A poem in uncoordinated couplets
noun: duplicity
1. deceitfulness.
2. the state of being double ARCHAIC.
Oxford Languages
At 1 years old
as babe in arms
sweet as cotton-candy
Mummy from blushed lips blew
dulcet lyrical jingles
spun sugary rhymes
they purled in the the air
fingers in pigeon tuffs of hair
a runaway train
on piston knees
so innate
she stood tall
and proud
bouncing on firecracker feet
o’ bliss at 2
she stuck to Daddy just like glue
turning 4
Mummy went to “heaven”
so, she smooshed the frogs
with a unforgiving stump
scattered
at her mercy
on the muddy banks
where they sat
years later, she killed a tomcat
with an air-rifle
she was just 8
her nerves were cold
as winters hold
on the trigger
a crusading knight
she lined him in the sight
felt a righteous charge
as if she had found her religion
Daddy lost his temper
though, she played coy
she would kill a boy
at 16 years young
she fired a different gun
one made of disloyalty
but he, her boy-love,
had two eyes to see;
duplicity
with the truth
his heart came in two
black and blue
she fit the glass slipper
an immoral Cinderella
to her prince, harming
the ‘c’
transparent
no charming
cuteness
care
just …
heart shaped
petals
wilted
crashing
made of chalk
to colour his pain
across the floor
if boys are from Mars
she ate all the stars
and planets
in the galaxy
whole
swallowed
in a black abyss
the hole
who commits all that who enters
to the belly
light churning
obedient wolves learning
it’s not safe
even in the pack
losing their nature
become dogs
crippled
three legged mutts
hobbling
chasing tail
to her whistle
and call
before the fall
at 32
she carried another mans child
nine months, concealed
beneath a thin film
whilst doting husband
built the cot
the lies and deceit
grew so heavy
cradling the confession
itself
became motherhood
swollen and rotten - driftwood
washing in
and out
of life
secrets
unholy and inconsolable
she tended to its silence
with fury, and violence
ivory cheeks
dead
as the elephant
in the room
ethereal fingers
on piano keys
to play in the newborn
thorns to adorn
the babies crown
piercing his innocent skin
for her sin
when tales made their way
back to ears
fatherless, and too young for tears
the infant grew to know no different
she felt vacant inside
as she stood beside
her Daddies coffin
doubled over at 64
she captained her conscience
fought for the right emotions
to portray
a struggle and screech
cats tied in a hessian sack
clawing and catching
one another
her psychology would smother
authentic sentiments
in lieu of surrogate soothsaying
forecasting the necessary
sensations
for the benefit
of others
a cerebral tactician
posed for the exposition
friend, or foe
alike
fall by the wayside
dragged through the performance
as heavy stones
around her ankles
her limbic system liquidating
narcissistic personality dominating
her vision
she saw only the silver lining
shimmering in the bleak church
her fraudulent left face
fearlessly crying in view
of all
inheritance glowing beneath a lazy sob
smug in the burial of an inside job
she wiped her eyes
feeling nothing.
© Darius the Mate 16-12-2021
Written for Shay’s Word Garden.
Wordplay Pathway https://nicecissist.blog
nicecissist 
A narrative that chills and also reveals. I feel I should have some sort of sympathy for the woman, but I can’t. We all have pain. We all know loss. It’s a rotten piece of driftwood-souled human trash that decides the answer is to cause more of it to others. The title is perfect, and as are all the lines Shay quotes, and more.
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Shay says it best … ain’t right you are so damned good at poetry! I also enjoyed this epic write … Sending Tidings of Good Cheer your way. {Santa is bringing me a good 2022 ~ I hope. At least, I wished for it with a whisper in his ear.}
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Thank you, Helen ☺️☺️ best wishes to you!
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It ain’t right, how good you are at this poetry thing! 😉 Where to start with this? I especially liked “if boys are from mars, she ate all the stars” (!) and “the confession itself became motherhood.” But to pick out phrases is to minimize this sprawling, fantastic poem. I recognize this woman. Having been raised by a narcissist mother, it’s all so familiar, and that final line says it all–they feel nothing, their inner reality is a moonscape but they act out a part for other people, as you’ve so skillfully revealed here.
I love that you showed her progression from babyhood on. There’s a whole novel here and in some ways, this reminds me of “The Magnificent Ambersons.” Narcissists are monsters with normal -masks on, and they destroy or damage anyone who comes close. What a portrait you’ve made here.
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Thank you, Shay, I enjoyed your prompt, although, I struggled with my writing, and still don’t love my poem the way I should. Don’t get me wrong, there’s parts I dig. I tried something – went for it – and, honestly, I feel something went out of kilter. As soon as I figure out what’s bugging me, I’ll use it to write better poetry 💋
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I thought it was great, but pay attention to that feeling. When you find what’s bugging you, and fix it, that often ends up being one of the best parts of the poem.
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