The lift


The stairwells off limits
in my writers block
shoes worn to the sole soul
racing against the clock

stuck in this lift
since April Fifth
the lights went out
in dark, therewith

the buttons, unlit
the doors, jammed tight
no way to tell
the day, from night

no matter how
my palms did slam
where I stood
was, where I am

no matter how
my voice did shout
searching walls
to let it out

trapped in steel
asking - why?
is this where poets
go to die

between floors
buried in the sky?

third eye nigh dry
two left to cry
bye bye to flying high
by my
undeveloped wing …

wait … a sound …
a …

- the doors creak open -
blue sky, all around
take a leap
risk hitting the ground

or, stay in this rhymers keep …

I think,
I’ll take the leap.

© Darius the Mate 24-05-2022

Blue-black muffled morn


… horn blaring
eye - rolls
I, out of bed
poetry, off tongue

changing of the guard
clocks fell into formation
seasonal salute

6am says good morning into ink
back so soon?

an alarm never wakes one up on time
only prematurely.

© Darius the Mate 05-04-2022

Written for the dVerse Quadrille.

Class dismissed


This table, that cradles young dreams
bears heavily my stone filled head

“WAKE UP!” - sir’s white bristled top lip
arches in feline alertness
eyes stab

those blue daggers, old coffee breath
I wise crack, stirring up the pot
and, wait

the class erupts, chortling wildly
I feel naive validation
once prized

“pass forward your papers, to me”
my naked page floats timidly
through hands

the classroom is brushed with sun beams
falling into desktop etchings
long dug

a curly tail of wood springs free
engraved, the letters of my name
lie still

the school bell rung it’s last, days past
by now, sir’s lines must run deeper
- wake up …

© Darius the Mate 26-03-2022

Written for dVerse.

Point, hold, dream


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

Please do not cry havoc


The European dogs of war, grown old
wake from their kennels, ears pricked to the thud
a giant brown bear looms, above the fold
her nose is wet, and her paws - soaked with blood

canine bellies full, appetites have waned
sharing meat, so all could eat, and grow fat
green fields to run, which once ran red, and stained
in loss, bark softened, lustless to combat

the eagle with the long talons, perched high
shifts eyes in shock, as the bear climbs on claws
the world tree threatens to collapse and die
we are all tired from long and costly wars

no more cries of havoc, Putin, please cease
no more unhinged escalations. Choose peace.

© Darius the Mate 28-02-2022



Putin the clown, juggling fire
up on hind legs for the liar
the circus bear is dirtied brown
folk tales tell of eastern vampire
blue and yellow tears falling down
juggling fire, Putin the clown

I stand with you, Ukraine in need
I stand with Russians taking heed
those standing up for their world view
arrested in protest, they plead
freedom and liberty subdued
Ukraine in need, I stand with you.

© Darius the Mate 25-02-2022

Written for dVerse.

Wishing well


I came upon a well
deep, and dark
where wishes dwell

flicked a coin
watched it drop
ears listened for a plop




spun and spun
twirled and twirled
the crown …





I wish I was a giant
with hands a big as hills
I’d pick stars, as hands pick apples
and drop them by my heels

I wish I was a ocean
I’d roll and crash all day
nobody could make me feel
like a soggy castaway

I wish I was thunder
I’d roll and crack all night
nobody says that thunder
is being impolite

I wish my words were petals
they’ll bloom for radiant hearts
a bouquet of pretty poetry
in a vase made of the arts

I wish I was a box
marked handle with care
then, all people would know
somethings delicate in there

I wish I was luminescent
like a moon jellyfish
all colours would shine through me
for all to see … I wish …

... I wish, I wish, I wish …

well, for many things, superfluous
- as do all of us -
most of all, I wish I kept that coin
because, I’m about to miss the bus.

© Darius the Mate 24-02-2022

Tatar for now


“Fish and visitors stink after three days.”

Benjamin Franklin
Poor Richard’s Almanack
was salting the haddock

- I chopped pickles
for tartar

endless tide
of criticisms
wafting up my nose

on the end
of the


just, assault
this fish
push it in the oven
and shut the door.


© Darius the Mate 23-02-2022

Written for dVerse’s Quadrille, and Poetics.

The origin physique


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.

