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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
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.
It’s a fact, 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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Undercurrent

Perched on a crowded veranda,
I ink ‘Fruit bats disturb the flight
of cherry blossoms falling
beneath soothing moonlight’

On an empty veranda,
I contemplate forests stretching to coastal cauldrons.
The annihilation of foaming crests,
on towering cliff faces,
is as precise as a master craftsmen’s chisel.
In this dimension every molecule is mindful;
Michelangelo is reborn as the ocean.

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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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Dog Fight

The Red Baron of love has flown into town,
to machine gun a drunk cherub archer down.

Hilda claims she adores her Bohemian bard
but all that girl really loves is his credit card.

Weekends spent in Hawaii and romantic odes
will never ever satisfy the Queen of the toads.

She wants to be Winston Yu’s child and owner.
He’s her winning Lotto ticket and sperm donor.

The week after the wedding, and harbour cruise,
Win wants a divorce, she can’t believe the news.

How much mayhem can only one man wreak?
He expects her to survive on ten grand a week.

Clearly his devotion wasn’t Grand Canyon deep.
She said she wouldn’t really kill him in his sleep.

The Red Baron of love has flown into town,
to machine gun a drunk cherub archer down.

It has been a long time since Cupid has spoken.
His wings are Swiss cheese and his arrows broken.

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Aphrodite Versus Eleos

Zeus’s daughter is on Tinder.
Luscious creatures of mortal birth
cannot compete.
They train with the scientific zeal
Tesla lit up the world,
but dedication cannot elevate them
to the Zenith of Olympus.

The Goddess of desire has grown weary
of clueless nineteen year old boys.
While Earthly delights chase Adonis,
Aphrodite has chosen me,
for a few hours at least.
I’m an intriguing museum piece.
Does it still work, she wants to know.
She seems as superficial as a spray on tan.
Athena thinks “I’m as hypocritical
as the no fat chicks sticker
on the ice cream man’s panel van.”
I am reaching for Aphrodite’s mind,
between gaping in awe
at her Isis humbling hips.
That’s a luxury apartment for triplets right there.

Yes, Isis, the Egyptian Goddess of fertility.
Aphrodite hasn’t stunned
any terrorist organizations into submission
with her delectable geometry lately.

Her Lusciousness finds His Quirkiness hilarious,
but won’t tax herself by responding beyond LOL.
Would she appreciate the dawn sun,
peeking above the waves,
if it was as grey as coastal soil?
Has she ceased lingerie shopping,
to wonder what I mean?
Globules of glibness infect her goblet of glamour.

Maybe the Goddess of desire possesses
the acerbic wit to light Momus’s wick,
and embarrass Thoth in debate, chess and poker,
between out-pranking Gotham’s nemesis the Joker.
But all she need do to transcend the magic of genie’s,
is decorate herself with a stunning array of bikinis
and she knows it!

Tomorrow I’m Aphrodite’s fashion consultant.
The flowers on her short fluttery dress,
are sure to look more alive
than the fluffy, golden Acacia blooms
along the trail.
She’s every flavour I wish to savour,
but who’s the woman behind the myth?

Zeus’s daughter isn’t the only Goddess
in the Lotto of love.
Yesterday, Eleos entered the fray.
She transcends dessert, she’s every course,
in the juxtaposition of parallel universes.
Hot springs overlooking jungle horizons,
can’t compare to lacing hands
with the Goddess of compassion.
Everyone within her orbit is bathed in love.

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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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The Mirrored Men

The multi hued dawn,
is as sensuous as a divine kimono.
Crepe Myrtle blooms dance in the breeze, 
like care free children.
The olfactory bliss of Lemon Myrtle
is marred by diesel fumes.

The forest beckons.
Serenity shatters like a glass cathedral,
in the path of a choir boys vengeance.
Punk parrots die of fright mid flight.
Their shadows scream
like throat cancer afflicted banshees.

In a hilltop clearing, 
hooded figures move as one.
Gravity is their slave,
their synchronicity as unnerving
as the taxidermied hybrids,
hanging from the Olive grove.

They traverse treacherous terrain
more fluently than a waterfall. 

