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Three Poems

Sean Cole

The Full-On Thong Olympics
 
It's 2044.
The full-on-thong-Olympics is here.
Full moon halves alight the mat, half
of them dinted with hand chalk. The boobs are painted
shut in clear varnish, the penises stapled
to the full-moon crack bottoms. Olympiads chat
about their dusted penis moon halves. Who'd've thought
it'd finally happen, they say, our boobs shaled
down with decoupage solvent, our fissile Peak Freans
shaped to the muffin cornered sitter muscles we've
trained so long for. At last we’re cast
to thing our thong, they say,
this is great, we can't believe it.
 
 
 
 
Gasket.
 
Have a hard time nurturing the rapture. Nerve.
Earth tears its thumb from the earthen damn. Heart,
the whole universe shhhing an applauding mollusk.
Shhh you dark spark nearing. Would I
were a more womanish, cunninger, content with enticement.
Romeo wants it Romeover-with how’s that for concise?
I wrote Anne Coulter an email asking if I could
think about her in flagrante to stem my ascent. (Didn’t send it.)
Now I row across the Styx river writing acrostics.
Heel raps deck of boat like dog. Damn if they weren’t
right in high school. It is the motion of the ocean.
Slow, rapids. Roam to dawdle alley!
 
 
 
 
Booth.
 
One shoe cloned another,
just so it could have a running mate.
They’re not even the same party yet you couldn’t tell
them apart with a Speak and Spell.
I’m so tired of voting but
the mule in my armoire brays me to.
Chads of yester-rope descend. Their bellies
distended. I started this poem in its center, imagine
I’ll push it toward the officer at the firehouse,
see what she does. All those curtains
can’t be progress.