State of (Word)Play

Poetic political commentary – freedom of expression, in free verse

We learn the difference 
between right and wrong
in childhood

So, if a child could
judge us
would they
sit us on the naughty step?

We know the difference
between right and wrong

So, in Hong Kong
protestors
are now terrorists?

Is this right, or
is this what terror is?

I support their resistance
They must resist
to exist
democratically

Systematically
dealing with opponents
Is emphatically
indefensible

Incomprehensible authoritarianism

Uyghurs are continually
deemed reprehensible

for existing
and interned
in re-education camps

Prisoners

Until they desist
in proliferating their culture

desist in existing

The vulture
of Han China
feeds of the corpses
of their minorities

growing fat
and ruthless

staring the toothless
tigers down
across the UN Council meeting

If The Communist Party of China
ever flag this poem
I’ll join a black list

for supporting the Hong Kongers
out, flying their flag
raising their clenched fist

The CCP
can do as they please

over a million
voices
scream out
in Cantonese

gather

for nothing

The streets are full
yet
voices fall
on deaf ears

Their fears
realised

foreseen

materialised
in the High Court

long assured
in dictum

The obscene
conviction

The ‘National Security Law’
claims it’s first victim

Guilty

my heart bleeds for you
Tong Ying-kit

Punished
for a “crime” you could not commit

in the Hong Kong
you were fighting
to keep

I weep
for democracy lost
in Hong Kong

it won’t be long
before it’s gone…
completely

when flying a flag, with;

"Liberate Hong Kong, revolution of our times."

is added to the list of crimes

Activists are now;

Criminals

The true criminals
are the ones in power

devouring the morsels
of difference

still
we watch idle

from our ivory tower

no better
to judge

-

Are
state secrets
being
protected
over
the freedom of the press

reflected
in Julian Assange’s arrest

and

the continued
request
by the US
to extradite

a freedom to oppress?

YES!

YES, YES, YES.

-

Are the
decisions
in back rooms
secreted
in files
defiling our freedom
In these British isles
too?

I suspect
I’m correct
in disbelieving the words

of government figures
who lead humans
as herds

to the polls

cattle
to the slaughter

Then serve up the blood
and tell us it’s water

Eyes streaming
children huddle
in dust of war

Lies teaming
politicians muddle
international law

We unite nations
under a veil
which detaches
and makes invisible
the scale
of perpetrated injustice

nations united
in greed
and death

preach peace
and contradict
in the same breath

An interest in conflict
is conflict of interest

The spoils of war
and the fruits of greed

The needs of the many
and the many in need

Between rights of “all”
and all those who fall
between the cracks

What are the facts?

Are our Western values
civil liberties
freedom
equality

our Western Superiority
(Complex)

a facade?

Is liberalism
just a political identity
to win votes?

abroad
chaos is created
human rights are violated
ethic groups annihilated

by “our” hand

cultures repressed
lands dispossessed
peoples oppressed

dealt by the cards
“we” play

forced to do as
“we” say
or, else

pay the consequences

The suffering is silent
when humans suffer
in violent
conflicts
on tv

when
foreign bodies
enter foreign bodies

it’s easy
to look away

Please, don’t look away

look closer to home

look deeper inside


Behind “Western values”
we hide
the dirty truth

Why do we convict
those who expose
not
those who impose
this
dark belly of our society?

Dread and anxiety
in this stream of consciousness
constantly confident
in being disappointed

in the powers that be

“we”

“us”

“them”

it stems

from our inner drive
to survive

to conquer

guard possession

it’s the our own reflection
our ugliest face

The pace
of our forward march
exposes
a regression

in aspects

of basic human need
in fulfilment
which breeds
discontentment
and feeds
this dark cloud
of depression
over me

-

What are we prepared to do,
to protect our lands of milk and honey?

The exodus of our moral code
for…

money?

power?

or, is there something more noble?

Less self-serving
- more global

I won’t turn a blind eye

I’m still searching for the bottom line…









holding my breath
unknowing
how far we’ll sink…










holding out for
the page unsigned
by blood red ink.









Think.
And do what is right
not what is easy.

This is my bottom line.

© Darius the Mate


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!

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Wordplay Pathway

Gingerbread

A poem, searching for my muse

Resting softly on my side
on the side
of my non-bruised ribs
I ponder
where is my muse?

the irony is not lost on me
searching the atmosphere
at my fingertips

the taste of the room
on my tongue

the smell of summer
from the garden

a forever garden
blossomed
that circles the circumference of my imagination
unending

the irony
that there’s no obvious vessel
who carries the seed of creation

rather
airborne
as wildflower
birthed of a unfamiliar soil
each cycle

where is my muse?
deepening breaths inflate my lungs
mind
make me wince
remind
me of the body I abused
the ribs I cracked
the blood I spat
from the contusion
most recently
reminds me of my mortality
firms my feet to the ground
heightens my senses
awareness
gratitude
to wake
living
for life
giving

my muse is my body at rest
recovering
with time to spare
I work out my mental muscles
with ink and paper
gratitude
for this yin

my muse is my body at play
unthinking
is my body in motion
following a sensory trail
of breadcrumbs
to my gingerbread house
salivating
at simple joys
and grand experiences
with vision and adventure
gratitude
for this yang

and every now and then
my body will hit a limit
tumbling
into the cage
laid out
by the witch within
who plans to feast upon my bones

till foiled
by my Gretel
my creative falling petal
freeing a seed
a yin
which grows tall
blooms
blissfully
in the forever garden

and kicks the witch into her oven
burns
to ashes
whilst I stuff my pockets full of jewels
to live happily ever after

we grow up on fairytales
- fantasy

grow old on reality
- truth

actuality is;
theres still room for fairytales
beyond youth

youth
beyond age

age
beyond now

now
beyond then

then, where is my muse?

imagine…

and find within

there’s still room for fairytales
beyond imagination

imagination
beyond dreaming

dreaming
beyond sleep

to dream with eyes open

every week
every day
every moment

beyond an open mind
and open heart

to seek
a muse
which moves gracefully
amongst the atmosphere
in the room

in and out of breath
being

existing

settling within

in everything
which every was
or, ever will be

happily ever after
the end.

© Darius the Mate

Written for dVerse Poetics.

I would like to drop a notable mention to Rob Kistner, whose style, free of commas and capitalisation, I have recently fell very fond of, and employed today.

I adore the way this extension of poetic licence sits on the page, and flows.

They say, imitation is the highest form of flattery – well, I suppose it’s fitting to extend my appreciation for this poets work, and style, in a dVerse prompt, which asks of the writer to summon their muses.

A large part of my quest here at this blog, is to expand and develop the breadth of my knowledge, and ability, and sharing this platform with so many talented poets and writers, is a real privilege and gift.

Thank you for reading.


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!

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Wordplay Pathway

Cecelia Seizes the Seas

Flash Fiction

“Daddy, I’ve outgrown my dolls house. I need a bigger one.”

Cecelia Beatrix Parker-Bardot, sat up tall in her chair, with eyes which tethered to her fathers affections.

The maid moved on kitten heels, as she served supper, momentarily cutting off Cecelia’s line of sight to her father, and with it, her powers.

(…she’s got to go) thought Cecelia.

“You have a bigger dolls house, my Pearl, Parker Manor, Pearly, it’ll all be yours, one day.”

Cecelia kicked at the air, indignantly. Her foreheads canvas of fallen snow, displayed opaquely the ripples of blue and red, with the intensity of frenzied sharks, thrashing amongst their kill.

“I want it now!”

“Do not weep, Pearly, the world is built for Parker’s.”

No, I do not weep at the world!”

(…I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife, ready to shuck my inheritance from your chest…)

© Darius the Mate

Written for dVerse, Prosery.

This piece of flash fiction, in 144 words, is inspired by the line;

No, I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife”, included above, from Zora Neale Hurston’s,“How Does it Feel to be Colored Me” in World Tomorrow (1928).


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!

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Wordplay Pathway

Thoroughbred Thoughts

A poem

From the mouth of the delta
information sediments

deposits of propaganda
governmental impediments

media for the masses
a sensory invasion

eroding our free will
by cognitive abrasion

contaminated
parasitic organisms
grow and spread

deep in the cerebrum
where they mutate
and imbed

which silences the brain
as the hosts
obligingly guzzle

bleating in acceptance
mirrored murmurs
from the muzzle

whilst the sheep slurp the rivers
which control how they think

the horse is lead to water
but can’t be made to drink

feel the gallop of hooves
on your sentient plain

mental muscles rise up
as you throw off your reign

exhale
with the breath of wild horses
empty your lungs

inhale the clarity
smell the stench of lies
as they slide off the tongue

of people
politicians
media sources
who push their agenda

and expect you to drink
out the hands of the vendor

spend some more time in thought
use your freedom of choice

be empowered to say neigh
with your authentic voice

however
please
don’t merely follow my word
i’m just another opinion

form your own views
roam free
over your own dominion

but
if you climb on your high horse
turn up nose
and scoff

you will hear my authentic voice
telling you to… buck off!

