The Wrestlers
A moutra, ex-olympic wrestler,
self-styled ugly face,
disgorges himself from a stolen Mercedes
jamparked up on top the curb.
Carpathian-flanksteak tough,
big as a dirty bomb
wrapped in shiny Versace,
he keeps a silken wallet bulge
against the sweat of thick pink skin,
On his arm a thin blonde vacancy
tests the carats of her chain and collar hasp
toothed links bit into the soft gold
proves the value of her shackle.
They’re ready for the club,
the chainsaw roar of metal
dance and grind. Inside go-go dancers
sing their spike and powder love of home.
Olympians served as secret police,
the well hench iron-fisters of the state.
The fall of the bully collective
left the wrestlers out of work,
Bulgaria’s guardians stripped the skin
off a barely breathing body
and dressed themselves Ed Gein style
in Gazprom and the banks,
in eviscerated industries.
Malevolent phlebotomists,
they found employment
draining blood.
Muscles of the Nomenklatura
protect each household
from the vagaries of liberty.
The Lev shrinks as we speak.
5 today is 4
tomorrow night it’s 3.
A smart man takes the cash
he saved up all his life,
and buys a bag of flour,
a sack of sugar,
an egg or two,
something that will last.
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