As slowly as a fish suffocating on a jetty,
they pivot in my direction;
their faces turn faster than their heads.

My limb hair is as upright
as the star picket I’ve torn from the Earth.
Their frog like mouths curl into leering grins, 
as I meet their black hole like gaze.
They close the distance
as gradually as grains shifting in an hourglass.

Midnight has come from nowhere.  
The star picket has been twisted
into the infinity symbol
and embedded in the trunk of an Angophora.

 

 

This poem was inspired by the Monsters Among Us Podcast. http://www.monstersamonguspodcast.com/

 

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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.

Ruby Adagio

Featured

With ballerina elegance,
Ruby banishes the brilliance of lesser champions.
She doesn’t blast her opponent’s shots into plywood,
like a crude assassin,
her equivalent of a knockout blow
is as gentle as the valet parking of a vintage Rolls.
As nonchalantly as a child skimming stones across a pond,
she nudges resting touchers into the oblivion of the ditch.

Ruby’s admiration for her adversary’s finest moments
and respectful silence during their botched attempts at glory,
are as legendary as her invincibility.
Others pursue victory, Ruby chases beauty.

The glimmer in the tropical depths of her eyes intensifies
as she sends another shimmering, sailing ship embossed, bowl
arcing across a youthful summer green,
with impossible precision.

 

 

 

Photo

Inglewood Lawn Bowling Club, by Bill Longstaff

www.flickr.com/photos/57766598

Some rights reserved, you must acknowledge the author, provide a link to the license and indicate if changes were made. If you alter this work you must distribute your contribution under the same license as the original. You must not restrict others from doing anything the license permits. For further information use the link above.

 

I Admit it, it was I, DwiteDaSpriteKnight

Featured

‘I rolled the Pope Mobile
because a keg of holy water
failed to cure my sunburn.
Then I decapitated one hundred and seven
Ronald Macdonald statues,
I smashed those smiling blood haired freaks.
Who can justify those aberrations occupying public space?
Four confectionary cafes, I bombed them,
junk food is dangerous.
On my way here I turned Spice World into a firecracker.
I mean that awful pop music movie,
not the shop Father!
I’d water down the blood of Christ if I were you.’

‘Sir this is an R.B.T unit,
not a mobile confessional booth.
You’ll be accompanying me to the station for a blood test.’

‘Why don’t you get your blood tested
by Xavier and Bond like me sergeant?
Besides you’re a big boy now aren’t you?
Surely you don’t need someone to hold your hand.
Have health and safety fads robbed you of your gonads?
If you were a boat, I doubt you could you cross a moat
guarded by the shadows of retreating tadpoles.

‘The blood test is for you sir!’

“Why, you haven’t even breathe tested me yet?
Father, if these police officer fantasies persist,
you should seek professional help

Photo

Code 3 Full LED light bar HB 203 by Highway Patrol images

www.flickr.com/photos/special-fx/4928360365

Some rights are reserved, you must acknowledge the author, provide a link to the license and indicate if changes have been made. You must not prevent others from using this work according to the license. For further information use the link above.

 

 

 

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

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.

 

 

 

 

Featured

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

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.

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

There’s enough skeletons
to stave off hypothermia for a month.
The swimmer boils algae,
in the remnants of the storm.
As he licks swiftly disappearing puddles,
he dreams of serene beaches,
beneath radiant moons.
Will they be stolen by the storm?

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 canoeists to save.

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.

The Messenger

Everyone said that horseback drama
had taken it’s toll on Nautilus Glen.
He was prone to vanishing into mystical haze.
The former jockey’s dreadlocks
concealed him like a burka.
He knew the gardens too well to part them.
After what appeared to be another morning
of sending telepathic messages
to a statue of Zeus,
Nautilus turned to address me.
When he finally spoke,
his words painted a picture as disturbing
as a Munch and Picasso hybrid.
“The frozen wasteland of his soul is on fire.
His granite liquefying gaze,
makes sparks of supernovas.
His enemies melt like hail stones
stranded in the core of the sun.
What say you, Surreal Art Pyschonaut?