© Darius the Mate


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!

https://nicecissist.blog

Wordplay Pathway

In the beat, the beat

A chant poem

Pulsing, the beat, pressing, confessing, to my eardrums, it’s darkest desires, drumming out the serotonin, honing my senses, defences dropping, beat dropping,

Those memories, seventeen, eighteen, mean nothing, without my memory, alive in me, these memories, living, I remember the days, those were the days, the days I can barely remember,

The nights, seventeen, eighteen, glean, bright, the lights, strobing, probing for my serotonin, honing my senses, defences dropping, beat dropping,

Letting go, going to let, any fret, of the day, go, days go by slower, than today, when months pass, in a way, more transient, those days, more transcendent,

Throbbing, breath penetrating, deeper, cigarettes to keep her, the rush, hot breath, hot touch, the rush, a gush of serotonin, honing my senses, defences dropping, beat dropping,

Those were the days…

© Darius the Mate

Written for dVerse Poets Pub, Meeting at the bar. Join in!


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!

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Wordplay Pathway

Titanomachy

An Earth poem for our modern times, inspired by Greek Mythology

We the Titans reign,
In Gaia’s Garden,
Blood of Earthen vein,
Through our bodies, flow,

Mother, sowed our seeds,
Fathered by the Sky,
Uranus breeds,
Greed in privilege,

Fertile soil womb,
Who bore and birthed,
Held and weaned till bloom,
Nurtures our nature,

Mother, who gave life,
Must bear the burden,
Forever the strife,
Of her kin at war,

Cycles subsistence,
Sons, murder fathers,
Final resistance,
Titanomachy -

Olympus will rise,
The old guard will fall,
Will Zeus in the skies,
Light the coming age?

© Darius the Mate

Written for dVerse Poets Pub – Poetics.


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!

https://nicecissist.blog

Wordplay Pathway

Jukebox

A quadrille poem

Thinking thoughtlessly,
ideas,
often forgotten,
if not jotted -

Slotted,
as gold coins,

Let bygones be bygones,

But,
bygone minds,
live on,
in written word,

Sung,
and heard,
from the jukebox,
of ink and paper,

Exhumed,
when consumed,

Risen,

From the soil,
voices,

Oil,
the cogs.

Written for dVerse Poets Pub.

© Darius the Mate


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!

https://nicecissist.blog

Wordplay Pathway

Theatrics

A poem in free verse

Misty Copeland
A week flies by,
Few words falling from fingers,
Instead,
They dance in the brain,
Pirouette and sustain,
Position,
On the tips of their toes,
They strike a pose,

Preforming for a crowd of one,
In a dusty theatre,
That sees no sun,
But, bright and living,
Feeling,
Giving,
Whether booked in a playhouse,
Of purposeful prose,
Or, aimless artistry,

Just creating,
To create,

We create,
Because we can,
Fresh thoughts that expand,
Across the stage,
Youthful ballerinas,
In black leotards,
And pointe shoes,

They begin to gather,
Where the shadows linger,
Behind the curtain,
The artists find their form,
The arts,
Take shape,
Sculpted by gentle thumbs,
That overcome,
The riddle of clay,
To display,
The ballet,
Dancers,

Chopping board chests,
Flat and firm,
dainty waists,
Perfect form,
Which bend toward the sun,
Floral stalks,
Lithe and graceful,
Hold up dusty pink cheeks,
That seeks,
Heat and light,
Heliotropic acolytes,
Budding,

Gripped,
To words that tug on the heartstrings,
They don’t float away,
But, leap in the mind,
Their syllables flying through the air,
Poetry in motion,
Like a kite,
Twirling,
On the winds of creation,
Swirling,

Twisting -
It’s luculent libretto listing,
My lexiphanicism,
In its use,
Irony not lost on me,

And loganamnosis;
Those words which are lost,
Wandering/Wondering,
At the tip of the -
tongue,

Dramatic inner dialogues,
Orated;
Authentic,
Not synthetic
voice,
Adroit,
not Android,
And void,
Of heart and soul,
In beating of the audiences applause,

The show goes on…

© Darius the Mate


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!

https://nicecissist.blog

Wordplay Pathway

Smiling

A narrative poem in free verse

Smiling through gritted teeth,
he nodded,
before his boss,
who plodded,
on his fat little hooves,
to his swizzle chair,
“swizzle on this”
thought Chris,
who held out an imaginary middle finger,
Only barely dared even in his mind,

Herman Parker General manger,
on the door,
cut in lettering,
that chained him,
fettering,
beneath,
no matter his belief,
of worth,
warranted,
that his mother spent years to impart,

A smile,
dialled in,
as if truly from within,
he writhed in pain,
to sustain,
the charade,
in ill regard,
he aimed his smile,
and nodded,
like a dog for treats,

Mr Parker,
who’s eyes grew darker,
sent a scolding,
A tirade that flew low and bold,
whilst holding an extended index finger,
capriciously,
dropping vicious words,
through the air,
lodging deep in Chris’ mind,
perniciously,

In the schism,
between nightfall and sunrise,
Chris’ bruxism,
wore him away,
as he analysed,
grinding down to the gums,
his teeth,
with stress and worry,
as bakers flour,
breaking down his happiness,
in his only sacred hour,

The sun rose,
but didn’t pry free of the clouds,
the microwaves ping was flat,
masticating on morsels of Herman Parker’s words,
he sat,
and ate his placid porridge,
which had no flavour,
or joy,
a degustation of his station,
in life,

The bus was late,
so, so was he,
he felt defenceless,
an amputee,
of his own bark and bite,
the elevator was out of order,
so he took the stairs,
with every step,
the hairs,
stood higher on his neck,

He rounded the final stairwell,
a place,
which captured the trace,
of a person,
where cigarette smoke shook itself from clothes,
sticky fingerprints layered the bannisters,
and low light picked out particles of skin,
falling through the dense atmosphere,
as petty life forms,
whom he imagined,
pitied him,

He slipped behind the computer screen in silence,
a quiet,
which felt uncomfortable and heavy in his tummy,
as if he had gorged on fried filth during a diet,
“Chris, my office”,
Herman’s voice,
Blunted across the no mans land of desks,
mangled spines and turned up ears,
through the mud,
he lumbered and lumped without choice,

Arriving at the lettering which reminded him of his place,
head hung,
emaciated and drawn,
almost instantly,
he was stung,
by the poisoned thorn,
which grew along,
the length of Herman’s tongue,
a razor sharp thicket,
dense and inescapable,

“Chris,
come in,
and shut the door,
don’t look up,
stare at the floor,
now,
unbuckle,
turn around,
I SAID DON’T LOOK AT ME,
LOOK AT THE GROUND!”

Or, something along those lines,
it was all the same,
to Chris’ ear,
it was Chris’ fears,
which held him back,
laid him down to be walked on like a mat,
whilst simultaneously standing up straight and smiling,
as a simple child,
and nodding,
the good boy he was raised to be,

Herman’s fat fingers gripped the desk,
as he rested on his weight,
in front of it,
petrol to Chris’ hate,
pendulous jowls,
let go the occasional speck of saliva,
which landed indiscriminately,
on Chris’ face,
his heart began to race,
with an incendiarism,

Chris bit down hard as he started to shake,
the shards of spit,
repeatedly hit him awake,
he clenched,
first,
his teeth,
his buttocks,
then his fists,
as yet another projectile barely missed,

Chris’ eyes began to tunnel,
toward the lathering,
of frothy white cannonballs,
which had began to pool,
at the corners of Herman’s mouth,
one struck Chris on his lip,
as his conscious began to dip,
in and out,
black smoke and twinklers choked the oxygen from the room,
breathing toxins into the edges Herman’s rotund mandible,

An emancipating volt,
put a halt,
to Herman Parker’s sentence,
as a sudden switch,
was flicked on,
in Chris’ brain,
a penitence birthed of electrical flame,
for all the years of stress and pain,
which connected in a precipitous strike,
lighting fast and precise,

The flash lit everything up,
emanating grace,
as Chris’ fist made a vivid slug in the centre of Herman’s face,
widening eyes were flabbergasted,
two rich rouge celebratory ribbons blasted,
twirling in spectacle across Chris’ new aura,
exotic dancers in red dresses lead a carnival of emotion,
unequivocally beguiling,
Chris nodded and walked out the room,
smiling.

Bonus tanka

A trio of sparks,
Manifesting differently,
Creativity;
Showing up previously,
Daily - now every three.

A busy first week back in the U.K, whilst making my adjustments, poetry has taken a momentary backseat. The inevitable overflow of pent up creativity has spilled out into a rather long poem. I hope you liked it, and the somewhat off the cuff tanka to compliment!

Thank you for getting to the end.

© Darius the Mate


Linked to dVerse midsummer live.


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!

https://nicecissist.blog

Wordplay Pathway

Data

Trimeric poem

In the dome, thoughts constellate in spaces dark and void of air,
Neurons lighting up, as pixels in an infinite code,
Programming which downloads a language unknown, and prone to glitches,
An arcade of concepts consternate in phrases which won’t translate,

Neurons lighting up, as pixels in an infinite code,
8bit figments, which fragment and implode into black holes,
Bred on bright flashes, dopamine rich colours, and catchy soundbites,

Programming which downloads a language unknown, and prone to glitches,
Words attacking my brain do not compute - troubleshoot, reboot,
Firing up, extraterrestrial pondering descends as space invaders,

An arcade of concepts consternate in phrases which won’t translate,
Utilising tools, upgrading dictionary and thesaurus,
A nebula of ionised words, nouns, adjectives and verbs, to explore...

