Children of The Cold War

So we sit in my car
listening to the Cocteau Twins
grinding our groins into dust,
sharing stories of pains gone by...
Wondering
"Are we damaged enough yet for one another...?"
Black-eyed divorces
done in by cocaine-tongued
plasticine bitches.
Cleft palette hearts
healed by the well adjusted children
of sociopathic head-scraping snakes.
Somewhere between the topsoil and the stars
our immigrant tongues
find migrant mouths
and the sarcastic strains
of our joint cynicism
turn into sincere spasms
of mutual tenderness.