“Um, um, that’s amazing” I muttered,
hoping supreme admiration
is still the solution to the equation
that is Nautilus Glen.
He shook his head.
“What it is, is dangerous” he mumbled,
as he glanced nervously over his shoulder,
before continuing his silent conversations
with stone locked divinity.
“Whose granite liquefying gaze” I wondered.

It was 3a.m
when my upstairs bedroom window shattered.
As I hurried downstairs, my bowels loosened.
Thankfully the doors were locked and bolted.

.22 calibre rifle in hand,
I gazed at the yards from the balcony.
There was something inhuman,
about it’s leering grin.
It’s eyes made the Spanish inquisition
look as harmless as a bee hummingbird.
Aware I was on the verge
of pulling the trigger,
it stopped.
It’s hideous smile broadened,
as it turned
and casually walked away.

I wasn’t sure whether to call the police,
a psychiatrist, or an exorcist.
Footprints leading into the forest
made up my mind.

Denial

You live in a fantasy world,
where false rape allegations
are as common as shoplifting in a ghetto.

She may be stubborn and bossy, but she’s not a liar.
Open your eyes to the evil in the turd you call sire.
It’s too horrible, so all you consider is vindication.
Forget your foolish talk of her insane imagination.
I’ve seen her fists fly, in sleepwalking nightmares.
It’s marathons in hell, the demons come in pairs.
Then there is the crop of bruises and torn clothes.
Knives beneath her pillow, what do you make of those?

They cremated him
because the worms didn’t want him.
Will you peer into the darkness
before the Reaper arrives?

Tax Man

Miles Somerset’s mental map of his briefcase’s contents was as accurate as his dream images of his garden, a place where he’d spent countless hours reading tax law tomes, tracts of tax philosophy, tax themed novels and tax inspired poetry. There was nothing tax related that hadn’t happened there. He’d even hired a beautiful bikini clad woman to tattoo a calculator on to his chest, in the shade of his Frangipani tree and paid cash to avoid the G.S.T. It was arguably his most exciting acts of tax evasion that financial year. Miles occasionally branched out into other topics, but managed to view them all from the perspective of tax.

Overseas holidays hardly dimmed Miles tax obsession. While being treated to panoramic views of the Amazon, he was busy contemplating the tax deductions he could get for the pilot, if he were among his clientele. As he focussed more intently on the shrinking expanse of river riddled jungle, he considered how he could conceivably fatten the tax return of the tour operators below.

Whether viewing a South American jungle or a French mediaeval jail, Miles’ tax dissecting, tax deflecting, tax collecting mind was in overdrive. At the age of twelve, he’d made a conscious decision to leave the spontaneity of childhood behind. He still loved to think on his feet during tax related crises though. Otherwise he wasn’t one to improvise, with the possible exception of his odes to the Medicare levy, which he composed while busking at railway stations with his ancient classical guitar.

For exercise, Miles lifted filing cabinets overladen with tax related documents. He also practised a blend of Brazilian ju-jitsu and free style wrestling, augmented by Thai boxing. One never knew when some aimless thug would need to be disciplined for interrupting Miles almighty schedule. He’d pinned a few would be wallet snatchers to the ground in his time and tortured most of them, usually by quizzing them on the details of their tax return. No matter who their accountant was Miles invariably left them devastated by missed opportunities for deductions.

It was while Miles was seated on a park bench, reading the Financial Review, that he first spotted the hornet like drone in his peripheral vision. It accelerated so rapidly it appeared to vanish from one spot and reappear in another. Miles was too engrossed in an article on the history of taxation in the colony of New South Wales, to notice the hornet like contraption hovering above him. It sent a signal to the interdimensional craft lurking above the clouds. If it weren’t for its radar absorbent force field, it would surely have been confronted by a squadron of fighter planes already. The ship was seen by hundreds of commercial airline passengers, on several flights, but before anyone had time to video or photograph it, it teleported out of range.

Miles finally realized something strange was happening when he was enveloped in a mysterious cloud of luminous gas. By the time his feet left the ground he was in an R.E.M state. He remained so until he was onboard what his nephews would’ve called the mothership. Miles called it an unforeseeable interruption to his schedule, which on his scale of disasters was akin to genocide. The temporary paralysis that fastened him to the gleaming white floor did nothing to improve his mood.