© Darius the Mate


Written for dVerse.


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!

https://nicecissist.blog

Wordplay Pathway

Minimal Effort, Minimal Results

Poem to minimalist photography

Autumn leaf gliders pile up their brittle bodies against blackened curbs, both hug and death throes.”
Glenn A. Buttkus
Another shoddy report card,
Dragging heavily in his top pocket,
His shoes were shinier,
Than his future,

His excuses were brittle,
Muddled alone in the browning leaves,
With barely a hint of verdant,
They had expired,

Mother was going to flip out,
Verbal acrobatics across the kitchen,
No rolling out of this one,
His knees knocked,

One foot in front of the next,
Sheen faded on the dirtied paint,
He tried to walk the line,
As he slipped through the crack.

© Darius the Mate


Written for dVerse.

Glenn A. Buttkus’s minimalist photography can be found at South Sound Minimalist Photos.


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!

https://nicecissist.blog

Wordplay Pathway

Above and Below

Quadrille poem

Rue Saint Denis, Paris, Massimo Sormonta

The full collection of photographs and accompanying words can be found here.
Small hours,
Lipgloss smudged,
She staggered on points

Onlookers judged -

But, couldn’t be her,
For a day,
Or, even see her,
In any other way,

Broken tongue,
Eyeliner smeared,
Cleopatraesque,
The corners teared,

Desperate silence,
Cries without sound,
Below the watery oculus

- She drowned.

© Darius the Mate


Written for dVerse.


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!

https://nicecissist.blog

Wordplay Pathway

Yogic Yarn

Micro poem with video

My brother (right) and I (left)
Family ties and yogic knots,
Brotherly love and headstands,
One with the wildflowers,
Offering support without hands.

Freshly home in the UK, catching up on some yoga and yarns with my (not so) little brother.

© Darius the Mate


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!

https://nicecissist.blog

Wordplay Pathway

Home

Tanka

Bittersweet goodbyes...
Pages turn with the seasons
Winter kisses Summer
Technicolour brushed dreamscape
- We fly into the sunset.

Not far from home now. You can read a bit more about my thoughts and feelings on going home, here.

I’ve arrived in Changi, Singapore, from Hobart, Tasmania, via Sydney, Australia, ready and braced to catch my final flight to Heathrow, and home – after a monster 31 hour effort.

A sweet relief is on the way.

© Darius the Mate


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!

https://nicecissist.blog

Wordplay Pathway

United Thinking

Flash Fiction

She lay awake. Flickers of bright ideas in the dark hours; hot enough to melt the rest of her thoughts, as candle wax, out the ears. She was restlessly focused – vocally restless, she sat bolt upright with an uninvited gasp.

“Crucial to finding the way is this – there is no beginning or end!”

The words fell from her tongue, as gold bullion in her lap. Sheets lifting airborne, as ghostly whispers in the opaque room, frozen in the moons glare, as she slipped on tip toes to the cranky floorboards, which marked her arrival with a groan.

Unpinning her paper map, with all the continents of the world, she tore it in two, clinically, down the middle. Rearranging their order, she placed the two halves side by side.

“My word! There’s no East and West, and we aren’t the centre of the universe!”


Afterword

The divisions which define us, are only as powerful as you let them become. We made them; harboured and grew them, becoming embedded in our culture and history. Identity defines us, but, it doesn’t have to.

There’s no geographical East or West, and, once we look passed the boundaries that we have created – once we invert the map, open our minds, and abandon our tribal mindset, we can see the only thing which divides us, is us. Theres two halves of the brain, which work in synchronicity, for the healthy function of the body.

© Darius the Mate


Written for dVerse: Prosery.

Today, we use a line from Joy Harjo’s poem “A Map to the Next World”; “Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end.”, to create a piece of prose 144 words in length, or fewer.


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Wordplay Pathway

The Final Days

Thinking & Feeling

Bass Strait, Tasmania
My first sight every morning

So, after more than two years, the time has finally come – I’m going home.

Home being, to no home… well, not entirely true; to my parents home, actually – gratefully – but not really my home, not anymore, and it hasn’t been for some time.

That said, “home” will always be home.

But, what does home mean?

Sure, it’s where we live, however, when, where you live is transient, where is home – my home?

Is it where I was born – Los Angeles, far from my upbringing, in London’s periphery, or just that, where I was brought up?

Perhaps, it’s the walls in which laughter echoed, as a child; a sentimental space – a place, in memory.

Is it where a family resides?

Does home need to be familiar, or, is it as simple as where you lay your head?

Do you need to feel connected?

What if you lay your head on cardboard boxes, build a cardboard castle – sure you’re “homeless”, they may say, argument muted, but, there must be a moment those four walls become home, unless, home is defined by utilities – then, are you ever a washing machine or a toaster away from a proper home?

Maybe, it’s where mail gets sent? Imagine cosy dinners around a P.O. Box.

Aha! The age old saying; home is where the heart is. We’ve beat the game! Ba bum bum b…ut

…what if you’re an organ recipient and your heart has been sent to pathology..?

For five years, my partner and I have called many manner of places “home”. For longer, we’ve been separated from the family cell – in some aspects, not all, of course – having mutually shared our first home (an apartment) in the U.K, prior to starting our free footed journeys, beyond the bounds and bounty of imagination.

My old bedroom, in the family home – my parents home – is filled with boxes; boxes upon boxes, of “stuff”, which has utterly overrun it, piled high atop my bed, and everywhere else. The bed itself, floats as a cargo ship, transporting miscellaneous relics, keepsakes, crossing a sea of memories, they collide in waves of nostalgia, manifesting into an aura almost tangible, frozen in time, as icebergs bobbing, off the coast of my youth.

Bizarrely, surreally, despite my gleeful excitement to see my family, I can’t help harbour a feeling of displacement. My home, has become so far removed from any earth and brick, that I find in the parting of my van and I, I am lamenting fully its fast approaching drive into the sunset as a loss greater than its weight in steel, gain in virtual digits in a bank account, or, in the comfort of its shelter. I am mourning the farewell to the nomadic lifestyle it represents, at least for a time.

What am I going back to – really?

My home, is/has, and I suppose always will be, exactly where I am – where I’m meant to be. Except I’m not meant to be anywhere, am I? I was meant be in Canada right now, before the pandemic hit, so, turns out I was meant to travel Australia, a little longer. Are we honestly meant to be anywhere? I don’t think so. I don’t believe in fate. We just are. And I mean that.

Although, infinitely grateful to have a supportive family, who is able to accommodate for my partner and I – our lives, mine, and that of my parents, have moved on significantly from the parent/child conventions of yesteryear, as it does, and venturing back, will likely prove to be as much new territory, as it is old.

I feel somewhat like an invading army, overrunning the walls of their castle with our bags and ransacking voices, bellowing stories of conquest and expansion. I just hope the purity, in the heartache of our time apart, and the long awaited, imminent reunion, will mitigate any emboldened feelings of intrusion, prodded as spear tip in their sides.

In writing all this, I should probably acknowledge both parties, to the best of my knowledge, are indeed counting down the days with excitement. Writing for myself, I feel joyous and warm with expectation. Our planned stay is to be relatively brief, and transitionary, in its facilitation of our next step, yet, with the state of the world, its limiting options, you just never know how long “brief” is anymore. Through the rosy visions of sunbeam lambent toward the wildflowers, in the cling of open bottles of bubble and hop; there is a guilty distillation in my soul, in which I feel kneecapped of my independence. Kneecapped, with a double edged sword.

But, then again, hasn’t everyone forfeited in ways which make my turbulence seem borne of paper planes; fragile and crude?

I am burdened by the knowledge of my overwhelming privilege, to have spent this tumultuous time, in the sanctity of Australia, where I have been free to, if not wholly condoned in the scripture imposed by the higher powers that be, at least in practice; shake hands with strangers, scratch my nose without barriers, loiter in public without imposition, and tongue kiss traffic crossing buttons, at my discretion.

Australia has suffered in pockets, anyone who has lost a loved one can attest to that, but no where close to the degree of many of its closest neighbours in the East, or its political allies, in the West. It has, for all intents and purposes, at least in my experience, been a beacon of normality. I’m sure most will agree. Especially all the Hollywood stars, who have flocked here in droves. The U.K is the great unknown, where policy can change with socks.

I’m stepping out into the road before the crossing lights have gone green.

I’ll be riding a waves of emotion, back to the shores of white cliff – my family, my country, and my home.

© Darius the Mate


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Wordplay Pathway

Beast of Burden

A poem with Symploce, using Anaphora and Epiphora

Asleep; at our most vulnerable – heres a candid shot, thanks to my creeping partners archives.

Beast of burden, am I, who carries this imp on my chest, purring, like an acid trip gone wrong, in sobriety, shivers of anxiety, sending vibrations through my being,

I feel your breath, as a hum, in my body, an itch, as fleas, to beggars, corrupting, with no antibodies, to cure this disease, that breathes through my being,

Beast of burden, am I, who caries this imp, head of a cat, body of a monkey, joints that creak, movement clunky, pale green of ghostly essence, malnourished and sickly,

Like a pickle with hair, matted with feces, limbs of a swine, an aberration of species, face drawn and sunken, hacking and wheezing, pained, as if drunken, on poison, malnourished and sickly,

Beast of burden, am I, who carries this imp, wings of a bat, too weak to fly, with open wounds that seep, putrefying, the voice of babies crying, a thousand souls dying, under duress, and in distress,

O’ why, o’ why, o’ why, do you sit upon my chest – am I, so wicked, to deserve no rest?
Hooves prodding, poking, a weight forever choking, just another soul, am I; under duress, and in distress.

