In Vulgagrad grey, concrete erections pierce an indifferent sky with the grace and favour of a fumbled, genital Polaroid.
In Vulgagrad Maoist strippers tear leaves from the trees in nothing but Little-Red Boots and peasant caps.
In Vulgagrad everyone is equal. Fat or thin, tall or short, black or white, male or female. To refuse a touch, a kiss, an advance is counter-revolutionary.
In Vulgagrad a red star peeks from between the slab-sided grey buttocks of the Stalinist housing blocks.
In Vulgagrad they fuck like they’re in the posters. Fists, boots, patriotism and determined expressions – a great patriotic bore.
In Vulgagrad they’re hot to Trotsky so quit Stalin and get read for the orgy. On your Marx, get set, go.
In Vulgagrad the apparatchiks are politically orthodicks and orthochicks with aspirations to the nomenklatura and tastes as rare and strange as Caspian beluga.
In Vulgagad the kommisars will watch your every move, even that special one that makes you lover squirm – seeking any hint of creeping capitalism as ‘payment in kind’.
In Vulgagrad, jewel of Kamchatka, where Working-Girl Camps jostle with Dacha and a priapic Lenin stands watch over the revolution.
In Vulgagrad.