Shadows swallow the earth from space

Poem – a shadowy Shakespearean sonnet

Spacefarers spinning - dark, endless space fall  
no harness fixed to harness what we know
grace falls on candles, windless and graceful
glowing pumpkins, Jack-o'-lanterns in-glow

postage to send rockets in this post-age
counted on stars, whilst earths wealth miscounted
sage advice; to mistrust the circus sage
mounted on motive, where heads are mounted

fortunes be made to the pied pipers tune
terra firma firms misfortunes terror
spoon fed lies, we open wide for the spoon
wayfarers fasting - seek flavours fairer

verses cast shadows of universes
immersed in the ink, blackness immerses.

© Darius the Mate 11-02-2022

Written for dVerse: Meeting at the bar, and Shay’s Word Garden: Word List #12.

Bedroom poetry


Words purged, exorcised from the lexicon
eyes roll back, face and form of a demon
little deaths in the wing span of a swan
the dribbling mess of erupted semen

the page is sticky, hot and satisfied
collaboration of primal forces
peeling away from the orgasmic ride
poetry set free, as wild horses.

© Darius the Mate 09-02-2022

Written for dVerse Poetics: Pounding the Pentameter! (no pun intended)

The scraps


The waiter gestured 
to their table

they sat facing one another

nibbling conversation
before their starters arrived
it pounded thinly on the veil

peripherals dark
unique features blurred

their colours smudged
through an opaque screen
- as grease on paper -
which separated them.

© Darius the Mate 08-02-2022

Written for dVerse’s Quadrille; a poem in 44 words.

Kingdom Animalia


Examining my bare-bones
I am human
employing fundamental
threefold tones
in homophones
I mourn, this morne morn

homo sapien sapiens
left the garden
long ago
to grow
which rot
the teeth

I spit out
the mouthwash
of grief

for did I willingly
gargle this elixir?
forsaking freedoms forgotten

as cotton
mark the slavery
to sedentary

we’re so quick
to observe
as progress
that turned
free people’s
into peasantry

hominids of Kingdom Animalia
necking the tonic
shed fur
for suit and tie
but, still
long to sit by a fire -

ashes of burning desire
paint the skin
from within.

© Darius the Mate 07-02-2022


A coming-of-age narrative poem

Little Johnny “Dimples” had a smile of warm bread. Grandma told him he’s a good boy, but, he wanted to be naughty, instead.

Johnny said, I don’t want to play the goodie, I’m not a fan, I want to be Green Goblin, not Spider-Man!

He kicked a can, head down, captured in a web, a five eyed, buzzing brained bumblebee, with sudden hormones flooding, all for Sophie.

Tracing filigree across the playground, he mapped her profile. Corkscrew claret, dangling on shoulders as precious earrings, or, roped carrot.

The parrot in his head repeated Sophie, Sophie oh-so often, as he day-dreamt on the desk. All the strange, and foreign thoughts, growing statuesque.

Grotesque barbed wire silhouetting zodiac glitter, to home across the park, where older boys huddled, hunched, rugs of rubbish, corners glowing in the dark.

Behind a spark, a razor voice called over needles of top lips pubescent hair. He held out a poorly rolled spliff, in the tight February air.

Sophie was there, his crush, 3 years above, in school - surely if he didn’t puff, she would think him,

In a cruel tone, Sophie said, with salient sophistry; just take one drag, it’s like a fag, then, I’ll let you make out with me.

A chemical key, in a simple lock.
With toy fingers johnny pinched the skinny end, took a toke and, then a second, until straight lines began to bend.

Foe, or friend - the boy threw confetti praise. Sophie took Johnny’s hand and, led him from the haze.

Her lips were a maze, he was lost in the madhouse, searching in an adopted mouth. Tongues twisting in salvia, as wet otters, blood rushed further south.

Consumed, unexpected cottonmouth circled, as buzzard. Pulling away, interrupted, his lexicon expelled as vapour, his equilibrium, corrupted.

His stomached erupted, lunch cascading in the air as spluttered static, painting Picassos over his, and her legs, overly dramatic.

The traumatic event sent Sophie running. All the odd shaped lads
became hysterical; have some more, one shouted, gleefully; it’s medicinal.

Footsteps, numerical, ones, and twos, laboured to a homely door. He stood suspiciously guileless, on the tiles, of Grandmas kitchen floor.

His head was sore, and his pride was frayed. To Grandmas voice of silk, Johnny nodded greenly, and took, gratefully, the cold glass of milk.

