He makes his points with needles sharp as the teeth in his feral, snidely, shit eater grin. His face is contorted in the stench caused by the faecal nature of his thinking. The ugliness of his thoughts has seeped through his pages leaving a noxious brown stain on his cover. He crucified himself on his points – he writes the score on a soggy card he keeps in his cerebellum inscribed ME vs. THEM – he’s winning, but then – he’s the only one playing. He wallows in his own mire – conspires with his own demons – sinks in his own swamp - every point he makes - points back to him. His hubris is fuelled by an insecurity so deep it demands he prove his superiority over every living thing. He’s a mollusc trying to suck the life from a battleship. His hands are raw from flogging dead horses. He says ‘I love you’ but in his hand his bitter blade stains red his skin. It is not love, its hate – the business he is in. He was rejected time and again, for his nature is not like other men. He needs control his lovers you see – from deep seated insecurity. He’s an impotent and flaccid little man who inflicts pain however he can. He lacks the courage for face to face so he calls people names, but feels no disgrace – he’s the ubermensch – the superman. Who sits in judgement of his fellow man and finds them wanting one and all. So sad to say, if the truth were known, he’s so very sad and so terribly alone.