To My American Lover

Americana is rising on the wings of democracy,

golden-throated as the lupine yellow moon

but thickened with the wealth of lush green…

not the verdure of olden days,

nor the hum and glow of seaside waves,

but the flat war-machine, paper-smooth and grave

with the traces of our fathers.

The pretty features of some poetic face,

cast with subversive silence and exotic disrespect

are pasted on every light post and alleyway,

every construction site, shelter and each wild night…

every morning disappearing like a summer breeze,

under the shade of glasses and uniformity.

America is swelling with the banners

of forgotten war kings and princesses,

America is heavy with the relief and disbelief

in Love, Life and Peace, though Desire

is familiar to her well-worn paths.

My bag is crumpled and folded up, been

folded twice and thrice, as if I wished discontent

could fill the protruding gut of hunger I bear,

yet it is folded still with cynicism a light weight,

offering no deserved, unforeseen comfort.

Your beautiful face is decked up

in the array of queens and

your armor is the fishnet of whores,

your army the sallow-skinned factory workers,

the grimy bums on Hearth street,

the unbecoming maidens of the raver era,

the wise old men who speak in rhymes of Lust,

the young tender mothers who still think

they might regain something in you.

Corruptible you are, my love,

fairer than all the tales of surgery

could ever attempt… eau natural

and perfumed by censers of hidden disease…

corruptible you are, my love,

but sweet with the smoggy mists

which hide the Truth, the Ugliness…

sweet as the tattered remnants

of Red, White and Blue…

a bloodied lipstick mouth,

an icy, deathly face,

a bruise as pale and blue

as your breath.

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