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


Written for Shay’s Word Garden.


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10 thoughts on “Conqueror

  1. I started out being amused, for that kind of ego is either amusing or infuriating, and I loved ” the annulment of her second divorce,”– great phrase,–and “.not quite an inferno,/more a snapping crab,’ not to mention the leery mustache tusks, but then of course, the poem changes course and becomes the morality tale/fable it had satirized, as well as showing all the rotten double standards and power trips that women can encounter. A man can go into a bar and medicate himself with tequila, and do nothing but bring disgust or amused tolerance, but let a woman do it, and she’s advertising her sexuality as free to all comers for some reason. Never have understood that.You did a great job here of expressing both characters, their feelings and their reactions and their extremely “fatal attraction.” Excellent work with the list, too.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Whoa. Power seized an taken away, and all for nothing, really. They could both just have walked away and gone on with their lives. But the writing! The white car/steed, the mustache tusks, the snapping crab curls, all so good. I don’t understand the idea of conquest, why taking advantage of someone who’s out of it is some kind of badge of honor for some guys. It seems so utterly hollow unless it’s just about power and control, which it probably is.

    You wrote so smoothly here that the list words fit in seamlessly, rather than seeming forced as so often happens with lists. And I didn’t even notice the rhyme until the second time through. This poem is disturbing for its content but just lovely for what you’ve done with the list and how you went about it. Good stuff, my friend, and than you so much for coming by once again and being part of my list thang!

    Liked by 1 person

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