Americana

Hot on the heels of the monster trucks
and innumerable fucks; slices of Americana
in the stasis of minor deaths, blackout curtains drawn
against English summer storms of UV dreams;
I can still taste the States of love from scenes
played out, Miss America, Aprillene-
and dramas seem cloaked the size of Atlantic,
these last days frantic as we abstain from ache.
We are children living in a grown up world;
we whirl our pelvis, dervishes of bath-bomb glitter,
a hurricane littering skin and cloth and then,
when all out of something, something more is found,
in the territory of crossed borders, we cross each other,
bound by our mothers' internationalities,
together in a mutual insanity of words,
we are children living in a grown up world.