Putin, You’re Such a Beefcake



Bare-chested roofer

         posed by a Siberian river with your fishing rod

                  next to cliffs majestic as crumbling pyramids.

 Make us scream, make lovers scream

          we want you, Vladimir, like ivy

          wants to smother mausoleums.

          Sweep us off our feet with your sweeping side kick,

          squat in camouflage pants for crotch shots,

          let us chew the skin off your creamy KGB boots,

          know we’ll swallow no matter what, even unto arsenic—

 we’ll do it, boyfriend. Raise the vodka and Kool-Aid

          to toast your strapping chesticles

                   illuminated in August on a gallant stallion.

          Please strip off your shirt again in September.

 We need your sexy Bolshevism on our pin-up calendar.      

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