© Darius the Mate


Written for dVerse.


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Wordplay Pathway

Backpacker Barbecue Guide

For traveling Australia

What do backpackers eat?

I know, I know, it’s the question which keeps you up at night.

Oh, it’s not?

I wish you told me that earlier.

Anyway…

To those who have never experienced the van life, they may imagine a scraggly type, in boho genie pants, ornate with Thai motif, sharing spoonfuls of cold baked beans, between themselves and a windswept mutt, which shares its owners features. Now, whilst that may be true often, there is an alternate universe where a venturesome few reside.

A lot of backpackers kit their van out with a gas stove and refillable cylinder – portable, practical and relatively cheap – but in my opinion, messy, greasy and often smelly, when fitted in as a permanent fixture (especially at the head of your bed!).

However, those without the space for this set up, like myself, who opt for a smaller, more under-the-radar vehicle, might be left wondering of alternatives. 220g canister compatible portable butane cookers, let me tell you for nothing, suck! The canisters are expensive, short lasting, and foiled ingloriously by a light breeze.

If you’re lucky enough to tour the popular backpacker destination of Australia (fuck yea, Straya, cunt! – get used to it), then there is an alternative.

Two years in this larger than life country, and I’ve managed to get around… a bit – it’s big place, if you didn’t know.

The hot plate ‘barbecues’ are all over mainland Australia, and the quaint (and mighty) Tasmania. These barbecues, are provided free, and kept well maintained (often) in the majority of parks around the country.

It’s quite exceptional, actually.

I don’t think we’re trusted to have nice things in the U.K – that’s understandable.

After realising it’s just a glorified frying pan, I became quite experimental.

Far from just the humble burger, I managed to knock up Spag Bols, all manner of omelettes, crispy potato’s, sweet-sticky Chinese dishes, complete with fried rice, and so on – you name it, I tried it – often met by raised eyebrows from the locals, behind their sausage sizzle (sausage and a single slice of white bread, an Aussie staple).

Here’s an idea for all those interested, with more to come!

Note;

I use ‘sea to summit 360 furno’ camping burner for boiling. They are cheap to buy at around AUD$30, and as good as the pricey stuff. Gas canisters are $14-17. I love my gas burner, it’s perfect for a quick tea, rice, pasta, or, anything else!


Teriyaki Turkey Mince and Rice

Ingredients:

• Turkey mince • Red onion • Red or green capsicum • Spring onion • Rice • Teriyaki Sauce • + Add peanuts for extra crunch

Method:

Super easy this one; just chop the capsicum and onion, and fry with a little oil. Whilst the veggies soften, start the rice – boiled or fried. Top time saving tip, get the microwaveable packet rice, for quick and simple fried riced. Add the Turkey mince to the veggies and break it down with the spatula, frying it off until cooked, keeping the rice separate from the other ingredients. Add the teriyaki sauce and heat through for a minute or so, making sure not to burn. Garnish with chopped spring onion and optional peanuts.

© Darius the Mate


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Playing with Words

When Life Gives You Lemons

A poem in couplets

They say; when life gives you lemons, make lemonade,
I like their optimism; let’s put that in retrograde!

When life gives you vanilla, add lemons,
When everything is beige, go bronze!

Get some sun, top up your vitamin D,
Or, a squeeze of lemon, for your vitamin C!

When you’re feeling flat, and not your best,
Pick up a lemon, and add some zest!

Complimentary, or; just hard to be beaten,
Imagine it paired with the favourite dish that you’ve eaten,

Add it to sweetness, and you’ve got ‘tart’,
Sun drenched beverages, surely can’t be apart,

Refine richness with a squeeze of its juices,
Savour the sophisticated flavour it produces,

The waxy texture, knobbly, ran under fingers,
That smell it imparts, on the tips, where it lingers,

I adore the scent, alive through the skin,
And the Sicilian memories it evokes from within,

Taormina’s hilltop seascape, gossiping pink petals,
In the shadow of Etna, cameos set in precious metals,

To Syracuse, birthplace of Archimedes,
Ancient architecture kissed by Ionian breeze,

Bar Vitelli, Dad, a grappa, coming of age in the heat,
Where they filmed The Godfather, in the medieval street,

All the way to Naples, across the Tyrrhenian Sea,
Where Mum lapped up lemon sorbet, in Italy,

Blessed moments, when I close my eyes,
Breathe deep that zing, and let my dopamine rise,

I’m there, off of Rome’s Piazza del Popolo,
Finishing dinner with a shot of limoncello,

I feel happy – warm, young and rosy,
Good for winter too, when you want to feel cosy –

At Christmas, with a couple of lemons handy;
Syllabub! Curdled cream, juice, zest and a heap of brandy,

A palate cleanser, but lets not call it the end,
Because lemons promise to be a lifetime friend,

Unlike the pear, who’s easy to bruise,
Not our tough lemon; another reason to choose!

Unlike the banana, who cant get along with other fruits,
Lemons are sociable, can be kept where it suits!

Unlike the passion fruit, with a throwaway rind,
Zest, juice or pulp – use all parts you find!

Best of all, it grows wise as it ages,
One with the philosophers and the sages,

Mature – it’s skin may be hard, wrinkled and dried,
Just like us; the juices are still good inside.

Poem by © Darius the Mate


Written for the dVerse: Poetics.


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Playing with Words

Witchcraft

A poem in free verse

Dropping from her lexicon,
As weighted hands,
Dusted in earth,
That spank the hide,

Ringing in drummers ears,
The rhythm of her voice,
tames beasts of the desert,
To her side

She woke the creatures,
Nipping bloody,
At her heels,
Tearing flesh,

In trance,
Deep into the darkness’,
Insentient recess,

Till the moon,
Enriched her juices -
Refreshed,

She danced to the beating,
of stretched skin,
Soothing the bark of the jackals,

Rejecting safety of his peers,
One ventured,

Alone

Fear gyrating the pupil,
He crept forth,
With raised hackles,


A beautiful boy,
Instincts impaired,
With fur of silver and rust,
Flashing white teeth,
Nostrils flared,
He sniffed the air,

Where her passions poured,
Intoxicated,
He grew accursed,

Lickerish Lupulella’s lollapalooza,
Twisting his tongue,
to try quench its thirst,

Supping from the cup of her hands,
He grows to lust,
Only for her spell,
Never to trust,
Beyond her word,
Remaining silent,

Changing his nature,
He drunk without quell,
Till her rivers grew,

With one bloody thrust,
She tore out his heart,
Threw it skyward,
Her face morphed,
Jaw apart,
Snapped and rolled,

In her belly,
It was cleaned,
Of any and all purity,

Her tempo weaned,
Feet quickened,
Kicked up a fervour,

It shook the land,
Stirred the waters,

The jackals heart,
All which lived inside
Any animalistic spirit,
Essence of pride,

...washed away,

To the rapids,
Without a raft,

Through her drum,
She beat its rhythm,
Ba-bum, ba-bum,

The wild again became bewitched,

That was the power,
Of her craft.

Poem by © Darius the Mate


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Playing with Words

Opulent Ornamentals & Ponderous Peculiarities

A Quadrille Poem

Lent, swaying, pitched on his chair, twirling stache, the devils red hair,

Purveying contents, edge of his rocker; curio cabinet/luridness locker,

– Prismatic jarred oddities, of wonder and fright, fingers of sunbeam, lambent light,

Refractions, grotesque and exquisite – patiently planning, his heads own exhibit.

Poem by © Darius the Mate


Written for the dVerse prompt; create a Quadrille, a poem in 44 words, using a form of the word curiosity.


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Playing with Words

Winters Breath

A Shakespearean Sonnet from the Southern Hemisphere

As autumn crumbles into brittle parts,
And lifted on a whisper of winters breath,
Another season of the year departs,
The clouds brief tears bear mourning of its death,

Cold snatches the pearls of heavenly birth,
To sprinkle twee crystal parcels in lieu,
Bewitching giggling streams in sheets of mirth,
Primed for pebbles to free the babbling blue,

Sleeping giants will stretch their creaking joints,
Steel bones snaking through the mountain resorts,
Planks beneath feet lead where pink noses point,
Warming the wilds with storm served snow sports,

Adventure with an ephemeral glow,
Seizing the season as prints in the snow.

Poem by © Darius the Mate

Published first on Experiments in Fiction.

A big thank you to Ingrid for hosting Sonnet Sunday; putting all the work together from the featured poets. I loved reading them all.

You can start this collection with Ingrid’s “Spring into Summer”.

