Featured

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/

 

Featured

Lone Swimmer

The glorified boulder is an insecure shelter
from monstrous waves and merciless rays.
It’s guano fed gardens are as vulnerable
as waterlogged driftwood.

Crabs the size of frying pans lurk in the shade.
Their flesh tearing pincers
challenge seals to bloody brawls.
Above their lairs,
seaweed fires stave of hypothermia.

The castaway licks puddles.
He dreams of serene beaches,
beneath radiant moons.
Will they be stolen by the storm?
How far beyond the horizon
is the next islet?

 

Midday, Twilight, Dusk and Nothing Darker.

I got sucked into looking at one of those online slide shows. It was 100 pictures of women’s beauty and clearly about more than base gratification. There was a vast array of cultural beauty on display, often in idyllic settings. Whoever compiled the list was careful to be representative of the whole world, including those who are the minority everywhere, the visibly disabled. They weren’t overly biased towards youth either.

How astonishingly representative! Well that’s what I thought at first. Where is Africa, I began to wonder. Has it sunk into the sea since last night? Is it only those with white, tea and coffee coloured skin that can swim? I suppose it’s unreasonable to expect every compilation to say it all, but with a hundred pictures and nobody nearly as black as I am white, I was disappointed, for a variety of reasons.

Forget midday, twilight, dusk and nothing darker! Black is bliss.  Ignoring African skin is forgetting the spirit that resides within. Every shade of the flesh rainbow is as exquisite as fingertips gliding across liquid satin.

Living Garbage

Thornsword Earwig, telepathically ordered the latest version of Time Optimizer to call his wife. After analysing one hundred and seventy million words of his manual conversations it approximated his personality eerily well.

“A toxic afternoon to you too Jyena. Planet Droom is great babe, it’s a wonderful place to start a family.  Droom’s dominant creatures are anatomically almost identical to Homo sapiens, a typically stupid Earthling primate, but they’re much smarter. Droom is frequented by innumerable impressive species. Its prison population is hardly homogenous either and neither are the participants in its most popular reality television show Living Garbage. It’s a title that reminds me of your friends Jyena. I’ve already given you four extensions for your higher calibre acquaintances project, I look forward to the next update.”

“Returning to a more important subject, every episode of Living Garbage features an astounding array of incarcerated creatures Jyena. They’re the worst imaginable prisoners. A smattering of murderers and rapists, of valuable citizens, walk among the most despicable felons of all, activists. The most notorious is Lomandra Whamboozle. Her diabolical ascent among the ranks of anti juvenile slavery campaigners, resulted in her becoming the most wanted Droomian fugitive.

“No words can convey how grateful I am to those who apprehended her. The thought of having to purchase and insure an expensive robot to perform cleaning, cooking and maintenance tasks sickens me. It’s not necessary to insure juvenile slaves, they’re as replaceable as plastic bags. They can be abducted from planets in neighbouring galaxies thousands at a time. It’s like picking fruit without having to grow the orchards.  Lomandra Whamboozle and her comrades could have ended all that in less than a generation, if most of them hadn’t been so gloriously slain.”

“Like a lot of people, I was ecstatic when I heard Lomandra had been conscripted to appear on Living Garbage. Unbelievably, the multi species attacks on her, since her sentence began, have completely and utterly failed to break her spirit, but the 28th episode of Living Garbage will surely rectify that appallingly frustrating situation. Whamboozle has been led to believe the displaying, whipping, pawing and penetrating of her living carcass isn’t part of the show, that she will be given an opportunity to seek “justice” haha air quotes justice baby, air quotes justice. The Vangtorbs’s, Wungborb’s and Kraabslarb’s will teach her not to steal my slaves.”

“I’ve got to go Jyena, Living Garbage is about to start. What do you mean you have issues you need to discuss, didn’t you hear me, Living Garbage is about to begin. Cease your self centred whining woman and I will forgive you for speaking without an invitation to do so. Oh, you want a divorce do you? Call me back if you think of something important to discuss. It’s only ten seconds to Living Garbage sweetheart, make sure you call back during an ad break.”

While Time Optimiser did its thing, Thornsword made millions, by more closely monitoring his investments. A few calls to financially influential people, on an intergalactic scale, still trumped automatic trading. Any remotely significant citizen could purchase the best software. The synthetic approximation of Thornsword was a tad tactless, but the next upgrade of Time Optimiser was nigh.

“That’s weird, normally Jyena would’ve called back already, to apologise for her insolence” Thornsword muttered to himself as he watched the holographic orgy advertising his favourite brand of toothpaste. It was the first time he’d ever seen an ewok get down and down and dirty with an Andromedan goblin of any sort and he was impressed. As the advertisement receded, the mock courtroom, where Lomandra Whamboozle imagined justice was about to be served, came into focus.

At first the fake judge spoke Droomian legalese with ease but after a while he sounded like he was referring to a teleprompter. Whamboozle looked confused. Thornsword assumed she was asking herself why on Droom would an experienced judge stumble through a routine part of their job. Suddenly the room inverted. The hem of Lomandra’s translucent floral dress clung to her face as she fell to the padded ceiling. Thornsword whistled in appreciation at her matching floral silk delicates. Lomandra was briefly stuck in the most squishy folds of a vast waterbed, her legs flailing uselessly. The Vangtorb’s, Wungborb’s and Kraabslarb’s, had anticipated the inversion, so they landed on their equivalent of feet.

Once the briefcases belonging to Lomandra’s pseudo legal team stopped bouncing they opened. There were no documents inside, just a vast array of sex toys. The drooling Vangtorb’s, Wungborb’s and Kraabslarb’s erotic tentacles were as hideous as tapeworm and as erect as skyscrapers. They were arguably the most disturbing manifestation of predatory euphoria ever seen on Living Garbage.