© Darius the Mate 02-02-2022

Written for Shay’s Word Garden.

Clear as mud


Forgive me if I’m wrong, my dear
but, mud is clear
mirrors will shine
and, smell like pine

with a clear mind, cleansed in the wild
free as a child
with muddy knees
among tall trees

you can’t tell me earth is dirty
she won’t hurt me
twee buttercup
but, hold me up.

© Darius the Mate 27-01-2022

Written for dVerse.

Late to the party


Anxiety is like the game
which you lose
when you think about the game

we’re all playing it

by any other name
the alert perceptions
of ones-self
are natures preservation
but, when the caveman can’t run
it is a prism
where all your insecurities
are reflected back
a prison
in a disco ball

peering through the crack
the party is going on all around
still outside
nowhere to found
can’t climb down



we go

into a little hole
of isolating thought

ones downed
and, twitching
from the taser
the no fun
the law of psychology
that won’t set one free

a life sentence

waking up late
after, little sleep
the man with the paper umbrella
lead his black sheep
hooves, to the cafe
crushed a sleeping pill
over saintly benefaction
eggs benedict
chewed the hay
- bless thou the stomach
and, hope to feel
ones devilled mind
stitched to the chair
and disguised
he surveyed the yolk
dribbling in feral ribbons
away from the body
of the beast
he’d created

shakes tempered
once shrieking gibbons
now, coffin ready stillness

the black of
breakfast Guinness
glissading forth
over froth
into decanter
beneath table cloth
hair of the dog
to season the broth
of disquiet
deafened, dumbed
and blinded
to satisfaction

the world walks by
in silence
masked, and insensate
voices kiss cheeks
without violence
the pepper
of airborne droplets
in world of tv static

numb, for the moment
stunned, unconscious
he wondered
what he was ever worried about ...

Oh fuck
- for fuck’s sake -

he just lost the game, again.

© Darius the Mate 21-01-2022

Written for Shay’s Word Garden, Word List # 9.

… in the red dress

An erotic romance poem 😘

Shiver down spine 
Sharp pain in side

demanding to dine

- nowhere to hide -

licking stubbled lips
wearing a red dress
blocking the door

with a wiggling of hips
fingers go for the liver

red heart
shaped splatter
on the floor

by the shiv-er.

© Darius the Mate 25-01-2022

Written for dVerse: Quadrille – a poem in 44 words.

Rogets (insert [ghost] [spectre] [phantom] [wraith])


Rogets ghost is restless in death 
that, expelled with words
- what’s left

hoarding breath
lining up glass jars
so, not mistaken
floating through ether
coming together
when shaken

for the forever

with thanks
dear fellow

an apparition
in ghoulish off-yellow
staring down
the great
thus styled
face blackened with ink
from word smithing
long ago
into the first Thesaurus

red of molten metals
clang of the hammer
spark of the anvil
heat of toolmakers forge
into neural pathways

a word
it’s story
the family tree
this twinner
of words
a synner
in purgatory
on his way
to Arcadia

gone, and not
in-between realms

listing for centuries
misting the meadows
haunting smutty satirists
peddlers of prosaic prose
the pauper poet

cap in hand
sponging his benefit

he visits at night
when the ache
to write
he comes, for his cake

wax sputter
two hundred and forty three
candles flutter
as he sinks it’s black teeth
the frosted lettering

- tasteless
he spits

he flits

curling back
his spine
with a calligraphic bend

with more words for the mix
he returns
wails - try one of mine
for the end.

© Darius the Mate 18-01-2022

Written for dVerse: Poetics, and National Thesaurus Day, celebrating Peter Mark Roget, born January 18th 1779, who collated synonyms extensively throughout his life, to use in his own works, and temper his depressions – first published in Rogets Thesaurus, 29 April 1852.