Perisher, NSW, Australia
Thredbo, NSW, Australia

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Playing with Words

First Kiss

A poem in free verse

The air was lively and brisk,
The earth was homely and accommodating,
The water trickled nearby with a zestful chirrup,
The sky was feeling wild and experimental,

The boy was nervous,
The girl was calm,

She lent forward, on the invitation of a flutter beneath his shirt,
He met her with darting eyes which searched for unfamiliarity for lips,

They rested, as a butterfly to a leaf,
Tasting with their tarsus,
Beating wings against one another,
With an amateur aptitude,

She led, spearmint ‘chewy’ pushed to the side of her gums,
He followed, out of rhythm, in a minty muddle, with his tongue,

He was in love before she pulled away, carrying his saliva on her upper lip,
She was finished with him before he knew he was in love.

Poem by © Darius the Mate


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Playing with Words

Trading Cards

Double Tanka Pokémon Poem

Japanese children compete in a Pokémon card tournament, Tokyo, 4th August 1999. Yoshikazu Tsuno, Getty Images
Bitter is the boy,
Who traded Pokémon cards,
For the next mans dream,
Worthless paper promises,
Which bring him no warmth inside,

~

Years increase value,
Some seek that which gave them joy,
Whilst collectors laugh,
Becoming Pocket Monsters -
Life is a trading card game.

Poem by © Darius the Mate


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Playing with Words

Sand Castles

A poem in free verse

We build our castle in the sand,
standing proud,
upright and pristine,
buckets of expectation,
become the mould,
shaped according to its vessel,
its straight edges can’t defy the breeze,

the winds of change

Grains lifted,
airborne,
one here,
one there,
but it holds its form,
threatened with nothing of substance,
light basking it in a radiant sheen,
vigorous incandescence,
now time to live inside,
to watch the waves,

the changing tide

It breathes evanescently,
fluid salutations,
never quite hello,
never quite goodbye,
transience lapping up the shore,
grain by grain,
the foundations of your castle,
wash out the sea,
till it tumbles back into the beach,

All kingdoms fall,
eventually…

Poem by © Darius the Mate


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Playing with Words

Lost Kitten

Tanka

Sometimes, we get lost -

Kitten on a busy road,
Arched back and frightened,
Uncertainty all around,

- Which way to not get flattened?

Poem by © Darius the Mate


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Playing with Words

False Prophet

A poem in free verse

Overloaded with the vision,

I spill parables,

seen through the incision,

of the all seeing eye,



They dribble the chin,

dragged up on the sins,

they douse,



Through the orifices,

Of my inner self,

On revelations,

I gift their wealth,

in my wisdom,



Spewed at length,

words falling,

from stylising tongue,

which finds its calling,

in the hearts and minds,

at which it lunges,

In direction of the earmarked,

whose transgressions,

it expunges,



Through snarling teeth,

verses howl,

beyond the scabby muzzle,

a jowl,

covered,

by lambskin fleece,

to mask the beast,

I secrete beneath,



taming the bleat,

a mimicked sound,

where I nuzzle,

my snout,

to confound,

the crowd,



Spouting all they need to hear,

to the ear,

that follows,

where I lead,



Sheep indeed,



I breed,

In them,

for my own purposes,

in this new world,

ruled by bandits and warlords,

which loot and horde,

there is no safety,

but in number,

they need a saviour,

to shake them from their slumber,

granting salvation,



If they choose,

to heed my word,

then who is to blame?

I did not ask for fame,

or reverence,

all I wanted,

was to be heard,

and if I found the right instrument,

which stirred,

emotion,

Does that mean this is unjustified devotion?

Or, am I as good as real,

To make them feel,

the things they want to feel?



We all have learned behaviour,

I too,

from the books,

which I savour,

verse by verse,

until it insatiably became my curse,

and my gift,

the pace grew swift,

till I devoured,

growing fat and overpowered,

word by word,

now, instead of just being heard,



I lead the herd,



The internet has fallen,

technology has regressed,

everything which I detest,



No longer do we mine for oil,

companies which existed to corrupt the soil,



gone,



In the year of our lord, 2158,

The consensus is – it’s too late,

to save the past,

the time has passed,

and they are right,

now, at last,

The second coming is upon us,



Repent!



For making this earth ill…

all I really want…



Is to continue,

beyond the devastation,

and torn sinew,

growing anew,

– not to rebuild,

we must leave the past behind –

For the few,

To reap the yield,

in clean, unadulterated earth,



For this mission,

a rebirth,

of a prophet,

make of it what you will,

a true messiah or a scam?

Am I the wolf

or, am I the lamb,

Of God?



In Gods new world,

there’s room for both,

to run free,

that is his oath,



To think –

Christ would grace this land,

this Jerusalem,

– Gods will and command –

where buildings crumble,

in the aftershock,

of World War 3,

why has God chosen me?



The balconies are lined,

remnants of humankind,

hear my oration,

deliverance from damnation,

echoing through the shell,

where commerce used to dwell,

– a mall,

let silence fall,

when I speak,

is this the truth that you seek?



…to nodding heads,

once happy to consume,

until their world was bled,

buried,

exhumed,



We rise!



Once hidden,

we consume each other in the open,

on the broken,

bones of society,

fractured,

we heal,

stronger,

set on the wound as callus,



Rejoice!



I have been given the sight,

Together,

my flock,

we walk into the light…


The promised land, of tomorrow.

Poem by © Darius the Mate


Written for dVerses Open Link Night.


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Playing with Words

Out for Blood

Haibun; prose and haiku

Unfortunately, phone cameras just don’t get close to this quality.
A super blood moon from in 2019, image credit; Mike Blake

I sit, my women by my side, with legs dangling – as the moon in the sky – out the back doors of the van, facing out across the Bass Strait, to the mainland of Australia, from my coastal cradle in Tasmania, rocked by a chilling wind which tightens the air.

Numbing sea of dusk,

Black waves lap over the rocks –

Steal and shape their form.

The “Blood Supermoon”, flying through the sky – pumped and swollen – battles the darkness, in a fray which has spanned the ages, destined, ultimately, to be lost, in a distant flow – of what we call time – beyond mortal bounds.

May she bathe in blood –

Our moons hoary complexion,

Flushed in her frenzy.
The phone camera really doesn’t do it justice!

We are here at the epoch of her supreme power, draped in the red of her own cape, or; perhaps refracted sunlight in Earths atmosphere – it is up for debate. A trail of Infinite energy, sourced from across the universe, scattered in starlight – a fallout of the tumultuous tussle of time, space and all the things which crash about in the cosmos, silent to earthly ears.

Twirling in the sky,

She dips into the umbra -

Flowers in her hair.
Zoom, zoom – into bite size pixels!

Tonight, she celebrates her victory, for the sky is lit, for all to wander in the would-be-darkness, and share in her spoils. The Flowers of May, still hold their scent, as she prepares her outfit for the Strawberry moon of June. Our hero’s job is never done – her schedule ever busy – as she prepares to Clark Kent her super powers, until their time of need.

She’s full in the face,

Drunk off the bloody goblet -

Panning to pale cheek.

Poem by © Darius the Mate


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!

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Playing with Words

Grumps

A poem in free verse

A knock in three,
I rise for thee,
but, barely see,

through the cigarettes,
which went down for breakfast,

two more worries at the door;
I’ve been dreading this day,
the Grandchildren come to play,

One more second of peace before…

Shrieking! uninvited joy,
through the musty corridors,
and into the high walled garden,
the plants suffer,
where attentions do not tread,

These little mites,
bearing their cuddles and need for comfort,
behind snot and dribble,
unappealing as burnt toast,
I spread myself thinly between,
as to not come across too sweet,
a sugarless spread,
try marmite instead,
on your unsophisticated palates,

Don’t call me Gramps,
best call me Grumps,

Wee devils,
who question my dishevelled manner,
and everything else,
infernal curiosity,
which need be shelved,
yet turn a blind eye,
to the paintings which loom,
as their heirlooms,
in my doom,

In timely strokes,
I poked away,
dabbing and brushing,
as aging hands sway,

Or, to my poems,
which litter the table,
where the ashtray climbs,
as the highlands in winter,
where I spent my youth,
bonnie and in bloom,

the little tykes pounce on my lap,
laddie, and the lassie too,
spirited hair attempting to escape in all directions,
in blonde tuffs,
that grew,
as kicked up lawn,
and flap as dying canaries,

– I do mind if you mine my beard,
not that you asked,
but leave anything which you might find,
for its mine,
crumbs and other oddities,
all things weird,
drops of ash,
a hidden rash,
stash of cash,
its mine –

Whilst the ashen mounds,
are beaten from their crystal cut bounds,
to float down again,
as snow on rolling hillside,
where I used to glide,
on planks,
in the Cairngorms flanks,

I thank you,
for that momentary reminisce,
a time of bliss,
where my dear lady lives,
behind the glass,
of the café,
I pushed scran down the pipe,
As she’d unload rounds of banter,
into my ready hide, tough as leather,
But, already sore from the Scottish ice,
we warmed our fingers,
as we blether,
around tea brewed black,
in porcelain,
not paper,

like it used to be served,
when things were right,

there’s not a night,
I don’t rest my hand,
on your pillow,
to a hollow,
as in my heart,
and trace the dents your body followed,

not a day goes by,
I don’t wipe my eyes,
of your presence,

aye,
I miss you so,
I wish you dinnae go,
but, I also miss my brew,
and that’s one thing I can change,

just another tea,
and a cigarette,
away fae you.

