Russians

For Russians the stars are always incontinent, ejaculatory smears across the squalor of a boundlessly unhygienic sky. You’d scoff, Marina, at how I go at them with a tiny plastic shovel and my litter box technique, scooping up the sidereal splooge while trying to wipe down the universe. You’d say I tug at God’s Old Testament beard, praying the prayers of a coward. You’d confide to your diary my eyelashes don’t bat sootily enough.Such a lummox could never rumple the sheets of Paris