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Audio Muse

She’s a wordsmith in multiple tongues
but music is her first language.
Her sonatas animate fireplace phoenixes.
The finger ballet drifting from her piano
has hornets soaring
as serenely as butterflies.

Those soothing digits are Eden,
in a vast moonscape.
Her gently cascading melodies
are the uber escape.
I yearn to listen to her heartbeat
as she kneads my nape.

In her presence,
ancient ruins rise to their former glory
and deserts turns to wetland wonderland.

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Mannequin Man

Charlie has fools believing
snails fleeing the morning sun
are the top fuel dragsters
of his swiftest dreams.
A fledgling bodybuilder waves his hands
before his glazed over eyes.

“He looks as vacant as a statue.
Let’s call im Mannequin Man”
A chorus of callous laughter ensues.
Predators man every compass point,
and point every compass.

“Leave me alone” Charlie mumbles.

“Leave me alone, leave me alone”
their caustic mimicry gouges.

Charlie ends his reptilian torpor like pause,
by drawing blood with piston paws.
Seven vultures flee in terror,
as their painted T-Rex bursts into flames.
The footpath shudders in revulsion
beneath the smoldering wreckage of his ego.

Charlie sinks back
into the mine shaft of his misery,
an ants stroll from the unconscious giant.

 

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Horizon Hill

Dust devils pirouette across the track.
Water purifiers hang uselessly from Will’s belt.
Cows search the crumbling lake floor
for drinkable pools.
Foxes gorge themselves on rotting fish.
Overhead,
a conspiracy of ravens harass wedge tailed eagles.
Two days of water hug Will’s torso.
He sips sparingly.

Shadows lengthen.
On Horizon Hill,
an inland lighthouse towers over ironbarks.
Its sandstone exoskeleton
is immune to the ravages of forest fires.
Underground it’s shaped like a bottle.

Will peers through his telephoto lens.
The lantern room is ready to illuminate the canyon.
Will follows the ridgeline
to the subterranean entrance.
The Autumn coolness within
is as soothing as silk sheets.
Will saturates his sun mask
with a splash from an underground stream.
A cap torch lights his climb to the cellar.

In the cavernous temple above,
serpentine flute songs
wrap themselves around serene dancers.
A wild xylophone solo
is accompanied by the scent of innumerable orchards.
Voices bounce from ceiling to stairs
like crazed rubber balls.
The words “I knew you’d come,”
intermingle with the riotous laughter of kookaburras.
The president of the Obscure Poet’s Club
appears to float into the cellar,
upon a fog tinged cushion of dazzling light.

Upstairs, in the cupped marble hands
of Graham H Goalposts Smith,
a rosewood lectern awaits the lone traveller.
Will climbs the ladder
inside that towering psychedelic Buddha.
Haikus, limericks and sonnets
drift from Graham’s lofty grasp.
The words hang in the air
long after the poet’s lips have ceased moving.

“LSD is superfluous here”
says the sulphur crested cockatoo
frolicking on the piano keys below.
After witnessing the statue’s eyes move,
Will isn’t so sure.

Outside, it’s forty in the shade.
A procession of profusely sweating dwarves
lug their sedan chair lounging court jester
past skeletons of drought massacred fish.
A dust storm obscures the remnants of the lake.

Inside, the celebration of the bizarre intensifies.
Bar staff masquerade as bunyips and Banksia men.
“Orthodoxy is anathema”
the ivory tinkling cockatoo yells
at a man in a Hawaiian tuxedo,
with tadpoles swimming
in his transparent platform soles.
“I know mate” he replies.

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Duel

Rabbits as flat as Lebanese bread
are as numerous as the potholes.
Scavengers gamble with rodeo bound traffic.
Ravens mob stalking foxes.
Drought stricken skies
and Mistletoe drained Grey Boxes
are painted on murky remnants of dams.
Cows wade in,
to guzzle cool, sediment rich water.
The Jackie Dragons are as still
as the grey lichen dappled shale.
If the sun baked creek beds could speak,
they’d scream for rain.

On the hillside,
the audio water boarding
of a chainsaw and brush cutter orchestra ceases.
Purple Haze melds with the horizon,
as forest regenerators lop African Olive and Privet Saplings.
Has the Antarctic Aurora
ever matched visions conjured
by Hendrix’s Fender Stratocaster feats?
If the crew could paint what they see,
they’d be psychedelic Rembrandts.
As Purple Haze fades,
Miles Davis’ sublime rendition of Nature Boy
emerges from dusty silence.

Horns signal a premature ending.
It’s forty in the shade,
ice water is liquid paradise,
flavour as superfluous as overcoats.
As the convoy of utes departs,
clay swarms like locusts.
The Yowie sighs impatiently,
as a heat drunk newbie
makes locking gates look as difficult as surgery.
It fades from this universe,
as a tourist infested hot air balloon
drifts overhead.
Eventually it re-emerges,
with its crystal plated guitar.
The instrument finally consents
to a melodious massage.

“This one’s called the Raptor’s Descent”
the Yowie informs the ravens
with a telepathic montage.
Wedge Tailed Eagles zoom from the blue,
to perch on the Yowie’s burly shoulders,
as its labyrinthine chords coalesce into guitar gold.
The waves in the ocean,
where Hendrix’s spirit surfs,
mirror the rhythm.
His reply comes as naturally as breathing once did.
And so the duel begins.

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The Poet’s Journey

Be who you are, be what you are,
until the door of miracles is ajar.

With Earth’s cumbersome languages,
you chase the soul’s beauty,
like a wounded warrior
on the mighty jaguar’s trail.

Realising millennia of global acclaim
is less than plankton in fame’s ocean,
fails to curb your boundless devotion.

Poet, lament, invent, soak society,
with a shrewd arsenal of adjectives
and a voracious appetite for variety.

Be who you are, be what you are,
until the door of miracles is ajar.

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Singles Site Suitor

Ladies, the superbly sculpted,
burdensomely endowed,
entrepreneurial wizard
of your wildest dreams is here.
It’s true, I’m often mistaken for God.
My old boss claims I’m as useless
as a paint chart on a black and white TV.
I should’ve been running that company.

I’m seeking a voluptuous poetess,
to join me for adventures,
artistic and animalistic.

What kind of art soars off your chart?
Traditional landscapes and portraits
can be as exquisite as the finest floozy,
ever to frolic in my oceanic Jacuzzi;
but I prefer transparent unicorn serpents,
with amphibious goblins swimming in their stomachs.
That’s a bit dark isn’t it.
What has a more sunshine and rainbows appeal?
Maybe a version of Medusa,
who merely bedazzles besotted suitors,
bathing in the sun kissed billabongs of her eyes,
instead of turning them to stone.
Her pygmy dragon, belly dancing troupe
is off their leads in the background.
Now that’s art.