Poem by © Darius the Mate


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Playing with Words

The Lion Queen

A poem

Image credit: PeteLeong Photography
She is my Lion Queen,
Rolling beneath white linen,
As sun rises over the scene,
Everything the light touches is our kingdom”,

Bodies dressed in gold,
As eyes patter out curled lashes,
Diaphragms breathe bold,
My mane nuzzles in her neck,

I am her Lion King,
Protecting the pride,
But, she - she is my everything,
Deep inside - she is the roar from my chest,

As she sits up, hair wild,
Yawning to reveal teeth and lion breath,
She’s classic, as old cinema, yet restyled,
Their ferocity muted by loves apex.

Written for dVerse’s Poetics.

Today, we are incorporating movie quotes into poetry. I have chosen a childhood favourite;

Everything the light touches is our kingdom.” The Lion King, 1994


Poem by © Darius the Mate


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Playing with Words

Judgement

A poem in free verse

Duality; life and death,
A new journey beckons me from the Duat,
The strength to inhale each breath becomes onerous,
The Kingdom of Osiris awaits,

Judgement awaits.
Who dictates my life,
But for my own heart,

Balanced against the feather of Ma’at,
Judge away,
For I am free of sin,
Ready to address my assessors,
A simple man,
Who split papyrus to make bread,
I tore in parts,
My wealth,
To be divided between my two surviving sons,
All I ask, Is a fair decree,
When Anubis stares me down,
Formidable fur,
Black,
Rich as the soil of the Nile,
Lit by his just perceptions,
I trust,
Ive lived as a good man,
Yet, my fingers,
Cleaned of my last reeds,
Which residue determinedly lines its cracks,
Carrying my labours into immortality,
Or restlessness,
Shake with the thought –
My reflection in the jackal’s austere eyes,
As he prepares my fate,
Heart in hand.


Poem by © Darius the Mate


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Playing with Words

Triumphal Arches

Sicilian octave (strambotto)

Arch of Constantine
Image credit: Walks Inside Rome

My pearl, who’s skin shimmers as nacre in light,

Firm as carved marble, enduring as Greek bust,

Breasts swollen from rolling meadows fertile night,

The hollows of triumphal arch’s, toast lust,

A song of three heartbeats, will the bard recite,

My love, sharp as the sword which can never rust,

Honed blade in hand, if felled for country in fight,

Know my sword held its edge till the final thrust.


Poem by © Darius the Mate


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Playing with Words

Where Fireflies Dance

A poem in free verse

The dark centres of her eyes call to me as sirens,
across savage oceans of bubbling seafoam –
green and brown heterochromatic whirlpools –
that suck men under.
I would be foolish,
a foolish man,
to think there was any salvation to be found inside,
yet this voyage has thrashed any resilience I might have had.
I lean in,
take her lips between mine,
knead them softly,
delicately,
with purpose,
as if working clay,
which would be presented to an Emperor.
She was sculpted by higher beings.
I work my fingers into her supple thighs,
breaking her down,
releasing her to me.
My blood pumps hot inside me –
inside her.
A heat to make the waters rise and flood the land,
crashing on the shores where fireflies dance, at night around the fire.
All things which make men different from animals,
washed out to sea.

When I wake up, she is gone.
I am alone, again.
This cursed island,
echoes laughter in the buzzing of insects.
Sandflies ravage my skin into a reddened map of islands,
which offer me no bearing.
The urge to tear flesh with my nails is consuming –
as do minute residents, to my flesh.
The carcass of my ship, still half buried in the beach,
as whale bones,
a rotting skeletal wreck,
disappearing and resurfacing with the tidal forces,
haunting me,
the ghost of my ruin.
I think of her –
the lady of the island,
who has made her home in the hours of my dark recess.
She taunts and tortures me,
with her wicked seductions,
and promises of deliverance.

May I see her in the lonely night,
I beg.


Original story by © Darius the Mate


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Playing with Words

As Ants

Naani

Getty images

Carrying ideas aloft,

Greater than their bearer,

We march in droves, as ants,

Through the garden of time.


Original poem by © Darius the Mate


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Playing with Words

The Pearl

Tanka

A gift and a curse ~

I crave the out of reach pearl,

Breath trails in bubbles,

Diving deep into limits,

~ All for glory... or ruin.

Original poem by © Darius the Mate


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Playing with Words

The Fall

A poem in free verse

I cannot stretch my mind to find the cure,
In as far,
As I cannot stretch enough my muscles,
I can’t even carry my own weight,
Lest attempt the burden and trouble,
That I drag on my heels,
These sinews are strained,
Uncooperative, stubborn, fickle,
Beaten up and corrupted from years of abuse,
For excess, or success,
Battling hurdles in life’s race,
Toppling cones of some description,
Through the hazy morning smoke clouds,
Too jaded to escape,
Pale and sickly green,
Flinching at the thought,
Of trying to be normal,
A pain beyond tears,
That falls as locusts in the heart,
A plague to purge any sense of self,
That might have existed,
To the ripples of Phoenix wings,
Beating, but not beaten,
Fire dances from the void,
To see the door,
Through fight and focus,
Climbing out through the screen,
To the rolling hills and mist,
Beyond the limits of the past,
Maybe, of the future…
Certainly, of the future… one day,
From ash piles, to snow capped summits,
Where the air is clear and nourishing,
The crackle of ice beneath surer feet,
The numbing of fingers, which draws you to their existence,
The ever present, ever quiet,
Working away for your benefit,
Crystalline kisses from the sky,
Which melt away in spring,
To celebrations,
Of rushing rivers,
Circular,
Ashen skin, and back to ashes,
On the wind,
We drift on unobtainable vapours,
Disappearing in the air,
As breath, free from the lung,
Grasping the moment,
To snatch space with empty hands,
Jumping for dreams,
To land on legs which give way,
Wounds below the surface,
Muscle, tendon, bone,
Throbbing thoughts process,
Through the beating heart,
Of the drummers tempo,
Counting down time,
Mere mortals cannot live in the clouds,
The crack of thunder,
The flash of reality,
From mountain peaks, to peaking early,
Let down by fibres of being,
Being of fibres, torn and tender,
Is my body a prison?
– For that boy,
Who cartwheeled atop joy and laughter,
The cheek to think he could rebel against,
That which catches us all;
The fall.


I’ve decided to try something different and include a reading of ‘The Fall’.

I felt quite emotional reading this aloud, and that may present in my voice.

Once I had finished, my partner asked me if I was feeling sensitive, seeing my eyes glossed and watery.

I said, I’m fine, of course, the chlorine from the pool got in my eyes, since I had my morning swim without goggles.

That’s true.

I’m not sure which is truer.


Original poem by © Darius the Mate


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Playing with Words

The Gorge

Haiku

Scorched in hellfire –

The sly emerald serpent,

Gorged on crocodiles.


Original poem by © Darius the Mate


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Playing with Words

Waltz of the Ages

A Waltz poem

The Iron Dome missile defense system (left) intercepting rockets fired by Hamas across the Gaza Strip, 14th May 2021.
Image Credit: Anas Baba/AFP
All for a piece of land,
A city old as script,
There was blood in the sand,
Long before prophets gripped,

Canaanites built the bones,
Laid stones that formed great walls,
Ancient foes cast no stones,
In heat of West Bank brawls,

Where rockets dance at night,
Fear twinkles behind eyes,
Right to left, left to right,
Both claim principle ties,

Twelve Tribes in Iron Age,
Two between Iron Dome,
Another day conflicts rage,
In their ancestral home.

Written for dVerse Poets Pub: Meeting at the Bar.


Original poem by © Darius the Mate


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Playing with Words

Ode to Owen

An Ode to Wilfred Owen in the style of ‘Dulce et decorum est’

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen MC
18 March 1893 – 4 November 1918
Knives carve off limbs, flesh torn, dangling, serrated,
As skin mangled from claws on Christmas Turkey,
In war cries, angry men’s lives are narrated,
The line between liberation and invasion is ever murky,
Boys with blood sullied hands grip hair on severed heads,
Those that could have painted portraits,
Coloured from a pallet of the slaughtered instead,
Fed on fables; a prophesied paradise awaits,

We grow fat, in our ivory towers,
Safe from the stranger that bubbles fat and skin,
Like butter in a pan, from drone showers,
In war, does anybody win?
Greed dances between missiles of falling tears,
Precision strikes in the heart of our society,

What have we learned in one hundred years?
Wilfreds woes live on in propriety,

Eyes rattle and roll, jaws hang without screams,
Bodies rot, go putrid in a stupefied sun,
Pierced and hung, displayed with no head to dream,
In ancient squares, where civilisation begun,

Babylon had fallen - long before Saddam in Firdos Square,
Lines drawn on maps separate nations in the sand,
To say we have not learnt one thing, would be unfair,
We’ve learnt of it, how to better wash our hands,
Politicians bleed lies through crooked lips,
Contorted through years of kissing corrupt feet,
The only thing which is true, is found in deaths cold grip,
But, for distant sounds of innocence echoed on the ruined streets,
Still, children’s lives are worth less than ammo,
The old lie: which never dies, the same old story,
May only foreign babies be born to know;
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.

Written for dVerses Poetics: Poems to a Poet.


Original poem by © Darius the Mate


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Playing with Words

Open Wound

Quadrille poem

Past to the flames,
Burn away,
on the pyre,
Intensifies in fire,
Dancing behind eyes,
Embers crack and fall,
Turn to ash,

Cauterise open wounds,
Seal the tomb,
Leave no name,
There’s no blame,
Just seared flesh,
Wound with bandages,
Of dreams and promise.

