Moscow: jewel of the north, Venice of the east, Grimsby of the mind. Moscow, where east meets west, and north meets south, and south, south west meets north, north east. Moscow: a point on a map, like anywhere else where tourist brochure writers ran out of ideas really quickly. Moscow: where yesterday meets the day before yesterday and they take tea in a garden of all of our lost tomorrows.
Moscow: city of misty bears and pine forested women, golden gnomed eyebrows of burnished steel sitting in state twixt noses of rare, yet treacherous, promise. Moscow, capitol of capitols in a Russia of many Russias, golden boned, chocolate domed Moscow, ah me ah my.
And there, crouching eel-like on the hill of Bogoloopskoi the deterred, between the river Moocow and the walls of Plagovitch the denailer: there it glowers:the Kremlin.
The Mighty Kremlin a million roofed dance of anarchitectural prawns, founded 47 times each hour by Vladimov the denosed, ruler of twelve shining inches or thirty glorious centimeters. Vladimov the bewildered: emperor of the metric. Its mighty form glowers benignly over the scuttling masses in their many layered and brightly painted wooden overcoats, the sun glints off its myriad golden gnomes casting glittering shadows on the yellow grey Kremlin tanned skin of its noble inhabitants.
And here, Red Square, a crimson cube forged of steel and cake by men whose names were Ivan. Red square, ah me, the heart of this throbbing, engorged metropolis. Site of fifty seven million historical events whose meaning is lost in the mists of, well, mist.
And at the heart of the scarlet quadrangle St Bozil’s cathedral of Gleb the dispenser: Constructed of meringue and sponge by nameless men called Ivan to commemorate the victory of Vladimov over the Polgol hordes in the year of eleventy ninety whenever. All eyes are drawn to its unearthly beauty by men, likewise called Ivan, bearing complex eye drawing devices forged in the bear haunted tunnels of Glaznagomsk by men, called Ivan.
Ah Moscow, ah Russia, ah fuck it.