I haven’t told you, yet I thought:
I don’t like drunk people who don’t know
how to keep their body straight.
I don’t like drunk women and men
who repeatedly and obsessively
express their love.
I feel sick with their need
for pretence love.
I haven’t told you, yet I think you know:
I don’t like, not at all, people
with dirty nails, people with
trembling fingers (they always
spill their drink on me,
as if baptising me, crazy loons)
I feel sick with their clumsiness
their disrespect for themselves.
I also haven’t told you this, I think:
I don’t like women who think
that after a good blowjob
or after not calling
one should fall on his
knees, or unconscious.
it feels, I haven’t told you
because I shouldn’t have: you know.
I haven’t told you what kind of women I like,
and you know I like women:
beauties with long legs,
slim women with long hair,
dolls with full lips,
smartasses with succulent breasts…
I haven’t told you, I think:
I like women, but to me everything is singular: you.
I’m telling you, yesterday, now, tomorrow:
give me your face scarred with inn winds,
give me your ankles swollen with sitting,
give me your wondrous hips full with juices,
give me your hair, give me your boobs, give me
everything that you have: I whisper to you down on my knees.
if you hear me, if you hear me a bit,
your smile will make me happy. you know.
I’ll shove between your legs, smiling.
I’ve told you, I know that you know.