Long, Tiresome And So Poem by Anna Polibina-Polansky

I enjoy no explanations. No syntax. No pondering at nothing. I do not also describe my nights. I do not have too many ladies per a night either. I am moderate. I am shy. I am a bit hot in body. Lazy at words. Affording smth ever to myself. If writing, then without special sense. Emptiness in words also makes sense. I can't sacrifice my age, energy, sexuality to your mode of. You won't discover a Universe at a city rotten with vodka and drugs. I don't find anyone here. I went to the border with Asia and met copies of who I wanted. It is no good to need anyone here in Europe. Think before bribing my kiddish heart. What you get? A decent copy, younger, energetic. She is good for Moms, at my respect. You ought to be as feminine as her body is. I like that. I speak as a Louisianian farmer, but who now cares. Capote, Williams, O'Neighl were Southerners at their ultimate wishes. I do not belong to your Universe, I grew up at the Orient, to the highly east of Moscow even. You'll decipher me. It was cruel of you to leave your man for two-three years without yourself. It influenced me incorrectly. Sorry my lapses to the British word order. I watched you two years ago/before. You needn't have sit in white jeans with a microphone. I yearn for a bit of makeup at your eyelids, lashes; I wonder if you have got female scents, fragrances, somewhat. How will you bear my sweat/male aromas. And sooooo.