the apollo program was a hoax

http://iplaybass.flyingstove.com/Music/Refused/The%20Shape%20Of%20Punk%20To%20Come/12%20The%20Apollo%20Programme%20Was%20A%20Hoax.mp3
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You wake up; for him it's like the end of the world.

It's like we've never been sleeping.

I mean, I can just barely hear you, the way your boots take you up the stairs, the way your voice buzzes against your throat, the way you laugh when you're not amused, like a little gold knife. I can barely hear you but my head roars.

My headphones roar in my ears, the room is full of red-gold light. It suffuses skin, obscures eyes, closes the spaces around us into a small warm circle. My fingers trail through the shadows, the music, the melody that dances lightly over the darker-eyed bass line. And I can hardly hear you.

The way we converse, like a cough. Did I tell you about the red-gold destruction of our city? The war that drummed through it? Our house spilled out on the streets. Your house turned into a crystal museum, broken glass. Did I tell you what the soldiers did to my sister? Or about the indoctrination of your brother?

My head roars in the silent light. Your head is pinpricks of dark hair like sandpaper that your father wouldn't understand. My father wouldn't understand me either, western ways. The boy I am with who is not of our faith. You, with your inked skin. Your mother would say to mine, "Ai, our children, we don't know them anymore.". My mother would say to yours, "They are lost to us; my girl and your boy who used to play so nice in the backyard.".

They do not understand us. My mother would look at me disappointed; "Nice girls don't smoke." You father would wonder why you aren't married yet. Our mothers would not understand how we see each other every day and are not in love. They want grandchildren. They wouldn't understand how we dance. The silver studding my ear. The slope of my shoes. The grommets in your jacket, the letters on your arm. The mock prison number on your close-cut head.

I can't hear you through the way we talk, like spilled bitter beer. Red destruction, gold. The war of western drums against our parents. We can't understand them, either, we who left before war broke our window and splintered our walls. I wonder about what the soldiers did to my sister; if it changed her too badly. If the indoctrination made your brother a stranger to your parents.