When I’m not gazing at butterfly sail galleons
at the gallery,
I’m searching for truly psychic psychics
and ghosts that are more than a sneaky breeze.
I know human observations aren’t always
more accurate than a sixteenth century musket,
in the hands of a Parkinson’s victim,
but sometimes arrows split atoms.

This thrill seeker also enjoys sprint cars.
I can’t say I’ve backflipped my way
from the grandstand to the pits
and raced one,
but I drove a go kart once.
Not one of those glorified dodgem cars,
that could be overtaken by a mum pushing a pram,
a real one.
Unfortunately the lining of my helmet
slipped over my eyes
and I ran over the track attendant.

I’m more likely to win a poetry prize than a Grand Prix.
Ladies, my erotic rhymes will make you swoon.
They’re as adventurous as a space shuttle orgy,
hurtling towards the wildest interstellar moon.
I authored the Kama Sutra for acrobats darlin,
this mighty love machine’s no literary buffoon.
If you’re as vivacious as I’m salacious,
my appetite for your soul is rapacious.
Yep, I swallow Thesaurus’s
and shit out classics.

You’re not ready to meet after our umpteenth epic chat
and naïve enough to imagine I’ll graciously accept that?
I want to know the love of my life before palliative strife.
Why not reveal how captivated you are by my free verse,
before it’s time to rehearse for the hearse?

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Misery

He hails from Freezeburn Swamps,
a place where rock bottom
is just another ledge,
on the way to another nameless bog hole.

He’s not granted death.
He drowns again,
in the flood of his own
rising and raining blood.

He lives in the cold,
a cold where sheets of ice
as hammer proof as granite
are sought like thermal blankets.

Black dogs roam freely,
across withered tundra,
their fetid breathe asphyxiating the weak.
Anthrax powder in mother’s milk,
is the most benign wish of their ilk.

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The Obscure Poets Club

Dolphins search butterfly formations,
for fleeting novels.
Herbivorous jaguars roar the blues.
Effervescent scorpions mime the beat.
From where, do their delicate rhythms emanate?
The valley of a trillion spectrums dominates the horizon.
Its pulsating crystal forests reflect highland lakes.
Mountainous cactuses sprout from opalescent beaches.
Stars roam crevasses like lost pigeons.

In a cathedral cave,
Graham H Goal Posts Smith,
the high priest of the Obscure Poets Club,
the Terrestrial Scuba Diver himself,
the original Mr Ultra Cool, Ice Cold,
points to a spherical piano.
It hovers like the death star renovated by hippies.
“Play it with your mind Azalea” he urges.

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Baskets of Neutron Stars

Azalea could fit a sonnet on a postage stamp.
Her stream of consciousness writing
enchanted like her soft, lilting voice.
Music was her first language.
She dreamt of being the Margaret Fontaine
of the concert pianist world.

Will met Azalea a knee slide from a piano,
the year Sydney was awarded the Olympics;
that corporate advertising bonanza,
that distracts society from horrors of war,
organ harvesting, human trafficking and soap operas.

Azalea was too embroiled in her own horror story,
to contemplate the woes of the wider world.
Will approached with the skink
he’d spotted on picturesque sandstone,
by the red spider flower.
Dragons are better conversation starters,
but they didn’t have them
in Tranquil Valley Mental Health Unit anymore.

According to Earl Gardener, the gardener,
dragons scorched his prize roses,
during Hendrix’s Woodstock rendition
of the star spangled banner.
Otherwise he would’ve been there,
“to drive those scaly varmints back to Middle Earth.”
He said the flame thrower
he’d snaffled at a Sapphire Bay garage sale,
made hell fire look like a fleeting spark.
Earl was a whacky poker player,
difficult to trump in a game of which is true.
He may well have believed
dragons inhabit this dimension.

If Will had known Azalea was weeks shy of her sixteenth,
the skink would’ve starred in a more mature story,
than Leila the Lizard Rescues Snugglepot
and Cuddlepie from the Banksia men.
Her smile was as momentous
as a flower that blooms just once,
per interglacial period.
Will heard she’d run away.
From who, or what, he didn’t know.

First, the predator seduced Azalea’s nurse.
After the attack, he stood on her feet, smirking gleefully.
“You won’t tell anyone will you” he sneered.
Beyond her testimony, no evidence existed.
She was hopelessly lost in a daze of anxiety,
at the prospect of buried truth
being pitted against professional liars.

According to the papers,
someone threw the predator off a cliff.
Jagged rocks pierced him,
from orifice to skull.
Did Poe dream of such macabre poetic justice?
The police couldn’t identify Rob Palmer’s killer
from the nickname on his ambition list.
Journalists assumed it was a man.
Lips were sealed,
like bodies in museum foundations.

Madeline never wore her “move in silence,
until it’s time to say checkmate” t-shirt on the outside.
Galileo never explored the heavens as inquisitively
as she explored grappling techniques.
Her personal experience of gravity,
overshadowed Newton’s theories.
The staff thought she had a crush on Rob.
Her interest was purely biomechanical.
If that girl snacked on food like she did fear,
the fire brigade would’ve removed her roof
and winched her ever expanding flab into a truck,
bound for an emergency weight loss centre.
Madeline ate mind bending terror for dessert.
If she’d ignored ancient memories,
of fighting Mongolian hordes in Mediaeval Japan,
psychiatric units would’ve remained
as foreign to her as exoplanets.

Thirty years later
she died in a base jumping accident.
With Icarus it was the sun,
with Madeline it was the bridge.
How did she live beyond her athletic prime?
“Attention to detail” she might’ve said.

If the stats in the predator’s diary are prophetic,
the killer saved dozens of lives,
but struck too late to rescue Azalea.
Her history department basement
was dynamited open,
as unceremoniously as her night shirt was raised.

For aeons,
caresses frightened her like razor sharp talons.
The moment claws became fingertips,
a charming drug parasite had his fill.
Then a poor, hardworking man was stolen from her.
His dower was a bedsitter immersed in love.
Azalea no longer believed
hope lay beyond the horizon.
Her grief was a drill headed robot,
fastened to a weary back.
It’s mechanical claws piercing major organs.

Where Azalea’s gone,
pianos are derided as primitive earthly instruments.
May she immerse herself
in the tranquil love of divine forests,
until it’s time to play ethereal organs,
with a heady blend
of euphoria, melancholy and fury, once more.

