Those men with poor imagination and wild ambitions – they fancy themselves as lions but are really defective copies at best and ugly hyenas at worst.
They big themselves up, inflate their own egos until it’s as sad and bloated as a retired whore.
They don’t do this alone though: the one-eyed man rules over a blind submissive army which coos and strokes and giggles while the rest of us look on and wonder, divided between disgust and laughter.
Writing shitty poetry is not a crime, and neither is being emotionally stunted, but having an innate lack of respect for women despite claiming loud and clear to the contrary is.
Who do you think you are? An enticing mix of dark and art, right?
Oh, how I laugh!
Your dark is small and sad and pitiful.
You are so very weak, dreaming of a queen and picking up debris – which is just what you deserve.
You told me to suck your cock, proud as a peacock you were! Proud to be abusive, justifying the implied threat of rape with the sorriest of excuses –
I had criticised, I had been fierce, so why not shove your cock in my face?
Abuse is never acceptable and despite your sob stories and pathetic excuses, it’s never justifiable.
There is nothing worse than the man who declares his victim responsible for his own appalling behaviour.
If only you could realise your dominating dreams from another age are the worse sort of bait.
You were never worthy of me, and a fool not to perceive I always had the power to crush you under my exquisite heel.
Escape, start again somewhere new – but let me tell you: you can’t escape yourself, no matter how hard you try.
You are nothing. You will never be anything. I held my tongue for so very long out of a kindness you did not merit, but now it can be said: I have never liked Modigliani – as an artist, much too crude for me. And how true that turned out to be.