The Soviet Kitchen

The kitchen is the heart of my flat. It is the only place to sit.

Sit down on my formica stool, enjoy many hours of comfortable balancing upon its rigid form. My stool likes you. You should like it too.

My oven likes you too. It just doesn’t appreciate being used for anything other than storage. It has two settings : fires of Hell and cold.

My cabinets love you. They love to hide things on you. They enjoy wobbling and popping out to surprise you. They don’t mean to hurt you with their hardened corners. They just don’t know their strength.

My wall, however, does not like you. Or your mother. Not even your sister or your cousin. My wall hates you because you know me. I am sleeping with Lenin. I stole her clothes and forced her to bear her scars to the world.

The wall is naked.

The wall is angry.

But not for long.

Lenin has a plan. A NWP.


The Soviet Kitchen

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