Poem

These hands were made for pointing
pointing to stars, and asking
these eyes were made for pointing
pointing to skies, and basking

in the answers 
on the questions
to the thoughts
of sight, sound, and taste

such as
why send young lives 
to the slaughter?
there’s still stars
to gaze
- it’s such a waste 

these hands were made for holding 
holding baby, bright and pure 
these hopes were made for holding
holding their future, safe and sure 

when hands grip steel
wear blood

eyes see murder
not love

hopes get stripped
and rubbed 
out … 

it’s time for your voice to shout
for change - for peace

for war to end
and, premature death
to cease

nights are made for dreaming
dreaming beyond hostilities  
days are made for dreaming
dreaming of possibilities.

© Darius the Mate 16-03-2022

Poem

Chased too far from the garden 
welcome to the neon town 
veiny streets where blood clots harden
progress won’t be broken down 

the waters churning plastic 
cities breathe with iron lungs
meta’s the new monastic 
chanting maledictions in tongues

hand held distractions
ping, vibrate and light
human interactions 
made on gigabyte 

the poppy seeds
that grow in pockets 
basic human needs
locked up in virtual lockets 

anxiety barks one awake
as a neighbours dog
the bodies mistake
switches on, internal dialogue 

have we evolved for modern life
or, fallen into it?
balancing on the edge of a knife
trying to make odd pieces fit 

sick and tired of being sick and tired 
bruised from the daily beating 
neuron’s fired through brains, miswired
society won’t stop eating 

in this fabled land
the milk has soured
with sticky hands
the honeys been devoured 

white lilies, and white lies
the cortège shuffles in silence 
beneath falling skies 
angst arrows, kiss with violence 

a brave face - a smeared red cheek
moving forth, even when we fear it 
the origin physique;
a naked spirit.

© Darius the Mate 21-02-2022

Written for Shay’s Word Garden.

Poem

I just care, a lot.
I can barely bear it.

Baring it all,
I feel I’m not
in my natural habitat.
I lack the wherewithal
to fight
the internal
pelting 
frost.
Bearing it all,
turns me into a snowball
packed tight
and melting
slowly lost. 
It can be difficult.
- I can be difficult. 
In a state of tumult.
I don’t mean to 
be grizzly
if my mood 
is black.
When my skies 
are drizzly
I brood
and crack. 
I’m delicate.
I mean well 
I know how to be good.
And try.
Still, that boy 
from childhood
always asking ‘how?’
and ‘why?’
who watched 
Care Bears
and, dreamed 
in Hollywood sparkle.

© Darius the Mate 13-01-2022

https://nicecissist.blog

A poem

They say you can’t be in two places at once … 

but, here I am, in this poem, narrating, coexisting with my half-witted, half-hung-over self, writing in half-baked-prose, wholly-cogitating over the clogged sink, woefully ruminating, thick as I think, imitating a mind, and lips, moving in sync,

Im alright, mate. 

Liar. This is your internal voice, manifested, who’re you tryna kid, kid?

You’re barely opening up, from the eyelid. 
You’re not some battle hardened warrior. 
You’ll let down your guard like a lead balloon.

Dropping armour, and shield, you’re jelly in a pot. Jiggle jiggle.

I could tear you in half with a spoon. 

Why we don’t rhyme much anymore,
no one knows,

when did we forfeit rhyme,
for half-price prose?
It’s a giveaway.

Im only human. 

Did I just giveaway the plot?
Or, did I lose it …

I can be anything here;
wise, beyond my facility,
inflating my own sense of ability
- I do fear.

Can you confirm my sanity? 
Im stuck in a feedback loop, 
attending to the fermentation,
of novel ideas, 
confirming the bias, 
refracting the spheres, 
bending the sourdough, 
oozing out of my ears, 
into little wreathes, 
ready for the oven. 

The words have risen, they must be removed before they burn. 
Yet, they must crisp a little longer, if I wish to learn …

eat up, masticate, and churn …

grow and develop. 

Oh, the irony, finally, I see. 
Open me up, an autopsy. 
With me, alive, 
screaming and flailing, 
all the little gingerbread men, 
come marching out, 
entrails trailing,
spilling truths, from within, 
fresh off the pan

… can’t stand the heat of the kitchen. 

It’s near time to sling my backpack,
and, up and fly to Japan. Non-fiction.

Sayonara, blood-suckers. 

Running through neon streets 
with my stomach stitched,
laughing deliriously. 

How did I get here?

Now, let’s see …
let’s see you try and live, 
without the host. 
No more intrusive thoughts, 
just butter and toast. Staples. 

They love robots.

These emotions do not compute.
Troubleshoot. Troubleshoot. Trouble, shoot, shoot, shoot. 
We need to hit reset - reboot.

Boo!

Wake up. 
One sleep hasn’t cured you. 