Mud dee mop

A nonsense-narrative poem

(makes sense to me *wink*)

Fo love o’ dee pub, slipping ta dee pub
make mine frothy, make eet bub

owt dee castle, down dee bricks
eager clicks, clacks, clacks, n’ clicks

Kicks dee doors in, n’ av’ it up ya
twisted tops, lickin’ dee liquor

Fo love o’ dee pub, slumping ta dee pub
swing dee sword ta cut dee grub

mooing madly, slurp dee blood
stab dee plate, pierce dee spud

wash eet back wid a pint o’ piss
piss eet out, make sure ta miss

Fo love o’ dee pub, slinking ta dee pub
find some flesh ta give a stub

cats on dee bar, lookin’ bushy
chase em’ round, tryna catcha pussy

all the stray dogs gon be barkin’
swinging wet wipes, muts be sparkin’

Fo love o’ dee pub, sluggin’ owt dee pub
Upty downsie, hangin’ owt dee shrub

owt dee herbage, back ta dee grotto
goblin mouthfuls o’ turf, all blotto

past dee tavern, up dee bricks
offbeat clicks, clacks, clacks, n’ clicks

Fo love o’ dee pub, slothing from dee pub
back ta dee cavern, draggin’ mee club.

© Darius the Mate 13-01-2022

Written for dVerse: Meeting at the bar (aptly).

Care Bear


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
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


A quadrille poem

Erato blew kisses
and, I wrote
body guided on impulse.

Pursuing Thalia
ones lost in the woods -

there lies the trouble
seeking the muse in nature
leaves one open
to garden variety inspiration.

A seasonal harvest
the fruit endures
in the morning frost.

© Darius the Mate 10-01-2022

Written for dVerse.

Wordplay Pathway

Poem by Amy G. Dala

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.


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.


© Darius the Mate 10-01-2022

Written for Shay’s Word Garden.

Wordplay Pathway


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

Law of ownership

A poem

We don’t own shit.

Give me a sandwich today
and I’ll give it back to you, the next
- we don’t own shit.

We don’t own money.

We don’t own ideas.

We can’t spell out our thoughts
without borrowing language.

Remember their face? Barely.
Salt in water, dissolving.

The taste of success fades.
So too, the fear of failure.

The factory of dreams
working through the heart of night.

We don’t own the night
or, light.

Your tan is ageing you.
Killing you.

Bodies change with time.
Faces change with time.

Time changes with season.
At the closing of March
an hour is stolen.

We are mere clockmakers
they, the wards on our wing.

We don’t own time. Time owns us.

There’s a landlord out there waiting to rent you a spot in the ground

earthbound dwellers
bugs, and microbes
lining up to eat your flesh

far from being dead
the cornerstone of an ecosystem
teeming with life

the snout of the wind
snuffling the ground with seeds
your truffle, gas in a box
new growth above
bending to the sun

smell the roses, dear friend
whilst you still can
and enjoy the parade.

© Darius the Mate 05-01-2022

Written for Shay’s Word Garden.

Wordplay Pathway


A short rhythmic poem

Knead the dough, boy 
dust the flour
use your knuckles
let it rest

knead the dough, boy
need that dough, boy
feel the rhythm
in your chest

watching ladies
in the window
with those dreamy
boy doe eyes

whispers whooshing
passed the ovens
keep your fingers
out the pies.

© Darius the Mate 02-12-2021

Wordplay Pathway

The troubadour

A Rimas Dissolutas poem

The English call it a ‘French Exit’,
to leave a party without a goodbye,
and surrender out the door,
in lieu of trading novel pleasantry,
as socially conservative mercantile,

prudent in saving seconds, let’s Frexit,
no need for pomp, it’s not Versailles,
though, I admire your buildings, Monsieur,
for their historic architectural integrity,
you may consider me a Francophile,

you’re still my neighbour, despite Brexit,
we share a narrative; rival, or ally,
spread our lingua franca; Hello, Bonjour,
and in an affinity to avoid pageantry,
the French call it “to leave English style”.

© Darius the Mate 04-01-2022

Rimas Dissolutas; originating in France, this troubadouric verse was performed by French medieval lyric poets through the 12th and 13th centuries.

Writer for dVerse: Poetics – Exploring the realm of French Literature.