The day after the double funeral,
Madeline’s cryptic letter
was thrust beneath Will’s door
The rhyme at the bottom read.
“Baskets of neutron stars Mr Palmer,
crushing weight smelted into armour.
The monsters call me Instant Karma.
My hot winks meant airborne drama!
The evil cunt wished to copy Darma.
No wingsuit for that fucking charmer.

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Horace Henley

On the downside,
Horace was an arrogant, ignorant, argumentative,
callous, remorseless, dishonest, manipulative,
tantrum prone, domineering, violent, adulterous,
greedy, middle class snob.
Ridicule, threats and lies were his teaching tools.
When he was cheerful he could be lenient,
until your suffering become inconvenient.
His calculated generosity, was a lever for manoeuvring
excruciating boulders of condescension and pomposity.
“How dare you defy me”
he roared, like an emperor to a slave.
“you’re useless” he repeated
until he was as hoarse as a desperate punter.

The underemployed, unemployed and unemployable
traded rations of cigarettes, lighters and coupons,
as they filed into Centrelink,
opposite Henley’s Camping Supplies.
Work was Horace’s drug of choice.
He imagined everyone had it on tap,
but some were too lazy to twist the faucet.
In front of customers he was a lovable larrikin.
The great white shark t-shirt, from his staff,
went over his head like a pole vaulter.

“Without me, you lot would be the dregs of society,
lining up for a handout across the road”
he reminded his wife Sharona
and sister in law Lonnie.
Horace hired the best psychiatrist in the region,
to treat his family’s “mysterious” anxiety and mood disorders.
Like him, these conditions weren’t prey seeking missiles,
that killed as swiftly as falcons.

Horace didn’t have a personality disorder.
He was merely the carrier of misery and fear.
Growing up, the barrel of a shotgun
was as familiar to him as cornflakes.
He dealt in throws, kicks, slaps and backhanders.
“I’m a model of restraint” he boasted.
There was no walking away from his marathon tirades.
He was Fuhrer, educator and soother,
his role as unpredictable as mountain weather.

Horace taught his sons how to kick drop goals
and threw baseballs so high
they turned black in the twilight.
Catching fly balls became as natural as walking.
His lessons on romance involved
hiring eighteen year old back packers,
who looked like they’d stepped straight from the pages
of lingerie catalogues.
The interviews were camping trips.

Horace didn’t care who blitzed maths tests.
100% effort was a pass in his eyes.
A lack of enthusiasm
was akin to burning down the mint.
Jarrod always felt like 99.9% effort
was a crime worthy of being hung, drawn and quartered.

When he became as reclusive as a Himalayan mystic
and ate like he was preparing for a sumo tournament,
not an eleven kilometre fun run,
he finished miles behind his best.
Horace chipped away at his self esteem like an auger.
“If I sliced open that ice cream gut,
I could feed an army on dripping sandwiches.
You call yourself a jogger,
you make a penguin look like a springbok.”

Horace sold his camping store,
so he could spend all day woodworking, fishing
and listening to conservative shock jocks.
“Abolishing excess franking credits,
it’s a Labor Party commie plot.”
he roared at his local MP.
With only 1.2 million dollars to his name,
since the divorce,
how would he cope without profiting
from the Australian Tax Office?
All that Greens nonsense about tortured refugees
and the climate emergency,
had him reaching for a bucket.
What about the suffering of middle class retirees?

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Unstoppable

The dux of Adversity University can’t be cut
by your profane sneer and tough guy strut.

At five foot nothing,
she’s as imposing as the Rock of Gibraltar,
and more thrilling than any theme park
in this galaxy.

She was a tadpole in the reservoir
you forgot to poison,
much stronger than anyone knew.

Tears are her afterburners.
Encourage, undermine, disparage,
tell her she’s lost without marriage,
it’s all intersellar rocket fuel to her.

 

 

 

 

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Miss Communication

Benjamin sent Alanna a friend request.
If he was still as unwanted
as the tick that gave her Lyme disease,
all she had to do was strike delete.
Her no thanks message
was as unexpected as a Trump tweet hurricane
trumping a Pulitzer Prize winning novel.
It was civil, friendly even.

Philosophy seeped into Benjamin’s reply,
like blood soaked beef into a vegan buffet.
After touching on creating life’s meaning,
instead of tracking purpose down
like a misdirected package,
he urged Alanna to pave her mosaic highway
and follow it to the zing of her electric violin.
She responded with her “bluntest voodoo pin”.
Memories of Mister opinionated,
obsessed with views she overrated,
infiltrated, irritated and grated.
Benjamin’s words were as benevolent
as midsummer watermelon
buried in crushed ice
and as valued as antique seafood
bathed in bin juice.
Victorian era squid
might be excellent fertilizer,
Ben’s guru drivel on the other hand…
Alanna’s affection for him was a sand mural
claimed by the tide long ago
and her loathing embossed in titanium.

A message Benjamin sent years ago,
was as tangential as a forest burying vine.
You’re off your medication, aren’t you,
Alanna accused then and now.
Couldn’t she tell the difference
between sewage outfall rants
and paragraphs as tidy as a Japanese garden?
Why hadn’t he waited until he was mentally stable to message her?
Ben was as flabbergasted as a pixie
who is expected to incinerate a dragon,
with the friendly glimmer in his eyes.
He thought Alanna knew
that people on the brink of psychosis
aren’t renowned for sensible decisions.

Alanna imagined she knew something of bipolar disorder,
but she’d overestimated the impact
of occasionally missed doses of mood stabilizers.
What she’d seen
was the branding of Benjamin’s father’s world view,
on his adolescent brain.
That takes time to recognise, despise and neutralise.
There’s no medication
for the flammable, windblown rage
of a young man,
failing to catch a habitual rapist in the act either.

“Do something about it” Ben screamed down the phone.
Attempting to coax Alanna
into making another police report
proved as futile as trying to lift himself skyward.
She’d already endured the sneering denials
of sergeants who mistook shock for shonkiness.
Benjamin felt smaller than a neutrino,
once he realized broken silence equals a broken neck.
Alanna’s mother didn’t believe her.
Ben didn’t believe, he knew.
The terrified pleading and fistfights in her sleep,
said more than bruises and torn dresses.

The rapist poisoned them with rage.
Then they poisoned each other.
Pointing that out in 2020,
could’ve triggered an eruption of horrors,
as agonizing as stitches ripped from the tongue.

