Conqueror

A poem

Contains distressing content, with reference to consent.

Five digits on the wheel
five fiddling on his phone

texting, as he drove 
the white on white Ferrari, he got on loan

he rode in to save her 
broad shouldered, lofty upon his fair horse 

she was alone, drinking to celebrate
the annulment of her second divorce 

leaning spearpoints on the bar 
fending advances at the dainty elbow 

letting fly stray glances
they cut the air, straight as an arrow

he pulled up a stool, next to her
like he’s done done 1, 2, or 20 times before

squealed “what’s thy poison, ladybird?” behind moustache tusks of a prized boar 

at first, her red curls seemed angry
not quite an inferno, more a snapping crab

keeping his hands where she could see
else, he end up stiffened, on the slab

taking shot, with his best chat up lines 
she shuttered them beneath her skin

they posed in the aloof aperture
developed in darkness within
 
for he, pleasantly - and with some surprise 
struck her shield, carefree 

but, most of all the things he found 
was her inconsolably thirsty  

one drink, two drinks - salt, tequila
a wedge of lime - lick, shoot, suck
 
his thoughts turned south
to the sea bed - a quick, no strings, fuck

she drunk like a sailor 
and swore like one too

the more alcohol he plied her
the more she threatened to spew 

but, he kept on buying
she kept on chucking em’ back

with red headed readiness 
she drunk, until things went black

“doth thee bethink me a scarlet women?”
she murmured, as he hailed a cab 

“Mine own lodging, 'r yours?”
he pressed, as the red flags began to stab

she crashed on the shore of the back seat
as wreckage in a storm

viking feet to stricken the beach
raid, pillage and swarm

swarm and swarm, falling locusts
on the windows, shaped as heavy rain

could not even slow the blaze
the fevered blaze, of his campaign 

the door slammed shut
she was on his bed

the ceiling spun
around her head

his lust, as penetrating as coals 
on the feet

her body froze, clutching, the first frost 
on his uninvited heat

“stop” she whimpered 
but, he did not 

“stop” she cried out
but silence, was all she got

he crowned himself a conquerer 
a champion Knight 

he thought he would thrust his sword
and be gone, before the morning light

he pledged to free her perfumed spirit
la petite mort - the little death 

she closed her eyes 
and, held her breath …

…

…

…

it was over
was it over? - will this wound ever heal?

as it sunk in, what had happened
she knew she had to kill

so, he could never ever, ever, ever
do this to another, again

this thing, this fucking thing
this pandemonium of pain

with his stench on her body
she staggered, she crept  
 
to the knife drawer, in the kitchen 
and, back to where he slept 

born of the jugular 
he wore her vengeance, on his skin 

she promised it would not be quick
as he spurted, below the chin

he snapped awake with freakish cocaine eyes 
quivering at the sight of morning

gargled the thought of mourning 
of his family - the thought was dawning

beneath the knife, the champion Knight
had never felt so small 

irony lost, his little life flashed
- he would get his ‘little death’, after all.

© Darius the Mate

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Written for Shay’s Word Garden.

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