Can't Stop Drinking In America

I can’t stop drinking in America.
In the country that has moved past the last gunman standing through the lawsuit to code red.

The motion of the people is the motion of cover up, of anxiety.
The country is ruled by I can’t tell you whys and just listen to reason’s
And all my friends are broke and depressed.

They say the economy is getting better, and
They say the war is over
And they say that we’ll all be happy again


After the election, hardly.
After the protection, maybe.

I’m not afraid when I’m in America but I get to leave. Maybe.


I can’t stop drinking in America and I don’t ever get drunk because the beer is lower alcohol and I’m used to Canada’s hard hitting keep you warm in winter whisky goodness

Where’s my husband? Where’s my car? Where’s my 9-5?
I’m confused and drinking in my post-country
I want a home and that’s just too bad, all I can do is drink, fight, sue somebody, leave.


I can’t stop drinking in america
So I always hold my keys between my knuckles as I walk back from the parking lot to my mom’s apartment.
Guessing any useful contact would break my fingers, I hold them in my non-dominant hand
My throwing arm would be out of commission, but I could write about it
And I could do some damage to the sweaty and scared predator I assume is always lurking nearby.
America means fearing the worst and hoping for the best.
Empty American spaces terrify me


I can’t stop drinking in America.
All the kids are too bored.
But I do love freaking out breeder boys who used to try to out testosterone my gay ass
When are they ever gonna get a whole party of hot pantsless girls to piss on them?
All the lesbians are homogenous homosexuals, and the one butch--well, she's taken.


I’m so bored with the USA
The Clash plays in the rock bar, the Bug Jar, where 17-year-olds are running in packs on this special, all-ages Sunday
Learning to be lovers and fighters and bad ass motherfuckers
But Not quite there yet

The marathon punk rock and metal show started at 3pm and was going to be rocking well into the night
I couldn’t take all the hairspray and speedmetal, although sitting around with my avuncular friends was endearing
We good-old-days-ed it until we were repeating ourselves
Guess the good old days didn’t last very long, or we cant remember them so well anymore, or something like that.

The metal singer, the famous painter and me walk into the bar. The bartender knows:
one of them is my ex-lover; and the other one probably would have been if I had stayed.
I am simply dying for a fuck in this straight town and no amount of pisswater beer is going to take that away from me.

But, my queer eye keeps seeing sexy dykes where 15 year old punk boys stand. And no amount of free beer is going to make me pick up where I so wisely left off in the first place.

I am 25, american, gorgeous: ma’am, could you help me find your g-spot
Clicks through my head as I leave the bar, too intrigued and wet to stay and drink there

but i just can't stop drinking in America. not yet.
Homeland insecurity has got me really, really thirsty for something better than this.