What irked Alanna the most
about Benjamin in the old days
was not his verbal explosions
and launching of plastic bottles.
Neither was it his gawking at every delicious creature
who flirted with his perpheral vision.
After a buxom blonde Goddess caught his eye,
at a nightclub one night,
the cage imprisoning his polyamorous urges,
stained the dancefloor red.
Adulterous friends of Alanna’s
agreed he was the epitome of evil.
There were no points for ending the relationship
without episodes of abominable mischief,
he may as well have had a secret harem
since their first kiss.

A sentimental yearning for friendship,
explained Benjamin’s Facebook request.
Upon Allana’s urging,
he offered social isolation as further explanation.
He praised her socialising tips
and accepted their estrangement.
Alanna was treating counting to two
like it was advanced calculus.
Suspecting Ben was still in love with her,
she questioned him beyond midnight.
His task was as titanic
as explaining colour to the congenitally blind.

Alanna’s social advice shapeshifted into paranoid rage.
She was convinced she was his emotional well,
that he wanted to suck her spirit dry.
If in love is considered evidence
of siphoning the nectar from the flower of marriage
and not in love is deemed a synonym for leach,
what’s the right answer?
All Benjamin wanted
was to rekindle the gleam of hope in her eyes
and bask in her childlike joy;
once a season or so,
if her schedule was as crowded
as a Beijing commuter train.
Multiple times, he’d accepted it wasn’t to be.
“Will you stop saying that” she raged.
Appeasing Alanna’s anger
was like wading through a swamp
without getting wet.
Silence is all that’s permitted,
until you’re chastised for not answering
and ultimately accused of prolonging the conversation.
Without the aid of emotional sonar
the argument labyrinth is as unnavigable
as extra-terrestrial runes.
Why can’t the scorpion pit and the exit
be labelled as such, in English?

In the old days,
Ben’s moods were as erratic as mountain weather.
His button pusher denied her console existed.
How do you have a rational conversation
with someone who is reacting to history
like a viper tortured with a cat of nine tails?
In the context of now,
Alanna’s cynicism was as unfathomable
as the behaviour of an accountant
who writes vampire penguin novels
on his clients tax returns
and mails them to A.S.I.O for decryption.
In the context of history,
her paranoid fury was comprehensible.

Desperate for a serene goodbye,
Benjamin persevered to no avail.
“You’re not a prisoner in this conversation”
he typed,
after his apologies and acknowledgements
were machine gunned again.

They had been two damaged people
trying to heal each other.
Benjamin hadn’t been ambushed with a hammer
or physically felt the blood smeared tracings
of The Beast’s knife,
but he’d been as distraught as a polar bear
on a collapsing ice shelf nonetheless.

Their compatibility was a sand island
at the mercy of swirling currents.
Ben wasn’t trying to revive the dead,
just restore what lived.
Alanna assured him their friendship could not emerge
from its nuclear winter.
Which part of “I accept our estrangement” hadn’t she heard?
What did she imagine he sought now?
It was all as bamboozling as monkeys
randomly rearranging a novel.
What had been cut and pasted in her head?

Memories of Alanna pestering him to purge
his creative writing obsession
and transform into a dancefloor worshipping extrovert,
seeped back into Ben’s exhausted brain.
It was time to get ready for work.

The news Allana’s auntie was buried alive,
as the roof of a limestone cave collapsed,
beneath her quadbike,
shed further light on her ill temper.

A turn of the century Valentine’s Day rose,
sits in its frame, slowly crumbling to dust.
Ultimately, Ben will scatter its remains
in the river pools they waded across,
before hope was rationed like tank water.

 

 

 

 

 

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The Cleansing

My efforts were more futile
than chasing the yellow jersey,
with a Penny-farthing and a vial of heroin.
You roared in exasperation,
as another match melded with soaked ashes.
“There is no friendship phoenix” you screeched.

As the storm erupts,
memories of pouring drums of kerosene
on our bond’s dwindling flames
are as muffled as riverbed gunshots.
The deluge is a secular baptism,
washing away vestiges of nightmares.

Rain Road is a sauna.
A rooftop drummer
dares the lightning to char him to oblivion.
Parkhour wunderkinds display the true meaning
of living on the edge.
The bookmaker smirks
as Death hemorrhages Benjamins.
Bankers clamor to offer loans.
Life is tumultuous enough
without challenging Death to a duel.

The rain barrage intensifies,
cleansing me of your toxic bewilderment.

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Mystery Flight

An otherworldly flying machine landed in the lake,
as vertically as the cliff diving daredevils before it.
The roof opened, like the shutter on a camera,
to reveal a stage. Sound smiths glided into position.

‘I’m Opal Flame and we are Stone Fireworks,’
the front woman roared
with the intensity of a concussion bomb.
She launched into the first verse,
of a song she hadn’t written yet.

‘Strang strums her chords of inspiration,
Drummond’s tropical ocean eyes blaze
with freestyle motor cross concentration.
From the semi darkened stage to the sea
her furious beats meld with my recitation.

The flaming canyon on my dress says I’m wild
The river between claims my beauty is serene.
The glint in my eye says I’m anything but mild.

Forget the album, my spirit needs renewing;
the storm flies, it’s a manic medley brewing;
Stone Fireworks is a geyser of sublime tricks,
bolder than Mandela, as different as Hendrix.

Drummond’s sticks are a blurry dance,
a wizard’s soaring chords take a chance,
I’m catapulted into an adlibbing trance;
Stone Fireworks

In flight writing and reciting igniting;
between Adelaide and Belgrade,
Budapest and Bucharest,
there’s no time to book a rest.

At the top for a geo age,
we float to centre stage,
to melt the world’s rage.
Stone Fireworks

In flight writing and reciting igniting;
our rhythm is robotic, the beat hypnotic,
the retreat amniotic – Stone Fireworks.

Asteroid sized opals strike black holes,
on a 3D screen.
It’s the dullest of doldrums, after all your
ears have seen.

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Party Hopper

Is the lady opposite me mute?
In search of a reaction
I compose a tribute to the sunrise.
Trickles of molten gold caress vapor canyons!
Dioxin devastated water ways
cannot banish the suns sanguine art.
Fiery mist overwhelms factory haze
as it climbs to a pale blue pinnacle.

I finally notice her pale blue pallor.
How did I not realize she was dead?
I blame it on her sunglasses
and the zombie like expressions
of living, breathing commuters,
hypnotized by their computers.
They’re perfect camouflage for a corpse.

In shock I exit the station and climb a wattle
and weeping Meadow Grass knitted embankment,
to the porthole in your back fence.