Who’re you kidding, kid,
you just can’t shake em’, can you?
Stress, anxiety, fear, nervous energies,
self deprecating tendencies, 
all crazy, up in yo headspace
- Robin your content,
and, his band of merry fuckin’ men
following behind, 
singing until they’re blue in the face. 

La-la-la-la-la-la-laaa.

© Darius the Mate 10-01-2022

Written for Shay’s Word Garden.

Wordplay Pathway https://nicecissist.blog

A poem

Standing tall among my kind 
breathing deep the sun that shines
wind, lifting limbs - unconscious mind
the slow dance of the pines

the buzz that wakes me from below
fells me in the throes of youth 
humans singing let it snow 
wounds severed by the sawtooth 

with sap still sticky on their hands
they mount me in their living room
away from my natural lands 
accepting in my doom 

so tired now, the curtain calls 
- just when I am near to sleep
they decorate me in baubles 
hanging heavy where I weep 

wrap my body up in lights 
so, no rest can be found 
for many days and nights 
they gather all around 

needles dropping from my boughs 
drooping as my life-force dries 
with my dying strength, I espouse
to haunt them in my demise

for these wicked animals
in one last act of cruelty
to end of their cultish rituals
drag me, the “Christmas tree”

… to the fucking curb. 

© Darius the Mate 08-01-2022

Wordplay Pathway https://nicecissist.blog

A poem

She waited

elegant limbs furnishing the lobby
musical heels behind the concierge 

He heard

the tuneful doves ambient coo
saturated with charm, hovering expresso 

She lounged 

pristine pool water fighting wild fires 
sun dappled skin scintillated with riches

He read

full and brazenly basking in kindling rays 
admiring the architectural beneficence
 
She ate

alone, ai frutti di mare in the window 
Tyrrhenian Sea washing into her silhouette 

He dined

alone, with eyes to the moonlight 
draping her shadow, that pointed for him

She danced 

lucid body melting into airspace 
boneless and beautiful, as butterfly

He watched 

saliva thick and frothy in mouth
chewed as sour milk, canvassing edges 

She rose

early, for continental breakfast 
notepad of itinerary, between coffee and jam 

He staggered 

late, to refresh beneath a cold shower
whiskey and wine, indelicately mixed on the palette

She spoke

through the corridor in an indistinct accent
soft, yet rousing, phone blessed by her cheek

He splashed 

overpriced cologne lavishly on sunburn
tight pants gliding gaudily, on hotel tiles

She glanced 

He swallowed his breath
clutched his heart, beating - untameable 

She looked away

and he left, with his suitcase trailing. 

© Darius the Mate 04-01-2022

Wordplay Pathway https://nicecissist.blog

First poem of the year

First days hop by like jumping frogs 
pen sits as stone club between fingers
limbs lie heavy as sleeping logs
where the smell of flash powder lingers 

how many pills must one swallow
to cure this poets ache 
strummed forth by the lyre of Apollo
ink slithers the page as a snake

chaotic are English words 
they battle for peace as sounds roll 
try poetry painted to the rule of thirds
imperfectly off-centre, but with soul

elocutionists with electric tongue 
can trick any fool above 
charming for whom Orpheus sung
now, that’s going to hell and back, for love

the sun rising on hedonistic nights
a solar sea of zodiacal grace  
for the love of it, one writes
as the moon falls quietly into space.

© Darius the Mate 03-01-2022

Wordplay Pathway https://nicecissist.blog

A poem

Firework feet out the door
Keys tight in jeans, no jangles

Splash of aftershave and a bit more
Hair brushed neat, no tangles

Ready to cut holes in the dance floor
Boots making shapes, all angles 

“Happy New Year!” Over, they pour, 
Sky, reflecting eyes, with spangles.

© Darius the Mate 31-12-2021

Wordplay Pathway https://nicecissist.blog

A poem

He was lonely
but it was painless 
January came silently in the night 
a carbon monoxide libido pill 
to kill any drive he had left 

Women spooked him
February was scary 
he, awkward as a bad wig 
secluded himself to work from home
with the ghost of Valentine roses 

March marched in, goose stepping
he feared the fierce footsteps
from the attractive neighbour
bringing in spring, passed the mat 
outside his flat door

The skeletons in his closet 
rained bones when he got himself dressed
old jumpers, and jeans bought by lost loves
April brought showers 
so, he wore his birthday suit all month,  instead

The nuns take pity 
they serve a greater purpose in chastity 
yet, he tossed his chances in the ocean 
a pilgrim abandoning his May flower 
for the savage coast 

There they crossed 
in the hot corridor, in June
the kitten heeled führer at flat #5
and the hallway acrobat
Spider-Maning by, as an inverted introvert 

the weather lady kept him informed 
of the July sun he obscured by blind
in good company of the tv
yawns poured over cereal 
risen to eat on the stroke of noon

August-us stunk like a dirty engine
the street greeting the window, ajar
stuck to his skin 
an uninvited house guest 
ruling his sanctuary as an emperor 

A knock at the door!
sheathed phallus in waistband 
morning glories hidden point
toward terrifying beauty bringing baked goods 
Septembers harvest was bountiful 

Visiting his vicinal Valkyrie with favour returned
October ousted an oven fresh “Octo”pie  
tentacle fingers burned on the baking tray
apples, currants, sugar, cinnamon, butter, flour, egg and angst
a magic eight ingredients, wriggling in the heat

The first Saturday of November erupted 
he blew compliments like budget fireworks
dry, between sips of velvety Syrah 
her tongue of Egyptian cotton spun chat 
his thoughts were hieroglyphs 
 
Jolly and red faced, with festive breath
artificial mistletoe of flashing neon street
a kiss to fruit their flirtations 
juice of his veins, sweetened 
December ended with something new. 

