Masterstroke, is Yegor Vlasych. His rouble makes
a dead weight of his wife’s hand, an artichoke heart
lost in a sea of rye, spectral sceptre. Even the road is
violent; a belt of something straight. What would a
city girl have said? It’s a swift kick to the roublebag
you need Yegor Vlasych. Let our heroes run off the
page, and see today’s news. He gambled his mother’s
house to the ground, almost died by angry neighbours’
scythes. Packed off to Luton, Brantwood
Road. Boy racing up by Barton Hills. He
burns rye, bridges; moves to West Dublin. Pelageya is
here, espaliered, a wallflower. Ghosts of the old country
lacerate her cheeks in straw-whipped vodka soaked disco
Friday hair. They’re out; a hustle of greyhounds behind
glass. Deadbeat hearts mill about beneath shouts, slogans.
Cocaine coursing through his chambers, Yegor’s bricolage
heart recognises an artichoke, would shred it. She has no
balustrade, her friends are in the toilet. Vulpine, free, an
indirigible whose rubble she’ll trip over. Strictly scythe
tongued, he hunts for any cuttable palm.