Wordplay Pathway

Una vacanza romantica

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


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

Happy New Year

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

Battle for balance #Poem #Poetry

The blade of self doubt
cuts a slit
across the eyeball
in which only uncertainty can fit
rushing in

a seditious mind
a superior force
overwhelming odds
buried beneath mud

mongol thinking
overruns the zen garden
invading and rampaging
resolve must harden

a resilient mind
hard as jade
light as air
faithful to the bearer

envoy of the state
of mind
levitating between worlds
to find

© Darius the Mate 30-12-2021

Wordplay Pathway

The afterlife

A poem

December, ducking out the back door
still drunk on holy merriment
bondsman, and the warrantor
dangling the carrot of sanity
turkey carcass martyred in teeth
good sense, crying from vanity
the oven cooling

slinking to a lonesome end
the apotheosis of twenty twenty one
naive eyes watch truth bend
with the other eleven wounded souls
skin particles in the bell jar
beyond fickle hand at the controls
the oven calling

ashes to ashes, dust to dust
ringing in the new year
beached and bloated, trust to trust
bullshit guidances mockingly spoken
fireworks silenced, we shuffle forward
sand in the wild wind
life, wading shoreward
us, crawling to the hereafter, unbroken.

© Darius the Mate 29-12-2021

Written for Shay’s Word Garden.

Wordplay Pathway

A trip around the sun

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

Owls things?

A poem

Whats happening here?
I’m thinking

Ok, what’re you thinking?
About what I’m feeling

What are you feeling?
I’m feeling wise

How so?
A wise man once said; “mushrooms are more nutritious when cooked”

Who said that?

Not when you’re cooked, dummy
when the mushrooms are cooked
now look at you …


what was that noise?


there it is again

It’s you, you made that sound
Owl the hell did that happen?

Psilocybin, silly goose
I’m a goose?
No, you’re an owl

And, hoo are you?
I’m you


You’re a hoot.

© Darius the Mate 17-12-2021

Written for The Sunday Muse.

Wordplay Pathway

Homage to the muse

A rhymed Kwansaba poem

Olympia by Uli Nimptsch,
Subject of the sculpture, born; Judith Stimpson, also known as Granny.
A present wrapped tight with family ties
chilled brandy butter on warmed mince pies
nowhere else I would rather be
maced stuffing from my Granny’s own recipe
her voice in the steam rising skyward
living on in spirit and by word
for all, a full belly and heart.

© Darius the Mate 17-12-2021

Written for dVerse.

Wordplay Pathway


A poem in uncoordinated couplets

noun: duplicity 

1. deceitfulness.
2. the state of being double ARCHAIC.

Oxford Languages

At 1 years old
as babe in arms
sweet as cotton-candy
Mummy from blushed lips blew
dulcet lyrical jingles
spun sugary rhymes
they purled in the the air
fingers in pigeon tuffs of hair

a runaway train
on piston knees
so innate
she stood tall
and proud
bouncing on firecracker feet
o’ bliss at 2
she stuck to Daddy just like glue

turning 4
Mummy went to “heaven”
so, she smooshed the frogs
with a unforgiving stump
at her mercy
on the muddy banks
where they sat

years later, she killed a tomcat

with an air-rifle
she was just 8
her nerves were cold
as winters hold

on the trigger
a crusading knight
she lined him in the sight
felt a righteous charge
as if she had found her religion
Daddy lost his temper
though, she played coy

she would kill a boy
at 16 years young
she fired a different gun
one made of disloyalty
but he, her boy-love,
had two eyes to see;

with the truth
his heart came in two
black and blue

she fit the glass slipper
an immoral Cinderella
to her prince, harming
the ‘c’
no charming
just …
heart shaped
made of chalk
to colour his pain
across the floor

if boys are from Mars
she ate all the stars

and planets
in the galaxy
in a black abyss
the hole
who commits all that who enters
to the belly
light churning
obedient wolves learning

it’s not safe
even in the pack
losing their nature
become dogs
three legged mutts
chasing tail
to her whistle
and call

before the fall
at 32
she carried another mans child
nine months, concealed
beneath a thin film
whilst doting husband
built the cot
the lies and deceit
grew so heavy
cradling the confession
became motherhood

swollen and rotten - driftwood
washing in
and out
of life
unholy and inconsolable
she tended to its silence
with fury, and violence
ivory cheeks
as the elephant
in the room
ethereal fingers
on piano keys
to play in the newborn

thorns to adorn
the babies crown
piercing his innocent skin
for her sin

when tales made their way
back to ears
fatherless, and too young for tears

the infant grew to know no different

she felt vacant inside
as she stood beside

her Daddies coffin
doubled over at 64
she captained her conscience
fought for the right emotions
to portray
a struggle and screech
cats tied in a hessian sack
clawing and catching
one another

her psychology would smother
authentic sentiments
in lieu of surrogate soothsaying
forecasting the necessary
for the benefit
of others

a cerebral tactician
posed for the exposition

friend, or foe
fall by the wayside
dragged through the performance
as heavy stones
around her ankles

her limbic system liquidating
narcissistic personality dominating

her vision
she saw only the silver lining
shimmering in the bleak church
her fraudulent left face
fearlessly crying in view
of all

inheritance glowing beneath a lazy sob
smug in the burial of an inside job

she wiped her eyes
feeling nothing.