Your house is as hidden as a serial killer’s conscience.
The slow jujitsu of vines is divine.
They’re racing to slaughter the mortar.
The party is in its embryonic stages.
I stash soft drink in an Antarctic wading pool
until its embossed in frost.
Someone puts a cigar plant to my lips.
I’ve been told Cuphea’s less psychotropic
than an electron microscope is telescopic,
yet it seems I’ve caught a logic disease;
concertos are encoded in the breeze.
Is this the Mount Pinatubo of placebos?
Too many inquisitive psychiatrists at this party,
time to leave.

Stretchy gnomes, twining around Corymbias,
smirk at peach flavoured watermelons
parachuting to power lines.
They’ve been jettisoned from the mother ship
of intergalactic fruiterers.
Longer houses and the narrowing of the road
create the illusion the street is stretching.
The moon has left its orbit to ogle me.
Fireworks stream from my fingertips
to paint landscapes on the lunar surface.

I have no memory of my journey
to a festival somewhere in Bankstown.
After mulching through dubious fast food
I’m not in a lively mood.
The new lump on my neck is oddly geometrical.
Vague memories of extra-terrestrials,
testing hair products on me, return.
Possibly the shock of the dead woman on the train
is wreaking havoc with my otherwise healthy brain.

In a dilapidated culdesac,
Lebanese thespians douse the audience
in Jiddo and Jadda nostalgia.
Dimly lit laneways, feature iridescent pole dancers
decorating disused traffic lights.
On a treehouse veranda,
in the yard of a gargoyle collector,
the only band to combine a qunoon
with a shamisen and a didgeridoo
features a singer whose different too.

The journey back to your party,
via a boot with bullet holes for air holes,
is in keeping with my unorthodoxy goals.
I’d always wondered why Vincenzo’s
car cost only five hundred dollars.

My second entrance into the vine reclaimed house
is via candlelight.
Someone drove away with the solar panel trailer
but there’s no shortage of amplifier batteries
for the guitar solo equivalent
of pitch black roller coaster rides
through crumbling mountain sides.

One moment I was listening to drum beats
chasing stars from their lofty mantles,
then I awoke at midday
sprawled across a chest of drawers,
in drag and a sumo suit.
I’d hate to think what might’ve happened
if I’d been drinking.

Crossing the Line

Featured

James Meyer, a real estate agent
involved in a never ending love affair
with architecture, home decorating
and the sound of his own voice,
searched for his gold plated phone
like it was a time bomb
ready to splatter his charred flesh
the length and breadth of the carriage.

“I’ll call you, what’s your number”
Melanie, a leggy legal secretary, offered.
“Thanks” he murmured,
as a muffled ringtone emanated from his briefcase.

James was so accustomed to beautiful women’s company
he paid no further attention to Melanie,
until she sent him montages
more provocative than a declaration of war.
Her fear of revenge porn was on par with
Ayrton Senna’s fear of speeding.

“My blood type is AB-,
the rarest blood type in the world,
but it’s not as unique as my erotic repertoire”
Melanie boasted as they added a volume
to the encyclopedia of kink.
Their exploration of unorthodox desires
lead to places stranger than a Green Haired Turtle.

Melanie’s insistence on introducing
a Green Haired Turtle to the action crossed the line.
Moving interstate was no escape
from her showers of flowers 
and sketches of lewd stretches.
Hiding them from his detective fiancee
was as difficult as selling a Hollywood mansion
to a Himalayan mystic.  

James finally placated his pleading ex lover.
His descriptive flair made a sunset picnic,
in a weed infested forest remnant,
sound more blissful than a Tahitian honeymoon cruise.
He fastened a blindfold to Melanie
and guided her along the track.
Nudging her off a cliff was easier
than devouring her slice of strawberry cheesecake.
“Delicious” James remarked,
as Melanie bounced headfirst off a rocky outcrop,
before she could shriek.
He congratulated himself on her mercifully swift demise.
His guilt was akin to a sensitive soul’s remorse
after murdering a cockroach.

Imagining a Green Haired Turtle
as the third wheel in their love machine,
had James looking as distraught as
an accidental death witness.
“No, Melanie begging me to felate
a green haired turtle
didn’t evoke feelings of violent rage” James insisted,
as Detective Sergeant Mulder repeated questions
inspired by Melanie’s diary.
Forensics were unable to determine
if she’d fallen or been pushed.  

While James was driving to a Michelin star standard restaurant,
to celebrate Melanie’s demise,
a drunk driver crossed the median strip
and t boned his gleaming Maserati.

As he slipped in and out of consciousness,
James discovered his blood type was AB-,
the rarest in the world.

 

 

 

Photo

100 Days of Summer # 74 – No Passing

http://www.flickr.com/photos/elviskennedy/28401819854

Some rights are reserved, you must acknowledge the author, provide a link to the license and indicate if changes were made. You are not free to use this work, or derivatives of it, for commercial purposes. You must not prevent others from using it according to the license. For further information use the link above.

 

 

 

 

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The Stoned Sniffer Dog

1

It was the most surprising scene I’ve seen,
since Marcus mixed magic mushrooms
with my KFC coleslaw
and that day Colonel Sanders was a medusa geisha in ricin rain.

‘Ms Jordan, Phileus is known in police circles
as the dog with the golden nose.
He’s found marijuana residue on your walking frame’
Sergeant Cramer croaked.
His offsider Constable Jenson
searched the old lady’s cardigan pockets.
Cramer complained that Ms Jordan’s handbag
had more compartments than the pyramid of Giza
and that taking apart her walking frame
was like trying to dismantle the harbour bridge
with his bare hands.

You didn’t need to be psychic to know these two
were about as popular with the locals
as the inventor of the smart phone
at a Luddites Association meeting.

I might’ve broken my journey,
if it weren’t for the wall of police officers
monitoring the exits as though
they were checkpoints on the 38th parallel.

2.

Phileus and his cohorts glanced my way.
They looked as nervous as squids in an ink factory.

I couldn’t stop smirking as Sergeant Cramer fired questions.
‘Name?’ ‘Jason Merlin’
‘Are you in possession of marijuana?’ ‘No’
‘Are you a marijuana user?’ ‘No’
‘Address?’ ‘46 Hercules Close, Blackburn Hills’
‘Hands where I can see them’ Cramer croaked.
The spotty little slug faced, megalomaniac
was already red from exertion.
‘Hands against the wall.
Carrying any sharp objects Jason?’
‘Yeah heaps.’
‘What kind?’ an alarmed Constable Jensen barked.
‘Baked bean tin lids,
they can slice you open like a circular saw, look’
I pointed to my scarred right hand.
‘We’re interested in knives, needles and razor blades’
‘They’re unhealthy interests Sarge.’