Once he was permitted to sit up and open his eyes, Miles discovered he was in the middle of an indoor stadium built for beings who were two foot tall at most. Unseen instruments scanned his internal organs from a distance. Nanobots piloted submarines through his bloodstream. Literally thousands of tests had been conducted by the time Miles suspected anything odd was afoot.

Miles vaguely humanoid captors possessed noise cancelling translation helmets that could decipher most languages within a one trillion light year radius. They were a vast improvement on the crude sound of primitive Earthling speech intermingled with the translation. Miles skull had been mapped weeks ago, from a distance, by his captors manufacturing robots. The mobile factory they operated had mined, refined and crafted the necessary materials into a custom-made translation helmet that fitted him as snugly as his eyes fitted their sockets.

At first, Miles imagined the translation helmet was protective equipment for an upcoming gladiatorial contest and that the extra terrestrials seated in what he thought was a commentary box, spoke English with a London accent. The truth eventually dawned on him. If he’d had the opportunity to hear his captors language it would’ve sounded vaguely like classical music to his uncomprehending ears.

“I don’t know who you guys are or how you mutated into your current form and quite frankly I don’t give a fuck but if you don’t return me to the park from which you abducted me, right now, I’ll report you to the ATO, the IRS, the IMF and worse” Miles raged.

The aliens didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the level of denial it took for Miles to confuse them with genetically damaged humans. He was far more intelligent than the golden retriever they’d interviewed a few hours ago, but judging by some of his errors one wouldn’t think so. They’d never gotten used to the frequent, out of context, apparently sexual references, typical of English-speaking Earthlings. Their boredom, stemming from being insulted with just one adjective, had grown since they’d had the contrasting pleasure of talking to Robin Williams. They’d been tempted to adopt him as a pet.

Miles threats were even less intimidating, to the diminutive extra-terrestrials,, than the barking of the golden retriever, who had threatened to eat them if they didn’t prepare a banquet for him. They possessed a vast array of weapons that could do everything from programming Miles to tear out his major arteries, with a pair of pliers, to imploding his brain. Their means of activating these highly intelligent weapons were as numerous as the potential causes of death.

What did frighten the tiny interdimensional travellers was the network of microscopic computers embedded in Miles’ body. Their computer hardware experts confirmed they’d been installed by the Slorg’s, a war mongering Alpha Centaurian species, who possessed the astral projective, psychokinetic and pyrokinetic powers to remould marble statues from light years away. Their extra sensory abilities paled into insignificance, in comparison with their intellects. Interfering with a Slorg research specimen was potentially more dangerous than swimming naked in a volcano. There was no option but to release Miles immediately, draft an apology letter and contemplate the best way to bargain for their lives.

Another mysterious cloud of luminous gas transported Miles back to the park bench, where he’d been relaxing with a copy of the Financial Review. Miles was extremely impressed with his authoritative display onboard the gigantic experimental aircraft. Bowing to his reflection in the duckpond wasn’t enough. He further highlighted his supremacy with a shadow kickboxing exhibition, for the homeless people congregating in the old band stand. What was meant to impress them only served to terrify them. They cheered when Miles finally left the sanctuary of the park for the tax related adventures that awaited him in the office. In response, he raised his arms in triumph.

By the time Miles realized he’d left his copy of the Financial Review on the park bench, he was already in the pedestrian tunnel leading to Somerset Tax Consultants. He ran back to retrieve the newspaper. The thought of going over his media budget by four dollars was intolerable. Miles took no notice of the golden retriever running alongside him until it snatched his newspaper and galloped towards a heavily wooded area of the park. The homeless people in the bandstand laughed uproariously as Miles gave chase. He cursed like a gangster as mud splattered his trousers.

The mischievous Labrador finally dropped the teeth punctured, saliva saturated newspaper at the feet of a pin stripe suit clad oddity. The Slorgs had been too hasty in the development of their new Homo sapien avatars. Their facial expressions weren’t quite natural. They reminded Miles of the sex robot he’d discreetly purchased during his trip to Tokyo.