© Darius the Mate 16-12-2021

Written for Shay’s Word Garden.

Wordplay Pathway

Pantomime season

A Quadrille poem

Painted faces
pantomime poster
clowns on the TV
bread in the toaster
the country is burning

“They’re behind you!”
scream the proles
Omicron ducking
behind confusing roles
no. 10 party prepping

tinsel hand-chuffs
for lawbreakers
cheese and wine
for lawmakers
fool me once …

© Darius the Mate 14-12-2021

Written for dVerse.

Wordplay Pathway

There are days gone, and days to come

A fictional poem, in a non-fictional world


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
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
duvet draped morning


days dropped away -
a countdown
in maddening mid December

sheep sheared for the season
counting reindeer to fall asleep
daydreaming of sleighs
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?”


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



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


(unavailable) please take a step back


days dropped away -
a countdown
in maddening mid December

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

I passed flat #5 today
on the way back from getting milk
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

Word Farm

A poem

Poetry to the power of three, 
the sun will rise and fall to thee

weaned on folk tales, and oral tradition
soil rich from witch burnings, of old superstition

we shelter beneath the gables and decaying wood
rearing words for tomorrow, so we be better understood.

© Darius the Mate

Photo prompt, written for Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie.

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


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

Mother, Wolf

A poem

Wolf around my neck
snarling teeth, and red army gums
protecting in the night
when the bad witch comes

I call my wolf, mother
for, she was there
when babushka thread daisies
in my yellow hair

suckled at the teat
when the larder was stark
holding her fur tight
in the dark, dark, dark

shes not a real mother
but, she was there
when babushka pushed up daisies
in the soil, bare

she is my second face
snapping at the crooked nose
as Baba Yaga crept
on boney legs from the shadows

she is my strength
and she was there
when I burnt down the hut
smelt Yaga, in the air

now, all the witches
and the chicken legs
run from my hunger
as the wolf eats their eggs.

© Darius the Mate

Baba Yaga
by Ivan Bilibin
Vasilisa the Beautiful, at the Hut of Baba Yaga by Lily Seika Jones

Written for the The Sunday Muse.

With the picture provided by Shay, at its base, I tapped into the Slavic folklore tales of Baba Yaga, the infamous witch with the taste for children’s flesh, who is said to live in a hut on chicken legs.

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

Chapters too, fragment in time

A poem of parts


Light, warmth, sound, darkness, cold, shape.
Finger tips searching.
Impenetrable shrouded shield, protecting, as muslin sentinel.
Fours on the carpet.
Food on the table.
Food on face.
Food for thought, everywhere.
Hope, promise …

… expectation …

… hands up, who knows?
Gold stars.
Pink cheeks.
Red knees.
Stabilisers stabilising.
Imagination emanating.
Feet on the ground, running.
Pencil shavings on the table.
‘Kiss, Chase’ worn on the face.
Investigation, anticipation …

… impatience …

… 4 wants 5, 5 wants 6, 6 wants …

… 12, 12 wants 13, 13 wants …

… them. Her. Him. Him. Her.
Whom the heart desires, beating heavily.
The first taste of their chewing gum in ones mouth.
Tongue warm inside, exploring.
Candescent adolescence.
Green steps on uneven ground. Heartbreak.
Some give, some take, most all will shoulder it …

… a disco ball of sensory stimuli reflecting off every surface.
The panacea of tomorrow’s promise.
Contemporary conscious, wading into future, forecasting …

… Friday, grafting, gasping for liquid salvation.
Saturday, groggy, rasping for a breath.
Sunday, snoozing, stealing a moments moratorium.
Monday, moving, moving, moving …

… Friday …

… foundation building, counting digits in the ether …

… Friday …

… tripping over shoes in hallways.
Picking up articulated objects of mass distraction.
Pygmy packed lunches for little priority magnets.
Focus, commitment …