‘Constable Jensen will search your bag now.
Quite frankly you reek of marijuana.
‘Sarge, if the smell is that strong
why didn’t you sniff me out yourself?’
‘Why are your pupils so dilated?’
‘I’m hyper from insomnia.
Actually, the truth is Sergeant, I’m just so excited
to be talking to a big strong, handsome man in uniform.’
‘Watch your mouth.’
‘Gotta a mirror sarge?’
‘Show me your tongue’ Cramer ordered.
‘Now that’s more like it baby, oh yeah’
I wiggled my tongue suggestively.
‘Power truly is an aphrodisiac sergeant’
Cramer looked at Jensen to share his disgust.
‘Can I confiscate his Playboy magazine’ Jenson pleaded
‘Get out of here’ Cramer roared,
with all the menace of a toothless, arthritic possum.
‘Not you Jensen, you get back here.’

‘I was hoping for some handcuff playtime’
I sighed, before sauntering off to catch the train,
with my hips swaying and butt twitching.
I peeked over my shoulder
and blew Sergeant Cramer a kiss.

From the train I yelled
‘That intellectually challenged sniffer mongrel
has got to be sampling the contraband sarge;
maybe it’s hashish cookies in his kibble
but I’d bet on bong water in his doggie bowl.’

Featured

The Man, The Mouth

Marcellus Black Magic Ellis,
Jed Jedi Jameson wants to fight you again.

Paul, that unco loser fights like an orangutan!
The Ellis/Jedi training camp would be as ace
as a submarine soaring into outer space.
Shaggy men of the forest would give chase,
their gangly arms thrashing about the place.
To those wild orange dudes we gotta be fair,
the Black Magic Man would be bustin moves
Allah would have trouble teaching to Estaire.

Is that so?
Tell me about your training camp
for the Benny Bulldozer Beane bout.

Paul, first I wanna tellya-bout ‘The Black Superman Plan.’

Your latest album?

Yeah, the title track goes like this.
Beane fancied himself a master tactician,
but couldn’t land leather on this magician.
His corner men found it super frightening,
how my flashy flurries laughed at lightning.
The wounded Benny Beane went berserk
with pile driving jabs and fancy footwork,
but this hip hop dancing pugilist Ghost
made him look as agile as a fence post,
and killed the myth of a stoush he’ll shirk.

I’m a boxer who has held on to my health
against men who made Satan shit himself.
It’s comical repartee coupled with fistic fury
that convinces every expert square ring jury
I fight flabby taste testers from the brewery,
but my flurry-combination compositions
have destroyed great warriors ambitions.
The hapless Himey Hydrogen Bomb Heller
told Fight News he’d be the victorious fella
The one time he landed flush I didn’t flinch,
dodging his ton per square inch was a cinch!

Marcellus, where was I?
Ah your training camp,
for the Benny Bulldozer Beane bout,
what can you tell me about it?

After vintage victories
over Harold Hand Grenade Hodgkins,
Con Catapult Compton and Kane Krakatoa Krane
I needed a sparring partner that makes
head butting supersonic flails look free of pain.
I would’ve beat Beane if I’d sparred for just one day
but so my rep as the best in the galaxy wouldn’t fray,
I made fun of the diabolical Brutus Adonis Atilla Hun.
I said he couldn’t knock me out with an elephant gun.
Brutus drove over from Albany to go toe to toe.
He imagined the accelerator was my pretty face
as he passed Mark Webber on the Nullarbor bro.
He’s hell mean, he shaves with a machete
and cuts his finger nails with a guillotine.
He played pin the razor blade on the piranha,
in a wading pool, before he’d seen inside a pre-school.

Marcellus, I’ve heard Brutus is
a more ferocious version of a young Mike Tyson.
What else can you tell me about
the only Catholic in the world
with Atilla as his confirmation name?
To ordinary men Brutus is scarier than an ogre
with woolly mammoth tusks for body piercings.
The Delai Lama says ‘facing Brutus is real bad karma,
he has the power in both hands to slam dunk a shot put,
while weighed down by Henry the Eighth’s suit of armor.’
Legend has it he once fought a dragon bare knuckle,
that he cantered to the ring without an uneasy blink,
and made that fire breathing, bunyip snacking,
winged goanna look like a cowardly, unco skink.

Marcellus, according to the Daily Telegraph,
Brutus was attacked by a whale
and he left it sucking plankton through a straw, for a month.
Why aren’t you afraid of him?

Paul, before I gave that dude a boxing lesson
my Dad told me Brutus Adonis Atilla Hun
is as dangerous as a chainsaw fight,
on a barbed wire fence.
He said ‘I’d rather you try to out ski an avalanche,
while wearing scorpions for ear rings,
than spar this bloke.
For some resistance training is
dragging a tyre around a football field.
Brutus Adonis Atilla Hun ties himself to a rubber dinghy
with a sumo wrestler in it
and runs backwards, across the Kalahari Desert.
His heavy bag has its own carriage on a freight train.
It was lowered into Camp Marcellus Ellis by crane.
After a round with Brutus Hercules Hun
I was expected to be rubble.
The dude stabs crazed hornet swarms
with his thorny stubble.

Marcellus, I heard you baffled this behemoth.
I gave Brutus an induction into my hall of destruction,
goaded that mammoth monster into pugilistic mania,
he tried to wreak more havoc than Dracula in Romania.
Black Superman’s golden gloves exiled him to Tasmania.
In the last round I used his head for a bongo drum
while I read the sports pages.

Marcellus look, Brutus is here.
Paul, I’ve got to answer an ultra-confidential call.
That bomb proof chamber looks private enough.

Marcellus, he mentioned a catch weight
and living in a sauna.
Brutus claims he’ll still be as dangerous
as Jurassic mega fauna.

I was just offered two hundred million
to lead a celebrity boxercise class at Wembley Stadium.

Didn’t you say your phone battery is dead?
I’m kidding, point me towards the dotted line.
With both hands I’ll strike him like a land mine.

Featured

Beyond the Menagerie Cafe

I thought socializing on public transport
was as difficult as swimming up Niagara Falls,
in lead flippers,
until Brook sashayed down the aisle.
It was impossible to disguise my fixation
on her curves and mischievous blue eyes.

She chatted away
as though we were each other’s earliest memories
and made moving to music
look as effortless as inhaling her perfume.
Brook had me believing
we could triumph over gravity together.
She crooned in my ear
‘I’m more flamboyant than Las Vegas
and after one night with me
you’ll deem that desert city’s dens of decadence
to be faintly saintly.’

