smotting down at a shoddily razrezzed almost-square
of oven-paper. It’s a
serviette Svetlana said,
fumbling a thimbleful of moloko into her chipped chasha,
a Soviet serviette.
I burst out into a right gromky smeck,
oh my brothers,
spooging away the fat ginger koshka
that prowled the floor, as a
scarf-gullivered babooshka smotted up scowling
from her gazetta that skazatted something or other
about Edward Snowden, who leaked more
than a toilet in a Siberian hospital
and who’s hiding round here somewhere,
oh my brothers,
maybe under a hazelnut bush
or in Vladimir Putin’s wine cellar.
My devotchka-droogie shushed me
and finished her cardboard doughnut,
come on let’s itty, she skazatted
and we were off on a brisk-legged gooly
under the ice-cream onions
where Uncle Joe himself
posed smecking below his waxed moustache and above khaki
for camera-toting chellovecks in furry shlapas,
skvatting rookerfuls of roubles off ’em
(a recent development Svetlana said)
while skinheaded gold-necked gangster-nadsats
shot their greedy glazzies around the mesto,
oh my brothers,
and somersaulted backwards off bollards,
somersaulted high high high up into the heavens,
high enough to tolchock down a plane full of
Ukrainian soldiers
or Dutch doctors
or the Bolivian president
or Edward Snowden, Bog only knows,
high as the heels of the miniskirted
scarf-gullivered devoted devotchkas
who prowl into the Petropavlovsky Church with their
horrorshow bolshy groodies thrusting out
as they whisper, miming crucifixes,
at an oil-daubed shiny-framed Saint Nicholas
(who in the West is a Coca-Cola advert).
Svetlana and your humble narrator
joined a queue like one for bread under Brezhnev,
full of rucksacked chellovecks in gromky yellow shirts
and flabby-armed soomkas grabbing onto
jostling dratsing little bratties
with i-pods or i-pads or i-phones warbling i-tunes
poking out their nipple-pockets
and excited skorry-waffling Spanish malchicks
in berets, and after forty minootas or suchlike,
under the close-viddying glazzies of monument-faced chassos
with loaded pooshkas poking up from white gloves,
there he was,
all a-spatchka in starched trousers,
polished sabogs on his nogas,
trim tash below his trademark shiny gulliver
and full to the brim with wax.
A bolshy bald candle.
And as the chasso skorried us white-gloved out of the mesto,
a thought rippled through my rasoodock,
a plea really, that pled
please Mister Candle,
burst smashing out of your glass box
and serve these grazhny Washington bratchnies
a right horrorshow tolchocking for
booting their borders into your front garden,
into Pole-Czech-Slovak-land Romania Lithuania
Ukraine woop woop red alert woop woop Ukraine,
in order to ring you with hamburger republics
and plonk bolshy great fire-cocks in ’em
while brainwashing everyone into blaming you,
evil nasty vodka-swilling baby-eating old you
as they stick their grazhny stinking flag in the world
and strangle humanity with it.
