you my lips darlin. hmm.
like baron münchhausen.. haha
provocative slices of untied shoes
in sex cinemas at the red roads from berlin town
oh yeah, baby, blue feelings strolling towards
the big brown trees at doom street.
you know it holding the pipe pulled out
to blow the smoke of a thousand years,
bursting out in tears of unwanted
lipstick at your collar
and your crotch.

so you watch all this happening
slappen yourself
on the shelf is laying the fun
that keeps you stay on the run.
huaaaaa, ya yaya.

and you keep on crying like a young fallen ballet dancer
in a fancy restaurant with one two three stars
burned down with a silica fire stone
so you keep on going and feel like on the sea with no land in sight
and no food but nicotine.
then stranded at a palmly paradize
and drunk by the salt in your lungs
stoned by original inhabitants
who gave you that strong stuff you had never seen before
and left you helplessly at the shore
flooded with vitiation.