Part One of a two-part series of poems on my experiences of Russia. 'Looming before me, St Basil's basks in camera flashes, with its candy-cane swirls and pretentious pastels,'
It wasn't that I didn't like Paris; the colours lazily reclining on their canvasses at Montmartre. Gargoyles crawling up the outstretched fingers of Notre Dame.
She crushed us into boulders, curled us into roses. Rejected. Not the perfection she wanted. In this sin-bin we strike cubist poses.
With a grin you dubbed the subject "Verboten" - surprised me with your German; but then again, everything spoken between us is in a different language.