Miles couldn’t resist the opportunity to do business “Sir, there’s no need to steal my newspaper and corrupt this poor, innocent animal in the process. If you’re looking for a financial adviser, there are several talented associates of mine whom I can recommend, depending on the size of your portfolio and your investment needs.”

“Silence Homo sapien, I have no need for the quaint wealth proliferation strategies your dumbass friends wish to foist on me. I’ll let you in on a little secret, that beautiful tattooist, who illustrated your torso with a calculator, wasn’t really a tattooist, it was one of our I.T specialists. It injected probes into your bloodstream. These probes collected the necessary raw materials from your organs to build a computer network, for the purposes of conducting research into the Homo sapien immune system. We plan to use the resulting discoveries to improve medical treatment for the hundreds of species of hominids on display in the wildlife parks, on our home planet.

“The Orbloober’s, the tiny creatures who abducted you this morning, have been terrified of us ever since we vaporised some of their hospital ships, in response to their unwitting theft of some of our research specimens. They really should be more careful. We’ve had quite enough of reading their apology letters. Anyway, it’s been nice to talking to you, I’ve got things to sabotage, places to be, creatures to kill”

Miles watched in awe,  as a tiny reconnaissance drone, that had been briefly trapped in Gary the golden retriever’s intestinal tract, flew out one of his nostrils.

“I’ve been looking for that for hours. No, it is not food” the Slorg explained to Gary, with what sounded like cacophonous barking to Miles. He was momentarily distracted by the sight of a wedge tailed eagle. When he looked around again the tall, odd looking stranger and Gary the Golden retriever were nowhere to be seen. Miles wondered if he’d inadvertently ingested psychotropic drugs, as he headed back in the direction of Somerset Tax Consultants.

 

 

 

 

 

The Trial of Billy Collins

The court finds the defendant
guilty as charged,
of five hundred and eighty two counts
of promulgating joy and serenity inspired verse.
The court finds the defendant
guilty as charged,
of seven hundred and twenty eight counts,
of writing poems accessible to the masses.

Mr Collins,
How can English literature student royalty
feel superior to commoners,
when you use such tiny words
to say more in one stanza
than they can
in scathing five thousand word reviews?

Mr Collins,
the bamboozlement genre
has been looking as battered as the Sphinx,
ever since you arrived,
with your glorified nursey rhymes,
that have the audacity to outsell novels.
Your work is overladen with peace and love.
Meanwhile hate and misery fuelled verse
languishes in the background,
like a street carnival corpse.

While the complainant finishes serving
his five year maximum insecurity sentence,
at Shakespeare University,
where you moonlight as an English professor,
the court finds it necessary
to relieve you of your pen license,
before the streets run red with ink.

Chess Man

Chess man was a one man legion,
undefeated in the Sydney Region.
And to every onlooker’s delight,
he never ran from a rap battle,
or declined a break dance fight.

He informed castle breakers,
wearing sturdy pace makers,
wielding their walking sticks
against reps of undertakers,
that a knight would bounce
off his plastic horse snout,
as his super sonic queen,
took that mutha fucka out.

Chess man tried to explain
it was nothing but a game,
as the first spray of bullets
ripped through his frame.

Blood for Fuel

Blood for fuel, a generation of genocide,
blood for fuel, freedom and hell collide.

During World War Two, the East Timorese
were as brave as mice wrestling pythons,
in support of Aussie guerrilla forces
combatting the Japanese.
If future Australian governments
showed their gratitude,
a stoned chimp invented trigonometry,
shortly after Nigeria
sent Sputnik to the surface of Mercury.

Blood for fuel, a generation of genocide,
blood for fuel, freedom and hell collide.

In 75,’ Radio Kupang
was about as subtle as the big bang,
with suggestive bursts of machine fire.
Before the invasion,
Indonesian codes were rendered as readable,
as Goldilocks and the Three Bears.
To Suharto’s delight,
the U.S gave the green light
for Indonesian forces to shoot, bomb
and napalm their way through
a third of the East Timorese population.

Blood for fuel, a generation of genocide,
blood for fuel, freedom and hell collide.

