our nation is an airplane
Pointless, filthy geometry on barebones of flight
Sky-blue diamonds on the wall of machine born sky-piercer
Seats of plaid ripped from back of hipster
Carry on compartments stuffed with dumb go-along laughs.
Air conditioner nipples forced into the periphery of our passengers’ vision
Our sex hangs like yellow oxygen masks
In naked clotheslines
Held to mouth of girl by hand of man
In vulgar rows
From aisle A to B to C
Usage according to economic inequality
Only to perpetuate cycles of abuse
And great engines of propulsive, thundering hate.
We are off the runway,
We have taken flight.
Now all countries are below us,
Now our problems can only be seen at sanitary distances
Through riflescopes and bombsights.
We fly over the desert
As thirsty, sex-crazed drones
Dressed with rockets for the occasion.
Our machinery is bent Mach five into a self-fellating freak,
While our every alienated disciple and lonely propaganda-chief
Is blown by supermodels cut out from magazines.
In every crease of collagen lips
Lies a thousand girls’ imagined inadequacies
A million masochistic male fantasies
All in the little mesh airline basket
Casual sex, convenience, and cowardice can be found
In our edition of Skymall
Alongside like-minded pornographic advertisements
Garden gnomes sold from between fake breasts
Crockpot coupons jammed inside naked knees
The Same Message:
MAKE LOVE FAKE BREASTS MAKE LOVE FAKE BREASTS FAKE LOVE
Our stewardess wears nothing but a navy corset.
She’s got fireworks on her tongue,
And the national anthem plays
When the sweaty man in row A
Licks his lips
And imagines her in the usual way.
The pilot sweats in the cockpit
Surrounded by phalluses, factories and fallacies.
He screams “Can’t you see this is suicide?”
Then burns alive.
Then we reach for our oxygen masks,
Kiss the napalm of the humid morning air,
And make love to the ashes
That drift down delicately
From our naked flagpoles.