What sibilant consonants
conjure his image: angular, Germanic,
uttering phrases and grunts, monosyllables
forcefully spat into air alive,
filled with his vivid verbal assaults!
No saccharine sentiment for him.
He lets fly with steamy staccato
streams of purposely purple prose,
unblemished by boorishly banal
concern for social civilities.
Squeamishness never slept next to him!
But notice (not noticeably, please)
how his eyes seem furtively to flit
from yours, to gaze down at his hands,
pale and strangely delicate -- graceful!
And his cheeks are dusted with a blush,
under eyes not steely blue but liquid brown.