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from the July 2007 issue: The Russians are Coming

well hell then what

well hell then what
what hell what then
wax with one hand
leaning with the cheek
rubbing with a leg
she's a dyed in the wool pioneer
perfect pallor, not a drop of tan
not a gram of conscience
in a shirt, sleeves rolled up
a tie white as her
with a book without letters, like a living

as if dead asking:
"kiss me, moscow girl,
kiss lenin, he lives between my legs

this time didn't go anywhere
life swung on the swing
more has happened here trust me
lenin lives, I kiss"

that's how she speaks and conjugates
bends the branches toward me
slips her glance over my figure
about the last rush
yet the old nurse takes out the pails
shaking her finger at the eternal floozy

July 2007
The Russians are Coming
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