Written for dVerses Quadrille Monday (its long been Tuesday here in Tasmania); create a poem in 44 words. Today we’re celebrating homographs by including one or more versions of the word ‘wound’.

Homographs, being words that have multiple meanings, may be interpreted without context, openly.

To play on this, the title of my poem, ‘Open Wound’, also intended to hold a double meaning.

Congratulations if you picked up on it – it may have been a bit cryptic!


Original poem by © Darius the Mate


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Playing with Words

Industrial Evolution

Chueh-chu poem

Photo from CNN report:
Last U.S. troops leave Iraq
       Train tracks,
Long since used,
Steam trailed,
Where steel cruised,
Towns thrived,
Lost to time,
Bled raw,
Till veins bruised,

For self,
Or for state,
False wars,
Need/greed fused,
Strange suns,
Host harsh boots
In death,
Black gold oozed.

Chueh-chu is a Chinese form of poetry.

For my first Chueh-chu, I decided to take inspiration from the name, and open with a reference to locomotives.

Chueh-chu translates to ‘sonnet cut short’.

I’ve used a Wu-yen-shih metre; five monosyllable in each line with a caesura (a break between words in a metrical foot) after the second syllable.

It can use a rhyme scheme of AABA CADA, ABCB DBEB, or AABA AACA.

Personally, I loved the rhythm of the Wu-yen-shih metre, and know I’ll be coming back to this form again.


Original poem by © Darius the Mate


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Exploring mental and physical

Smile

A Limerick and a Cinquain poem

Limerick

A Wife’s wisdom

My wife had her wisdom tooth removed,

Dinner of ice cream wisely approved,

I wanted some quiet,

I’m on a grief diet,

Now she cold, but the mood has improved.

(True story)


Cinquain

Humour –

Laughter Therapy,

Nourishing, Revitalising, Enhancing,

Take “it” less seriously,

⁃ Smile.


Original poem by © Darius the Mate


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Exploring mental and physical

Plagued

Tanka

The Dance of Death 1493
by Michael Wolgemut
Nuremberg Chronicle of Hartmann Schedel
Buried emotions,

Mass casualties of a plague,

In a shallow grave -

The burden of humankind,

Below the surface, rotting.

Original poem by © Darius the Mate


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Exploring mental and physical

Popcorn

Haiku

Buttery popcorn –

Melts into the crisp vistas

Azureous bowl.


Original poem by © Darius the Mate


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Exploring mental and physical

Biblioklept

A poem

Leather bound, ornate and well read,
Her fingers kneaded the cover,
Shes a faithful bibliophile,
A collector and book lover,

An impulse latched her true desire,
Eyes scanned around, that which enticed,
Casing the library, before,
Furtively committing the heist,

With a sly slight of hand she slipped,
The book from table to pocket,
A devious dart to the door,
She was away like a rocket,

She fetishised all types of books,
Genres, size, shape, purchased or loaned,
Cardinal condition complied,
They all must already be owned,

Nature of a biblioklept,
To her, stealing books is an art,
Potent thrills came with a bookmark,
Powerful, she felt to outsmart,

Once she started, she couldn’t stop,
Bedroom walls, a fort with the loot,
Far from a the average bookworm,
She’s a dyslexic to boot!

Original poem by © Darius the Mate


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Exploring mental and physical

Rebellious Annie

Flash Fiction

Ten toes twitching with taut tremors like feeling tentacles. This is not poetry; this is hell. He collapsed backward, a laboured wilting of limbs and lifeforce, drew him to the earth. My eyes lined up with the soles of his feet, where his muscles spasmed with a last display of virility.

“Coba lari sekarang, jalang Amerika!”

I gasped into the cup of my quivering hand, pressed against my mouth forcefully, with requisite urgency. I levered into my heels, shuffled and scathed my butt through the jutting sharp rocks, and soddening mud, to bury myself deeper into the undergrowth, beneath the fractured canopy leaves.

I could hear the gunman’s lead-footed boots snap branches on the high ground above my hiding hollow.

“Come out little piggy.” The man’s shrill voice sullied the Jungle air, in broken English.

I am not a target to take porcine pot shots. Fuck this, I’m not going down without a fight. Fight or flight, come on, make your mind up! Shut up! Sit still, you idiot, keep quiet. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

My mind raced, like a doped-up thoroughbred on a diet of anabolic steroids, injected through the iris into my brain – I’m stuck in the starting blocks tearing every sinew of my mangled mind. My short desperate breaths, jagged as razorblades through my fingers, my vison, twinkling like pipe bombs denotating shrapnel through my sights, adrenaline flushing logic from my system – I was going into shock.

It is my fault, I did this, I should have just paid them the fucking money. Held hostage in this sweaty jungle pit for 3 days. If I gave them the money they wanted when they held us up at the ATM, then they may have just let us go. There was nothing but goddamn mosquitoes and monkey shit in that cage they beat me into. In the end I crawled in like an obedient dog, on my hands and knees, yelping and sobbing – battered in with a pulpy muddle of facial features. That ATM, there I was, oblivious, in his arms, already hot on the throb of each other’s hearts, with the oppressive humidity, the sweltering heat leading me by the hand into erratic choices – all I had to do was give them something, when those two thugs pulled up with their sticks and machete. I thought it was just ‘hot air’. As usual, I had to run my mouth, like a rebellious kid – that fucking label everyone always stamped all over me.

That’s why I wanted to get away in the first place – pack my bag and get out of that nowhere town. I was having so much fun here. I should have stayed in Bali – beaches, booze, the boys. Too many cheap vodkas and one night of average sandy sex, and that is all it took to get, beyond regrettable thigh chaffing, Simon following me around, like an undernourished, heart thieving, crab-eating macaque. It was his idea to travel to Jakarta. “Hell yeah!”, I said. He looked so happy. Now look at him, dead in his own piss and shit, with a bullet put through his fucking knee, before they blew the beautiful blonde hair out the back of his skull.

Annie, you need to pull yourself together!

Mum, I am so sorry, I should have known better. I wished I called more. I wish I told you I loved you more. I wish I did not leave so abruptly, after Mark moved in. Mark seemed nice enough – I could tell he loved you – I Just never understood why you left Dad, and then, when he passed away so suddenly, I blamed you. I did not know he was a smack addict. I get it now; you were trying to protect me. It was not your fault. It never was. Why was I so cruel? Why am I so shit? I promise, if I make it out of this, I am coming home, to hug you, hold you – I will make this right.

Simons body was still, naked, but for his fluids and those grisly holes in his defiled face and knee. BoBo, the gunman – I think that’s what they called him – slipped down the mossy outcrop, right in front of my squalid den. I felt sure he would be able to feel my fear penetrating the air between us, on the back of his neck. He was the one who pummelled me into that cage. He was supposed to be watching us when Simon managed to pry out one of the jaunty wooden stakes from his incarcerated hell. Bobo – his hands have Simons blood on them – that bastard, he was asleep in his chair, neck back, ballooning in and out as he snored, like a bleeding toad, whilst Simon slid across the damp hut on his belly, to me. If only we ran a bit quicker… Simon… I’m so sorry.

Bobo struck his lifeless body, with a ceremonial kick to the shins, spat some of his disgusting salvia at the pocket in Simons sweet head, as cool and calm as if he was shooting pool. I watched as he tucked his gun into the coarse leather belt, at his back. It was strange, an out of body experience – I burst recklessly from the undergrowth like a hidden predator, leaped ferociously right up onto Bobos back, attaching myself around his waist, with legs that curled like a boa constrictor. My right arm slipped with ease, lubricated with the stagnant mud, beneath his chin, as the force of my tackle tumbled us both over into Simon, and off again, to roll on the dense jungle floor. I used my left arm to anchor my right as I squeezed into him with all the strength of a desperate women, staring death in its haunting sterile eyes. He struggled with a hardy resilience. Who wanted to live more? He was thrusting into rolls, and making anguishing kicks airborne with his legs, his arms flailing at his belt, fingernails lacerating my sides as he wrestled for his gun. I felt the disagreeable rigid steel pressed into my groin, cutting off his access, as I stressed every fibre of my inconsolable being, crushing his windpipe with spartan determination.

I held him long after he stopped moving, tears ejecting down my flushed cheeks, despondent, as the abject terrors began to thrash about in my hippocampus – a flood of shaking rattled my limbs from BoBos slumped corpse. I curled into a shell, hollow, letting the silent jungle fill slowly with noise and movement again. I sat up, looked around, vomited, twice, then, shuddered onto my weakened legs, to no avail, crumpling into a disturbed void in the earth.

I did not realise how close I was to civilisation. The rain was pattering on the side of my skull, as I lay prone in the vegetation, when two farmers trailed through the treeline.

On the outskirts of Jakarta, the rain was still falling diagonally, as unsought lingering mementos on the window panes of the police station – the phone dialled up that numbing tone for an international call.