Successive Australian governments knew the story
like a pimp knows his way around a brothel.
They felt stealing Timor Gap oil
was more worth their toil
than aiding our south east Asian little brother.
East Timor was declared too poor for independence.
That’s as ironic as a Pol Pot memorial peace prize,
as absurd as Trump claiming the Pulitzer Prize.
It’s a story as nauseating
as snorting a gram of uranium.

Blood for fuel, a generation of genocide,
blood for fuel, freedom and hell collide.

 

Stella Brindabella

Stella Brindabella,
the demigod of fame walks among us.
She’s quick to declare
the coolest way to get men to stare,
is to accidentally, on purpose,
forget your underwear.
She wants to help the homeless,
but not while her diamond encrusted high heels
are in disrepair.

“Booty Shake Earthquake”
she’s labelled her size twelve rival’s latest music video.
She hopes to revive her own pop music career,
with singles like “the Geek and the Goddess”
and a remake of “Jimbo and the Bimbo”

The host of “Outsmarted by a Ten Year Old”,
discovered she’s slow,
when she said “diluting whiskey?
What a senseless way to go.
“Isn’t Africa a country, what’s an incontinent”
she demanded to know.

Reptile Relocation

Flipping stones,
in a windswept tussock world,
dotted with Snow Gum oases.
Over a million rocks turned
in this Stone Age raffle.
Don’t dare hope for little whip snakes,
or earless grassland dragons,
but be sure to capture them if they come.

In the lunch room,
grader and compacter drivers
swap tall tales of rampaging tiger snakes.
Wind turbines are erected in the distance.
Water trucks settle dusty tracks.
Aeons after noon,
we stir Lake Avon Road dust.

Beyond Nimmitabel,
kookaburras cackle at wallabies and roos,
playing tip with four wheel drives.
Echidnas and copperheads hide
at every bend in the track back
to our palatial stone and wood cabin.

Underneath murky rumbling skies,
I split wood,
as flame and scarlet robins flit by.
Stormy dusk fades to starry black.
Beside an alpine billabong,
I savour every sip of lager,
like a nibble of black market chocolate
at the height of an epic war.
Joel gestures towards a moonlit chessboard,
in a Melaleuca grove,
Hershel warms up for paddock croquet.
He’s arguing with his invisible caddy.
At least he’s wearing pants now.
The wombats were getting nervous.

Callie

Callie wants a bad boy to tame,
who knows he’s her soul mate
before he knows her name.
She purges fear and rage
with staplers and lighters.
Lust making is no escape,
unless she bites and is bitten.
She dreams of sucking sacrificial blood
from her master’s fingers
and sharing it in a kiss.

Callie waits for her protector to grow bored
with her plump curves, nipple rings
and a year’s rent worth of exquisite tattoo’s.
Then she let’s fly,
with a barrage of obscenities
as witty as Socrates
and as vulgar as bestiality in a sewer.

“It’s plain to see, you’re the kind of guy
who would inject a stroke victim with HIV.
I wouldn’t wish your drone on a serial killer.
Clearly, when God made you
he’d finished with the plot
and was on to the filler”
Callie lambasted her last boyfriend,
after she caught him flicking through
copies of Plus Size Prize, Petite Treat
and the Leggy Elite.
Teeing off on his smirk
was as tempting as ice cream pie,
long before he impregnated her sisters.
Callie drew frowny faces on her arms
with cigarettes instead.

After changing the locks,
the Princess of Pain retreated to a secluded corner,
of platform four
and played noughts and crosses on her thighs,
with a compass.
The most exquisite creature she’d ever seen,
locked eyes with her.

Callie blindly followed the corporate Goddess
on to the intercity express,
her dentist appointment
as forgotten as Neolithic past lives.
“I knew you’d follow” the mystery woman purred.
She opened her briefcase,
to reveal pain converted into string and ribbon art.
Callie quivered from excitement
over a rubenesque blonde,
with silk butterflies pinned to her breasts.
She was eager to emulate a flame haired beauty,
adorned with pink flamingos.

“You’re going to feature in an art exhibition”
the anonymous businesswoman promised.
Her modus operandi didn’t involve questions.
Callie unabashedly ogled her lady in shining armour.
Joan of Arc was among the characters Mistress Rowena played,
during business hours.