The city stacks its vowels into a cube
concrete chewing bubblegum, humming in cyan.

I am the building, ich bin der Block,
my corridors taste like highlighters and neon dust.

Brutalism was supposed to be grey,
but I swallowed a rainbow during a power outage.

Each wall is a clenched fist painted magenta,
each window a slot for unsent apologies.

A pink ramp walks itself into my mouth,
mumbling: béton brut, bonbon brut, brutal bonbon.

Inside, elevators move strictly in zigzags,
refusing the tyranny of straight lines.

The small black figure down there—
just a comma escaping the sentence of the street.

Here, gravity is an architectural rumour,
and every right angle secretly wants to dance salsa.

If you listen closely, the pillars confess:
we were never cold, only badly lit.

Tonight the cube unbuttons its edges,
spills color onto the red floor,

and the whole brutal city
blushes like fresh concrete in love.