A poem
She hit him like a champagne breakfast
he felt on precarious footing
as they trespassed
the mournful walls
in the hotel corridor
it clutched the cigarette smoke
as withering keepsakes
she surrenders
leant against the doorway
she blew smoke rings
through an exotic red
lassoing his dilated pupils
she stole his liquorice heart
an acquired taste;
whether she likes it, or not
she has acquired it
they fell
through the technicolour wallpaper
mouth dry as Spanish sun
dark-haired, onto pale sheets
oil slicks on virgin snow
she took control
and rode him
as he struggled to regain grip
slip sliding
in her sherbet kisses
the many faced chameleon
curled on the tip of his nose
he could see the colour of her soul
hear her skin move
composer of thunder
classical, as black on white
romantic, as red on red
- the irony -
to all else in the world
he grew as deaf as Beethoven
a synthetic symphony no. 5
rained out Viennese skies
crystallised
they fall and rise
fall and rise
in the room
he felt her love surround him
astound him
confound him
he tried to take her heart, too
to find his fingers in the meat grinder
fear
it dangled in strands
the severed flesh
of materiality
haemorrhaging
black as crude oil
sudden as the Venus flytrap
a snap
flashes of reality
he buzzed and swirled within
confusion
a feverish delirium
the sand cloud that enveloped
scathing
his eyes worked to mop up the mess
slowly - unsteadily
it confessed its ceiling
the parting storm
revealed the edges of the room
pockets of rational thought
between the hillocks
he tried to recall the details
as they hid behind a gauzy wall;
sequences of a lucid filament, muted
his acid was wearing off
and he was alone
with nothing but tremors
nothing, but the colour of sound
illuminating the palisade
that kept his inspirations repelled
now, free to be leapt
with Hermes boot
he kicks the sheets clean off
left naked and exposed
a flash of her
hits him with a dagger of discomfort
alone - with nothing
but, himself
nothing, but fire for the forge
to paint, to write, to craft
to take that ‘nothing, but’
with him, as muse
nothing, but himself
now, he must sleep
- sleep it off
there was nothing, but the morning
and a peculiar dead cigarette
propped, half smoked, in the ashtray
lined with rouge.
© Darius the Mate
Written for Shay’s Word Garden.
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“She hit him like a champagne breakfast” – great opening line, then the rest comes pouring out like champaign foaming out of the bottle.
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Thank you, Qbit 🙏.
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Mate, the title itself is a poem, and your phrasing is a roaring cataract, tumbling us upside down and gasping for air. And then that close, the peace of dead quiet solitude. I may have to take up smoking just to get the full effect. ~
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Your comment is greatly appreciated – thank you, M.
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I feel like I just rode the most fun carnival ride, and I know I will have to get back in line cause I just have to ride it again! This is absolutely wonderful Darius; intense, wild, and wonderful! I love it!!
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Thank you so much, Carrie, I enjoyed reading yours too.
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May I keep the ashtray as a wild and wonderful souvenir? I need it. Amazing poetry ….
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You may, but the peculiar cigarette will remain with me 😉
Thank you for reading.
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I found this mesmerizing. The waves of colors and the juxtapositions do shadow psychedelia, but as one knows if one’s been there, it’s a circus show that can have as much or as little meaning as one is looking for at the time. Here, there’s a serious afterglow, and every color, every simile is a facet of the work in progress, a bit of the mosaic we make of our life’s truth. And the language! I could quote a dozen examples–suffice it to say, it is mindbogglingly good. I love how you follow up on your concepts–nothing is throwaway, everything is going somewhere–the fingers in the meat grinder, and the eyes mopping up the mess, and all the little touches of intricate detail. Vivid, original, and a pleasure to not just read, but experience. As we used to say, minds are made to be blown.
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Thank you, I’m deeply grateful, Hedgewitch. ❤️
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Whew! Mama told me not to come. This is as wild a ride as any window pane ever produced, an Owsley trip through wildest Westworld where the women are real and not real, all at once. As Mick sang, “she blew my nose and then she blew my mind.” Tomothy Leary’s dead but this poem is a live wire. Wow. Thanks so much for being part of the first Word Garden Word List! Next week the list will be words from Sylvia Plath.
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Thank you for hosting, for reading, and for your heartening comments.
I’ll keep a little bit of my liquorice left for next week. Looking forward to it, and reading through everyone else’s poems, when I get some time, tomorrow. Right now, time to sleep it off. 🙂
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