© Darius the Mate 22-12-2021

Written for Shay’s Word Garden.

Wordplay Pathway https://nicecissist.blog

A fictional poem, in a non-fictional world

1.

Days dropped away -
a countdown
in maddening mid December 

running toward some prophesied narrative 
where everyone is grateful 

in my naivety 
I had come to think 
that meant in my heart, too
but, the nativity of another unwanted child-hood trauma re-emerging
rears its bald and bloody head

winter had been generous, however 
with its spirited yield of white powder 
falling, and disappearing 
at the tip of my nose 

whiskey, or some cider coloured piss
to wash it back
alone 
in my smoky, magnolia dungeon 

it was all ok, until I lost my teeth
now, I’m lonely, toothless, and there’s no fairy’s
or, white bearded philanthropists
creeping to my bed 
in the night 
in some-sort-of state sanctioned home invasion 

the fat man in red visits, occasionally 
he works for Royal Mail

I used to order myself gifts from Amazon
just for the human contact
now they just choke-slam my parcel 
into the mat
like it’s Saturday morning wrestling 
and run off
before, I can even trip over myself
trying to get my stained underpants pulled up
and get to the door 

those were the days
not as in: the dreamy, rose coloured sense
those were the days, it all went to shit 
it all started one cosy 
curled-on-the-carpet
duvet draped morning

2.

days dropped away -
a countdown
in maddening mid December

sheep sheared for the season
counting reindeer to fall asleep
daydreaming of sleighs
elves 
and stockings

the morning smelt like cinnamon 
the sky was marmalade on toast 
and, the river Thames was spilt tea
down the side of a porcelain cup

it was 1976’
we had a new television 
Andre the Giant was slamming men to the canvas
like they were Amazon parcels 
all whilst wearing a little black leotard

I couldn’t wait to pull my wellies on
and make a snowman with Dad

he told me to eat my cereal
and watch tele
until Mum came home 

he made me promise, I would

“Dad?”, I called out 

“When are we going outside?”

“Dad?”

with one red left footed wellington boot 
on my right foot
and the other in my arms
I pushed his door ajar
to where there were two bare feet suspended in the air 

he was just there …

just there …
like some, appalling Christmas angel 

a grotesque decoration 
hanging without a twinkle

I never understood why

why

how 

it was so easy

not, to do it
but, to leave us 

I thought I never would understand … 

I always did what I was told
obeyed the rules 
until, I didn’t 
until, I opened that door
in a way, I blamed myself
I imagined if I hadn’t opened that door
if I had just waited with my cereal
and tele
and excitement  
like Dad told me
then, none of it would have happened 
I knew it wasn’t true …
but, I couldn’t help myself 

so, since then
I alway do as I am told 
but, it’s not working
everything around me is burning
and I’m just sitting here 
doing as I’m told

3. 

(unavailable) please take a step back 

1.

days dropped away -
a countdown
in maddening mid December

smouldering 
charred from the inside out
with a bucket of water 
on the doorstep
- I’m told it’s contaminated with pathogens
or, was it the PH is off? I forget

days drop away -
I tell myself not to worry
they’ll be more;
that comforts 
and scares me 
in equal measure

a countdown
to a time when I can breath freely, again 

in a maddening mid-life crisis 
persistently preserving the jarred pickle 
of my quarter-life crisis 
and my beginning-life crisis
- between my pre-adulthood and 
post-child-who-should-not-be-dealing-with-a-crisis-crisis

I passed flat #5 today
on the way back from getting milk
biscuits
and long skins

the old girl was out
she must be in her maddening mid nineties 
amazing women she is
mind is near completely gone
she wouldn’t know her son
from the delivery boy 
double leg dropkicking 
her mail-order knick-knacks 
down the hall
yet, she always got around like a twenty something
even in her nineties 
well, until, yano

I said hello 
she smiled
and, I smiled back

like an old friend
not the stranger, I feel 

it’s been so long since I saw her
I wondered if she was still around

… and … I’m all alone, again
with my mask. 

© Darius the Mate

Wordplay Pathway https://nicecissist.blog

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.

What is life without community? I would love to connect with other nicecissists out there. Reach out, let me know what you think in the comments, and of course, give me a follow for more – nice!

Wordplay Pathway https://nicecissist.blog