His quisquilious nature,
I've seen the way animals live in their filth
And he is no more than that.
He craves, partial dipsomaniac,
And I can give him nothing.
His tongue, not quite lambent,
Glides back and forth in his mouth.
He whinges words, spewing them like vomit
And I'm tired of hearing it.
His hands touch me,
I become recidivist and can only see red.
I lapidate him with my disgust and he can only whine.
He's the pathetic one, not me.
This tauromachy kills me slowly,
Red flags abound.
I languish in the serendipity.
Anything to get away from those scouring eyes.
My stomach recovers and I, saturnine, can walk away.
Perhaps my own tongue is too mordant
For him to read me properly.
Can I recall the misprision before reality strikes?
Or has the vermiculate damage been dealt?
I can stand caryatid, but his boeotian attitude
Fills me with pity, I leave well enough alone.
I walk away in the agrestic night,
Feeling mawkish but knowing I can do no more.
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