A Mephistophelian Con Artist: A Poem

Snapping out of the net of your manipulations,

The filth of your burdened heart, the volatile

Smoke that comes out of your mouth, the fictionalised

World within your brain, on your tongue, twisted

And infectious, you walk over to me, all over me, over the

Phone, with your calculated emotionality, the ping pong

Ball of guilt galloping straight back into my own face.


You wouldn’t take, you couldn’t take it, your own

Poison, that you spread across the world, across my skin.

Dish, dish, dish it out, but you wouldn’t take it back.

You thought that you had figured me out.

I won’t live in the shadows of rage that you unloaded upon me.


You say one thing and I walk that way and wonder

How the hell did I just get here?

I had all my convictions,

I stood before you and the room filled with smoke and delusions,

Words twisted and undertones, currents of deviations and double meanings,

My heart always knew who you were, my gut had always

Been right about you,

Which organ trusted you then?

Made me believe in you, one more time, one last time?

Which one of my organs

Dedicated itself to faith and hope?

Will I find my sanity back through it?


I revisit you, the language you used, against me, everything

I said you viewed, against yourself, everybody had been against

You. The constant victim that was you, the shift within the role play.

You actor, perpetrator, gaslighter, guilttripper, shapeshifter, usurper.

Your sentences tighten the rope around my neck, your control,

Your words, verbs and nouns, sound right, taste wrong,


I know what you are doing, I’m not in the audience, I’m in the wings,

I’m onstage, I’m backstage, with you, I know who you are, my feelings are real

When you make me lie to myself, disbelieve myself, doubt myself,

Poison, your bile, your kind of violence, you master manipulator,

Abusing my faith in the best version of you, it is dying and shrinking.


You are killing it. You infiltrate. You pretend so well. Director of hearts

Without a clue, naive, drank the concoction, the image you present,

You weave your net of lies and fake identities. They kiss your feet,

They kneel in front of you, in the devil’s house, Mephistophelian bones,

They applaud and you plunder and ransack them to the very core.


You would never survive the tricks you played on other people,

You needed people to feel bad,

For you, always inviting pity, draining them, robbing them of their

Compassion, you feasted on them, unimaginable gore and debauchery,

A gourmand for human sacrifice and blood and sex and pretentious acts

Of artistry and refinement, but you trap them all, squeeze them to death

And deformation, so eloquently, in your hands, their hearts and commitment,

Devouring them entirely, tooth and nail, forgetting their names

And where they came from, themselves,


You saboteur, it was always you in every single room, with every single weapon

With every single woman, sycophants battling for the attention of your cock,

Men in your image, foraging, pestering, womanising, misogynists, fathers and traitors,

Sons and violators, husbands and cheaters, you were the recurrent pattern and echo

In my life through various faces and sexes, the same battle that I kept losing,

Cut, cut, cutting you and all of them off, get off me, out of my life,

You and your circus, the river of drowned souls, swallowing your bile,

Killed by your rhythms and enchantments,


I was on my knees, father,

I was on my knees, father,

And you watched me bleed and stabbed me still.

bending woman in dark room
Photo by Aleksandar Pasaric on Pexels.com



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