As we stepped off the train,
I watched her phone disappear
into the confines of her brassiere.
From platform seven, a mescaline mystic
lectured a statue of Henry Parkes.
‘Once flame throwing, punk rock echidnas,
are a common sight, in the house of commons,
it’s time to send your prayers
to the eunuch banshees’ he bellowed.

A woman affected by a lack of drugs
recited poetry to the porcelain doll
in her transparent backpack.
“The messenger icon is as still as a fossil,
as frozen in time as cobwebs
that have lain undisturbed
since the Eureka Stockade was stormed.
Ned Kelly signed his name in the dust
carpeting the harp piano.
The fireplace hasn’t been lit
since the white haired fisherman
wading into the river below
took his first steps.
The messenger icon is as still as a fossil.
It’s been paralyzed by your apathy.

Brook clasped my eager fingers
and led me to The Menagerie Café.
Terriers tumbled through hoops.
Guinea pigs gambled their wits against obstacle courses.
Sunshine Peacocks and White Spot Demon Fish
explored fractured submarines,
as Brook disappeared beneath the tablecloth
to recreate erotic movie scenes.
She surfaced as though nothing were amiss,
leaving me on the cusp of fainting from bliss,
and insisted I follow her to a perspex dome,
reminiscent of an outpost on a dead planet.

Clouds of Alpine Black Swallowtails,
Crimson Roses and Australian Painted ladies retreated,
as we strolled to Brooks ornamental stone cottage.

Her cellar was a gothic 3d movie theatre,
The present dissolved.
Beasts thought to have withered,
merely hibernated in their septic mass grave.
Mistakenly exhumed, they stirred
as the suns cruel rays warmed their viral blood.
At noon they pinned thirteen grave diggers to the earth,
with bent and splintered shovels.
Their youthful corpses were scorched by lightning
and looted by vermin.
Once proud, their flesh eating virus gorged bodies
were a charred sludge by nightfall.
Kookaburras were silent,
as those risen abominations stretched wart ridden limbs
and swiftly disappeared
into the murkiest reaches of the forest;
in pursuit of the bounty hunters
who’d sold their old pelts
for the price of a hag whore.
After perusing that horror classic
we felt like sweeping the property
for resurrected Bunyips,
with high powered rifles in hand.

Brooke explored satellite television, pausing briefly
on the bombastic, chart topping, Princess Funtastic.
Her latest lyrics eulogised a Mecca of Surprise.
‘A trip through Club Psychedelic is expeditionary.
The entrance rules are absolutely discretionary.
You’ll glide in if you’re human confectionary.
Inside its walls guitarists duel and harmonise
in portrayals of betrayal and musical star rise.’
Brook scrolled through the channels
until we were lost in the depths of a bonsai jungle.
In a Lilliputian river, Titans tamed sphinxes.
At low tide, Atlantis broke the surface
like a ghost’s periscope.

Before the first hint of dawn,
I knelt before my Amazonian Goddess
and worshipped her with a flurry of kisses.
Among Dido Long Wings and Southern Festoons
sunrise bought the pages of the past into focus.
The little boy holding Brook’s hand,
in a kindergarten book week photo,
looked familiar.

 

 

Featured

Lone Swimmer

Waterlogged driftwood sinks beneath the swell.
The swimmer seeks shelter
on the summit
of a glorified boulder.
He explores guano fed gardens
in search of fresh water ponds.
All but one is a glorified puddle.

Giant crabs lurk in the caves below.
Their pincers have the power
to launch frying pans into the ocean.
They challenge seals to bloody brawls.

There’s enough skeletons
to keep the fire burning until spring.
The swimmer boils algae
in the remnants of the storm.
Will the moonlit beaches he dreams of
be stolen by the waves?

The swimming season is nigh.
How far beyond the horizon
to the next islet?
Sailors wave and smile politely
as they tack westward
in search of distressed canoeists.

Thirty nautical years to the continent,
reads a rust ravaged sign
peeking above the high water mark.

 

Featured

The Agony Refinery

As the searing breeze
and the breath of the storm collide,
writhing branches snap
and float to earth.
The furnace eyed man
swats them aside like mosquitoes.
The bruising upon his bones
is as ignored as a bent eye lash.
Rain strikes the pavement
like a swarm of crystal bullets.
Lightning destroys the tree
he climbed that morning.
Flood waters devour the path
he walked moments ago.
His pain must be transformed into beauty.
The agony refinery must be built
before death intervenes.

Featured

The Minimalist

The forest is Jasmin’s cathedral.
A
n earthenware compost bin is her Kaaba.
If she wants to gaze in wonder at a chandelier,
as opulent as the palace of Versailles,
she heads for a museum.

Jasmin breathes deeply and easily,
in a room free of needless things.
In her studio apartment
it feels like there’s acres to dance in.
Her mind floats where it wants to go,
with or without her body in tow.

Every file on Jasmin’s laptop
is as memorable as a prize winning novel.
In her trilogies,
schooners are life jackets,
for trade wind harnessing dragons.
Their sky roaming brethren
incinerate buccaneer rapists.

Jasmin replenishes her imagination
in the submarine valleys
of mangrove guarded lagoons.

Sleep is a temporary death.
She rises with an urge to write
unsurpassed by Shakespeare in chains.

Featured

The Aromatherapist

In the half light, Rosemary disrobed
as unselfconsciously as a Burlesque Princess.
In her sing song voice,
Angela spoke of the benefits of Neroli Oil,
stroked into the glistening, lily white, back
of her favourite flower arranger.

Angela separated her petite guest
from perfume scented black lace
and continued her spiel.
‘Neroli, the oil of the orange blossom,
is named after Italian Royalty.
It infuses a calm cheerfulness
into listless, despairing hours.
It’s a current upon which to drift
into the world of dreams
and a wetter of appetites.

Her willing captive lay down
upon silk sheets.
The room was awash with sultry jazz.
Angela poured the carrier oil
on to the bedazzled beauty’s baby smooth skin.
Her soothing hands
glided over the contours of Rosie’s back.
Drops of Neroli plummeted from the bottle.

The anointed purred in contentment
long before Angie’s feathery finger strokes
reached the zenith of her thighs.

Tremors radiated from Rosie’s core,
from Angie’s voice and nothing more.
Her breathe quickened
as her host displayed the menu of finales.

She paid in roses injected with rainbows.
Once she’d thought her erotic sorceress
as unobtainable as a lone gem,
buried
somewhere atop Kilimanjaro.