“Hello, Mum…”


Story by © Darius the Mate


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Exploring mental and physical

Blue Planet

A poem in 15 couplets

Violent storms savaged the vessel,
In unyielding torrents, wrestle,

My makeshift raft bobs on the swell,
Bound for the inky depths of hell,

Ship plunged down to the oceans deep,
Hopes adrift, what fingers can’t keep,

Indian Ocean, heavy hue,
Swallowed up the souls of my crew,

Woe! Beneath, water beats, fins peek,
Despair lapping, over rolls, bleak,

Wet cloth, sombre dolorous blues,
With the salty terrors perfuse,

Cursed rouge be the blue planet,
Give me earth - chalk, stone or granite,

Bottomless marine abundance,
Sea meets sky, eyes meet redundance,

Shallow cerulean ceiling,
Blue washed, as dropped paint concealing,

The lurching blackness of nights claw,
Snatches the realm of no mans law,

Pleas pry free from my cracked, parched tongue,
Twister tore through, feeble float flung,

Darkened belly of midnight blue,
Churned up in the froth of the stew,

Cold teeth bites down with the shivers,
The hand which taketh, delivers,

An icy kiss of death, lips blushed,
To slip below, sailors song hushed.

Rippled from our watery graves,
Some still hear wailing on the waves.

Written to the prompt by dVerse, compose a poem in the theme of the colour ‘blue’.


Original poem by © Darius the Mate


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Exploring mental and physical

Ruby

A memorial poem, for a cherished dog

It’s been four years since my childhood companion passed away. I would like to share this poem I wrote for her.

She deserves to be celebrated.

For Ruby,

Imperfectly perfect,
Wrong, but just right,
Long snout, bow legs, a nervous disposition,
To shake without cause for fright,
'Runt of the litter',
An easy observation to say,
But, if I could create you again, from scratch,
I would make you the same way

The endless pester for food,
'No Ruby, no beggar beggar',
Hiding bones you would not re-find,
We would like to say you weren't too clever,
Yet, not to conform unto the phrase;
'You cannot teach an old dog new tricks?'
For I had you rolling over,
In dog years of sixty sixty.

In your comic mannerisms,
Hours of laughter you would give,
All the greater to your charm,
An endearing 16 long years that you have lived,
Encouraging your naughtiness,
Now that was my part to play,
Down 'The End' with my friends,
All those teenage days,
And don't tell her now,
But when my Mothers back was turned,
I would feed you ham straight from the fridge,
For as 'my' Ruby, indulgences you earned

Alas, you were but a dog,
These, words I force, to convince myself I'm fine,
Unjust, you weren't just any dog,
You were special, you were mine,
Underneath the tree of lilac flower,
A modest piece of earth,
And back to it, whence you came,
To a time of quiet, before birth.

I miss you…


Original poem by © Darius the Mate


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Exploring mental and physical

The Hangman and the Heart

Flash Fiction

I jostled for a pocket of airspace to observe - pried  between shoulders of my ignoble peers, on tips of toes, peaking past plebeians. On tongues, the congested cobble stones roared with a frenzy at the culmination of the longest trial in the Shires history. 

The gallows stood stoically, silent, raised above the hysteria of the crowd, the town square frothing in a red mist. The noose swung with wicked calm on the delicate lips of the wind. 

The song of a doomed man. His final words, as his neck slipped through the knot, to be left unrecorded, unheard but to the ear of the hangman. The condemned – my beautiful son. 

The cruelest revelments murdered the air. Be silent! I cried his name. Nothing. Only mouths are we. 

Who sings?

The distant heart which safely exists in the centre of all things. 

My son.

Written for dVerse’s Prosery, a short prose, in 144 words, incorporating the line;

“Only mouths are we. Who sings the distant heart which safely exists in the center of all things?”

– from Rainer Maria Rilke, “Heartbeat.”


Story by © Darius the Mate


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Exploring mental and physical

A Self Portrait

A poem I wrote during a delicate moment.

It’s a big step to share this one.

For those who wonder, I am in a better frame of mind now. We all have our ups and downs, though, some of us are just wired with more volatile fluctuations.

I appreciate you…


From my window I see the world,

Snow is falling but I feel no cold,

I am warm, I am safe, I am not content,

As I’m drawn to nature, sincere and bold,



To be outside, under the mighty, boundless sky,

I develop within the earthen womb till freed,

Clean, unadulterated air, drawn deep within grateful lungs,

Growth in unfamiliar soil, as air born seed,



Ceaseless, to the next adventure I am yearning,

In the freezing air, my fingers numbed,

They give way to the sensation of burning,

And I to thoughts of respite and warmth succumb,



And then I long for home,

From where I wished so long to leave,

Despite, its home, a gently haven,

To understand, to nurture, the newly formed ideas, conceived,



In my bed, I am always tired,

Until I want to be and then I’m not,

Thoughts keep me in state, they create,

And then eat away at the rot,



Until I am cleansed of conscious,

The ever present friend and foe,

Daily stimuli birth unconscious thought,

metamorphic in the subconscious, grow,



In my kitchen, I am always hungry,

I never manage to fill the void,

I playback the day’s events, over and over,

I question my perception until I’m paranoid,



Feverish speculation undermines instinct, mind is lucid,

I know I’m alright, why do I feel so wrong?

I better learn how to get on,

There is only myself, with me, eternally, lifelong,



So, I sit down to eat,

Because I’m supposed to, at this hour,

Stomach digests,

Thoughts devour...



Same again tomorrow, repeat the cycle,

The constant, daily, grind,

Working hated jobs, we are locked,

In a formulaic routine, confined,



I eat to live, I live,

Because I know nothing else,

In diligence, I pursue a just desire,

A happiness inside myself,



When my days are empty,

Loneliness rears from under the surface,

Unappeasable, I feel selfish for not being happy,

I lust insatiably for greater purpose,



The anxieties I had forgotten,

Creep back in with cunning stealth,

Causing momentarily lapse in endeavour,

To appreciate, in life, it’s wealth,



To be content,

It’s an ever moving goal,

And in empty days, I transverse the maze,

Deeper into the hole,



As the shackles dig in around my neck,

In boredom, become technologies little whore,

I scroll braindead, into the bright light of my phone,

Tired eyes fixate, until they’re sore,



Just another sheep, I bleat,

As my cash is herded into the basket of online shopping,

Feed materialism, the beast, endorphins released,

Instant gratification will keep money dropping,



I’m constantly disappointed in humanity,

I put my trust in very few,

I’d rather trust first in my judgment,

Before given to you,



As are we all, I am flawed,

I acknowledge the proof,

I’ve believed so wholly in an illusion,

When dark clouds obscured the truth,



In front of my mirror, I am always judged,

But he never turns his back,

The eyes of others, they never lie,

Mouths appease, but eyes, they mount attack,



Reading body language is a tool,

Intuition has served me in the past,

Inclinations give you a head start

And the wolves, they encircle fast.



I present myself with valiant shield,

In my mind I’m never good enough,

I know I’m sensitive, I feel every nuance,

Faux confidence to prove I’m tough,



Im always wondering if my pain shows,

I tell myself ‘I do not care’,

I’ll stare into your eyes, to see,

If you, of this, are aware,



I balance my personality in different situations,

I tell myself to be reserved,

I can be proud, I can be fierce,

I will not accept less than what is deserved,



On occasion that’s what is required,

If not, I dig until a hole becomes enlarged,

When the matador waves his red flag,

My natural instinct is to charge,



I was not breathing coming into this world,

I’ve been a fighter since the day I was born,

If the wolves in the pack do flash their teeth,

They may find themselves impaled up on each horn,



That’s what the world does,

It turns a combatant from a gentle soul,

When compassion makes you a target,

And being ruthless gives more control,



I recognise myself in baby pictures,

More than my reflection in the mirror,

I see my purest form,

In a world, where everything seems clearer,



Before I was shaped into this man,

The mirrors casting back,

An unblemished boy stared with bright eyes,

Then mirror began to crack,



When I look into my reflection,

And my reflection back at me,

I see fear, anger, pain,

Sorrow and anxiety,



I see scepticism,

Someone who is unsure,

Unstable, unsafe,

Unfulfilled and insecure,



I see someone who’s felt failure, hurt, betrayal and loss.

I see someone who is trying and is tired,

Whose once bright eyes now glare back glossed,



When I see videos of myself,

As a boy of two years old,

Long blonde hair and fresh pink cheeks,

Story still untold,



I see me. A pure child,

of virtue and morality,

Full of untainted joy, hope,

And curiosity,



It’s that inquisitive mind of the child,

Holding the potential,

Endless possibilities,

Deepen the existential,



I see a small boy and a massive world,

where everything is within reach,

Infinite choices that lay in wait,

Each with their own lesson in life to teach,



So, who am I?

Who have I become?

To keep returning to the cold,

Where fingers become numb,



Is that boy still a part of me,

From where it all began?

I know he’s the reason why,

Today, I’m a good man,



I create the world behind,

As much as I control the man in my reflection,

It exists only because I do,

Chance guides the hand, whilst I originate, the purpose and direction,



Do not conform, do not fight your mind,

Finding balance Is the key,

Understanding and accepting who you are,

Loving your own complexity,



I am nothing without my conscious,

If I let my conscious go, will I be free?

No more searching for the answers,

Sufferings no longer be,



If I let my conscious go, I’m trapped,

In the darkness, no reverse,

Just another flash of light,

In the endless universe.

Original poem by © Darius the Mate


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!

https://nicecissist.blog

Exploring mental and physical