Auto-Erotics; in Red, White, and Blue

Americana is a saggy tit whore that leaves pockmarks in the sheets and sludge underneath the handles in the bathroom. 


The staff either don't or can't clean it. 


Lazy or honest. 


What a legacy. 


Her steel sheds and high hanging water towers peppered with rust stains,

hearken to the diseases that claimed this body long ago. 



Waylaid by a bygone era of chauvinism and supremacy.

Raped by billionaire promises and suffocated

by his Bible's belt. 
 


Auto-eroticism is a blood red state gasping for hot wet air in its own existential twilight.


Never to rise again. 


Your labyrinthine streets shaded by overgrowth and cracked freeways. 
 


Your dirt-brown waters and fenced in dogs.

They bark at the sky, screaming of the same stir crazy psychosis that's infected everything else within your borders. 


Beneath your clothes. 


I can see your long drooping nipples,

caked with the inky milk from long gone reserves. 


Black gold drained. 
 


Powdered milk of a different sort. 
 


Victim to the greed you've coveted and fucked on. 


Hard. 
 


Dirty. 
 


Fast. 
 


Loud. 
 


Your tragedy is vaguely romantic, 


in its slumped and defeated stature. 


Vericosed stilts stuck in sewage and mud -

your ideologies. 


No, we cannot go to bed together. 


I'm afraid of what the blood test would come back with in the dull diesel smoked grey morning. 


Something I've come to know you for. 



The sun sets red as the corners of your eyes. 



Who ever said an apocalypse had to happen suddenly? 



Your broken bones and hip strapped cattle calls. 



An auctioneer in the distance. 



The proud cliche of a lie laid Western Lore. 


The hot irons of pride in your sockets. 



You can't even see how hard we're all laughing. 


Only a few of these tears are for you.