Spin

Slumlords value their bloated empires
above extinguishing poverty’s fires.
Where are the maverick biographers?
Journos have become stenographers!
Corporations craft election slogans
to hypnotize the dimmest bogans.
More sophisticated emotive talks
are educated peoples tuning forks.
May the pathetic lies be superseded,
real policy info is all that’s needed.
In a world where corrupt is a kind label,
I dream of genuine cards on the table.

 

Fun House

Every ceiling is a labyrinthine oil painting
teeming with extra terrestrial orgies.
The walls are panoramic woodcuts.
Stepping into those mountain scenes
is as conceivable as
strolling into the masseuse crowded sauna.
Every stage is a marble chessboard
adorned with crystal armies.
Upon their gleaming surfaces,
fembot strippers re-enact legendary epics.
In dim light
they’re indistinguishable from flesh and blood.
The table dancer’s nipple tassels
are as opulent as the Taj Mahal.
After laying eyes on her glamorous glutes
God dropped her cosmic chisel in disbelief.
In the hallway
lingerie models frolic on inflatable fortresses,
their skirts billowing like parachutes.
The bookcases are mahogany ballerinas
spinning like manic frisbees.
Every balcony is a carnival ride
rotating as swiftly as Jupiter
after sixteen jugs of coffee.
Who has been there just once?

Fragile

A connection as fragile as a pansy
in the path of a Panzer
is snipped by the mandibles of your almighty schedule,
or someone with a Mercedes,
a six pack and a cash stack.
Opportunities as fake as the moon walker
and his papier mache face,
lay Sequoias across my gold brick road.
When will the mirage catcher
banish the illusion thatcher?

Ancient Update

I TOLD YOU, YOU CAN GO ANYWHERE ON PUBLIC TRANSPORT! proclaimed my Facebook status update from twelve years ago. Where in the universe could I have gone that had me boldly declaring the magic of the local public transport system? Had someone told me it wasn’t possible to catch three trains and two buses to across the road from work that day? At first I couldn’t think of anything more intriguing than that.

Recalling events buried in the cobwebs of ancient history can be like trying to get hold of a mosquito that has mistaken your drink for a diving pool. If you try too hard to grip it, it retreats on a finger fueled current. Snatching at your memories doesn’t work any better than snatching at a cricket ball.

Eventually I recalled exactly what my enigmatic post was about. It was a reference to the last time I’d fallen asleep on the train and had a dream more vivid than waking life. I had rented a Back to the Future Three DVD the night before. Was that why the train had traveled in space and time after accelerating to eighty eight miles per hour? It finally came to a halt in a Martian museum, millions of years before the red planet was reduced to a deserted wasteland and intergalactic scavengers, such as Hans Solo and Chewbacca, removed all signs of its ancient civilization.

The Martian zoos were larger than their major cities and dominated by mega-fauna ranging from what looked like wombats the size of buffalo to surprisingly large specimens of Tyrannosaurus Rex. There were also hundreds of species of humanoids, some of which were amphibious. Most species lived on such large tracts of land they didn’t know they were in captivity. The tourists hovering overhead, on disc shaped viewing platforms, were their Gods.

The first hint it was all a dream was the remarkably Earth like gravity on a planet so vastly different in mass to Earth. The second hint was that English seemed to be the first or second language of most of the creatures I encountered, including the luminescent beetles that mined my ear wax and the arachnids that employed their curling antennae to fashioned afro wigs from my eyebrow trimmings.

Perhaps it was the Sydney Gay Mardi Gra that inspired the perpetual Martian street parades. There was always a ten mile long party going on somewhere. It was typically impossible to tell the cosplaying Martians from the intergalactic tourists. All the floats floated, there was nothing as quaint as wheels to be seen. Some of the participants appeared to be levitating without the aid of technology.

The ancient Martian equivalent to television more closely resembled astral travelling inside a story than the quaint virtual reality experiences of 21st century Earth. I was half way through a souvenir selecting expedition when the pointlessness of of the activity dawned on me. If I was dreaming, how was I going to take the eons old Martian coins, figurines and skull necklaces home?

By the time I awoke, the earthly train on which I was slumped over was stopping at Bomaderry Station, quite a distance south of Gosford, my intended destination. I had no memory of changing trains multiple times. My backpack was absurdly heavy, had someone filled it with bricks while I slept? It was full almost to the point of bursting. I heard what sounded like coins clinking together inside.

 

More

In the valley,
chainsaws roar like banshees lacerated by laryngitis.
“You’re going the wrong way,”
say mist shrouded cliff faces
painted red and black with torn corpses.
Landslide scarred trails
as coiled as suspension springs
guard windswept summits.
Nine inch thorns lurk in wheel ruts.
Weary travelers ascend on foot.

Before a hearth as old as mastery of fire
they mistake mischievous fungus
for a familiar delicacy.
Ceilings become floors
and the walls gateways to sensations
more familiar to bat scorpions
politely sipping the blood of platypus platoons.
The weary wanderers see the universe
through the eyes of supernovae,
and goblins on toad back
in the marshes of Merble.

In this enchanted hovel,
the five senses are merely the opening line
of an epic.

Reanimated

I felt as twisted as a plait,
as directionless as a jellyfish,
as drained as a sponge
left to rot in the dunes.
My muse had been missing for countless moons.
The girl in the library reanimated her.
She was as focused as Buddha,
as odd as Lady Gaga on LSD multiplied by three.
Every psychedelic wonderland in the universe
swims into this dimension
through her tears of mirth.

Morning Mayhem

Icy needles cease before the bucket is filled.
Dressing with eyes on the clock.
Bursting through the door like a riot squad.
Legs pumping, slipping, sliding
– rain-washed tarmac
shines like the Milky Way.
Accelerating as frantically
as a gold medal favorite in fourth.
Lungs desperately dragging oxygen
from diesel stained fog.

At the lights,
the bus is as still
as the corpse in the storm water drain.
Mercifully the doors fold open.
Aeons into the journey,
the work cancellation message arrives
as undetected as a ninja.

Gone

The kettle is hotter than lava.
and her pillow still warm.
Upon a coffee table as utilitarian as a cardboard box,
Morning Glory protrudes from a 1915 Coca Cola bottle.
Washington damning headlines
are as moist as the President’s eyes.
An abandoned chess match dominates the kitchen bench.
There’s puddles in the potplants.
The surveillance swarm can’t tell the eight ball
from the white.
Airport, bus terminal, taxi stand, car rental agency?
Which drain could could the whistleblower be navigating
like an Einsteinian rat?
Which forest swamp might she be drifting through
on a camouflaged barge?
Nobody knows which escape roulette to vet.