Anekdot

Another city poem, another anecdote.
St Petersburg. The band we saw that evening
Was Полтора Кило Отличного Пюре,¹ which translates as
A Kilo and a Half of Excellent Mashed Potatoes.
Jeez, lighten up; it was the millennium, Jesus.

Sample lyrics: ‘I walk through my
native microregion  hacking at
lapdogs with a large axe.’ Where are they now,
would be a fair question. Even Russia
can’t sustain all types of cynicism forever.

A basement red-brick, with a crammed bar –
a little bit ayurvedic café, a little bit
cult HQ – and while Jeremy went to blue
with the dickstickers, which translates as
whatever the hell you want it to mean,
...