… sacrifice …

… the treasury of the heart, opulent, abundant.
Candles burgeoning, twinkle beneath bright eyes, reminiscent.
Belly full of cake, trying to keep ahead of the game on a full stomach …

… chasing something, always something to chase, trying to catch ones breath.
Wheezing through the weeks, drawing in the decades …

… sudden was the creeping tiger.
A quiet house.
Empty rooms.
Plethora of flora and fauna, lively beyond the window, by the comfy chair - an orange, black and white tail, disappearing into the long grass …

… the jar of pickle, shelved, is from 2008, forgotten, beneath settled dust, and lassitude.
The children - children no longer - used to visit on Sundays, now so infrequently, it’s been surrendered to serendipity.
The joy of of the grandchildren’s laughter, echoed on the walls once more, added value from the absence …

… rediscovering long lost pleasures, one admittedly wishes they’d have spent more time in the occupation of.
So much time for leisure, and so many options, it’s difficult to get much of any done …

… reminiscing is chief conversation. Television is company …

… speculating how well ones faired, and benefitted from all they gave.
Wondering what could have been.
Scared of so little.
Scared of so much.
Embarrassment parted ways many moons ago.
Now, a graver companion strides beside, pointing to the endless horizon, looming; the knowing, the not knowing.
It is humanities torment.
The fear of finding out, and the irony of not finding out when …

… what does it mean to be human?
Complex, transitory …

… mortal …

… realising the trade off, for everything we get to see and feel.
We know the consequences, ventured regardless.
The pain of loss, weighed against the the fruits of love …

… sun through the window, sweet as summer blackberries, dappled on the skin.
The door ajar lets in an polar draft, sending the grizzlies into early hibernation …

… knowing what one wants, needs, and will accept is a wizardly talent.
One can wield the tongue as an artifice of considered dexterity for personal gain, or philanthropic pursuits.
Knowledge is a precious commodity.
Wisdom, expertise …

… recognition …

… lazy Sundays, lazy Mondays, Tuesdays …

… lazy Fridays, Saturdays. All days flowed and merged, in a confluence of time …

… seized joints, raptured long ago by some unknown numen.
To move about the room came with great effort …

… lifeblood flowing tepid, trickles in narrow vessels, arteries hardening, elasticity lessening …

… chest tightening …

… light, warmth, sound, darkness, cold, shape.
Finger tips searching.
Breath shortening, labouring.

© 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!

Wordplay Pathway

Drink up

A quadrille poem

Only words;

tea stained crown
coronated beneath the coiled mist
brown as Thames water
- worn on the teeth

purely sweet talk
trading in counterfeit riches
- white lies and empty promises

holding out his heart
to keep
as jarred moonlight
- gone in the morning.

© Darius the Mate

Doubling up: written for Shay’s Word Garden, and 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!

Wordplay Pathway

The nothing we know

A poem

She hit him like a champagne breakfast

he felt on precarious footing
as they trespassed
the mournful walls
in the hotel corridor

it clutched the cigarette smoke
as withering keepsakes
she surrenders

leant against the doorway
she blew smoke rings
through an exotic red
lassoing his dilated pupils

she stole his liquorice heart
an acquired taste;
whether she likes it, or not
she has acquired it

they fell
through the technicolour wallpaper

mouth dry as Spanish sun
dark-haired, onto pale sheets
oil slicks on virgin snow
she took control
and rode him
as he struggled to regain grip

slip sliding
in her sherbet kisses

the many faced chameleon
curled on the tip of his nose

he could see the colour of her soul
hear her skin move

composer of thunder
classical, as black on white
romantic, as red on red
- the irony -
to all else in the world
he grew as deaf as Beethoven

a synthetic symphony no. 5
rained out Viennese skies
they fall and rise
fall and rise
in the room

he felt her love surround him
astound him
confound him
he tried to take her heart, too
to find his fingers in the meat grinder


it dangled in strands
the severed flesh
of materiality
black as crude oil

sudden as the Venus flytrap
a snap
flashes of reality
he buzzed and swirled within


a feverish delirium
the sand cloud that enveloped
his eyes worked to mop up the mess
slowly - unsteadily
it confessed its ceiling
the parting storm
revealed the edges of the room
pockets of rational thought
between the hillocks

he tried to recall the details
as they hid behind a gauzy wall;
sequences of a lucid filament, muted

his acid was wearing off
and he was alone
with nothing but tremors

nothing, but the colour of sound
illuminating the palisade
that kept his inspirations repelled
now, free to be leapt

with Hermes boot
he kicks the sheets clean off
left naked and exposed
a flash of her
hits him with a dagger of discomfort

alone - with nothing
but, himself

nothing, but fire for the forge
to paint, to write, to craft
to take that ‘nothing, but’
with him, as muse

nothing, but himself

now, he must sleep
- sleep it off

there was nothing, but the morning
and a peculiar dead cigarette
propped, half smoked, in the ashtray
lined with rouge.

© 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

Samurai in heels

A Wayra poem

The slice of lemon
sharpened the tip of Friday
gossip sloshed and fizzed amongst
- katana lips cut deep -
left red on the rim of the glass.

© Darius the Mate

Written for dVerse.

The Wayra, popular in Peru and Bolivia, is a short unrhymed poem of 5 lines, in a syllabic structure; 5-7-7-6-8.

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

Back to basics

A poem

The door slammed shut behind her
from an eager thrust

perched upon the throne
she braced

ready to let it have it
like the noble savage she is
her nose upturned, pointing east
toward the squatting pans

can’t fight progress
she thought

feeling a smug air
blow past her haemorrhoids

I wonder if it’s all it’s cracked up to be
this civilised society
we attest to

am I working to live
or, living to work?
I’m not sure

but, we’ve come a long way
from our hunter gatherer roots

she appended

Im still hunting and gathering
ideas, beliefs and convictions
finding out who I am
what I’m all about

what matters to me
and why

what it all means

- this “life” thingy

that last glass of red wine
has gone to my head …
what was I thinking about, again?

you’re so often the lubricant
which brings unsolicited opinions
singing from our open orifices


now, if I could only
stay on track …


with my train of thought

I’m an arsehole with an opinion
or …



what was it, again?

maybe, the other way around
I’m an opinion with an arsehole

hmm …

oh yeah!

opinions are like arseholes
everyone has one

too true

hehe hoho


I like that one most
and of all the crude sayings

chiming faithfully in the wind
that, likening opinions

with arseholes
in the gut

I must add
though - true, everybody has one
unlike my arsehole
I do not feel the necessity

to keep my opinion clean

… and sometimes it trickles out
when I have too much alcohol

meanwhile, a semi-autonomous hand
oblivious to the toilet epiphany going on upstairs
acted on muscle memory
busying itself with the aforementioned task.

© Darius the Mate

Written for dVerse.

Sorry/Not sorry, for the toilet humour.

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

Sparkling, still?

A poem

Thirsty, he took up his best crystal glassware from the cupboard 

ready for a mouthful
to quench the drought

dedicatedly displayed
elegantly shaped
and perfectly formed
ornately arrayed
and decoratively adorned

opening the fridge
he grasped a readily available
bottle of something fizzy

glowing from within
on the backlit row
she lit a skinny cigarette
beneath his eyes
and hung on beside him

S. Pellegrino, of Bergamo, Italy
the natural partner
of prime position
to any course
of banquet

the corners of his mouth frothed with the sticky white of dehydration
parting under duress
with cracks and flakes
as a disused wooden window frame
his seized lips squeaking open
for a curious tongue to fly out
as chubby robin
dampening the borders, expectantly
before they smacked shut

unscrewing the cap
he tipped her round bottom skyward
and watched her glug loose
sparkling mineral water
into the glass

he placed the glass
on the table
and fell into his chair

excitable bubbles gyrated up

raising a finger
he dipped it in

effervescing tickled him
with formless subtlety

he dragged the finger around the rim of the glass
freeing a vivacious ring

pleased with himself
he sat back
and dropped off to sleep

in his dreams
he saw her
bouncy and young
on the Italian cobbles
she poured herself between each suitor
a single trickle of something satisfying
to wet the whistle

when he woke up
her sparkle was gone

the glass stood flat
stagnating before his eyes

he dipped his finger de novo
and grazed the rim
she whispered her sweet nothings
one more time

taking the glass in his hand
he upturned it in the sink
and poured himself a whiskey.

© Darius the Mate

Written for dVerse.

Today’s poetry was written in the form of a conceit – taking two unrelated subjects, and drawing an extended metaphor from comparisons between the two.

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