Lomandra Whamboozle didn’t mince words “In contrast with your kiss, bin juice tastes like heaven. The most wart infested arsehole in the galaxy looks gorgeous beside your plague comet nostrils and pus glacier eyelids” she roared at the biggest Vangtorb in the room.”How about you drink the dregs of a Slorg Snail swamp and shit yourself to a death as gruesome as your smile” she continued, as though she was as willing to play the game as they.

“We’ve got a feisty one here boys. What shall we do first? Should we bring in the impregnation robots, to plant the seed of the oesophagus turtle down her throat, the offspring of the sabre fanged glow worm in her entrails and the eggs of the parasitic scorpion in her womb or is that too kind?”

They all agreed it was too kind, even the nice guy among them, whose most heinous hobby was nothing worse than watching babies dissolve in vats of acid.

“Why does she look so confident?” Hoobmafia Gronkbland nervously asked the amorous horde. They didn’t bother to answer. They were too busy encircling and closing in on Ms Whamboozle. The smallest among them was a powerlifter five times her size.

The fleet of butt plugs, double ended dildos and transforming vibrators followed the commands of  Trargchomper, a four hundred kilogram Kraabslarb. He looked like the conductor of an orchestra, as he waved them forward in a variety of swarming formations.

“Exit pseudo co-operation mode” Lomandra commanded. The devices hovered as still as the opals in the wall.

“Enter attack mode” she instructed. Her dildo, butt plug, vibrator and penis pump air force revealed their retractable tranquiliser guns and fired a barrage of automated syringes at Lomandra’s assailants.

“Rape them, rape them, rape them you stupid bitch” Thornsword Earwig yelled at his holographic television. His more explicit instructions made the director of the most nightmarish Earthling porno sound romantic.

“Enter defence mode” Lomandra barked at her sex toy squadrons. Not surprisingly, she ignored the hideous viewer suggestions that were being transmitted into the would be torture chamber, at a rate of fifteen per minute. The overlapping voices were an attempt to simulate schizophrenia. Lomandra’s unconventional bodyguards swarmed around her. The prison guards didn’t dare call for reinforcements, let alone attempt to stop her themselves.

“Enter platform mode” Whamboozle whispered as the last guard slumped to the ground, with a tranquilizer syringe protruding from his buttocks. Lomandra flew over the Living Garbage studio wall, on a magic carpet of penis pumps.”

Nightmare

“This is your morning show host,
Miles Platinum, on 2GC.
Responsible protestors are out in force today.
Their banners read:
“Don’t fuck, don’t fiddle.
“Contraception is evil.”
“Miscarriage is murder.”
“War is the road to peace.”
“The Flintstones is a documentary.”
“Science is a cult.”
“Ban teenage pregnancy.”
“Burn French letters.”
“Cognitive dissonance has too many letters.”

Get your protesters license today.
And remember,
unauthorized slogans may result in kneecapping,
according to riot police discretion.

In other news,
the Heroin Dealers Association
successfully lobbied parliament
to abolish quality controls today.
According to a recently deceased journalist
“Black Pearl Corp’s needle samples have sampled everything.”
Rinsing is expensive, autoclaving unthinkable.
Needle exchange nurses,
they’re worse for business
than a tsunami at a seaside resort.
Their lead coffins are free.
Their cemetery lies beyond the continental shelf.
Our benevolent dictator says
“They’re good guys,
they did a terrific job, tremendous”
the executioners that is.

According to our fearless leader,
satellite pictures of our world heritage listed areas,
have revealed mountains of syringes,
coated in the bloated corpses of endangered species.
Rangers cigarette butts float to earth like dead bees.
Concreting over all remaining wilderness areas
is the only means of cleansing the nation.
Syringe Everest tourists,
run over litter bugs for sport.
They empty their tanks on the way to nowhere.
May they crucify other ecological crusaders
and exchange their barbed wire crowns
for armoured vehicles.

Yesterday, climate change hoaxer Rob Green
lit a fire on his rural property.
Hazard reduction burning?
That’s as deranged as brain transplants.
You’re a hypocrite Green.
Sparky wants you for arson.

According to a discredited journalist,
whose been missing since Monday,
my urban cottage has four fireplaces.
I want justice.
The defamation inferno is out of control.

Sydney property values continue to plummet.
Some blame the white supremacist gentlemen
for replacing their footballs,
with the heads of refugee quadruple amputee scum.
Those in the know blame Islamic immigration.
My equity sales have sailed beyond the horizon.
I demand compensation.
It’s worse than the Great Depression.

Dear Diary

11/08/15

Have these tourists never seen a seagull before?
Close your eyes and it’s easy to believe
they’re marvelling over spectacular plumage, 
not seen beyond taxidermists workshops
since Linnaeus fathered taxonomy.

The gulls are stalking my sandwich,

like they’re the bomb squad
and it’s a doomsday device.
I almost wish I had an air rifle, 
to scatter a few feathers
and deflate the mood a bit.

Buskers abound.
The levitating reptilian
meditates on the coins
scattered across his banjo case.
Seagulls shitting on his head can’t phase him.


My eyes almost land on the pavement,

as I spot a Federation era one hundred pound note,
among the fivers.
It looks as freshly printed
as the fifties the ATM spat into my world.
“I’ll give you a thousand dollars for that”
I say with surprising calm.

12/08/15

“I found it in a rusty old safe,
in the basement”
I tell the museum reps,
as they apply their magnifying glasses
to my random discovery.
A few tests later,
I’m admiring the Picasso prints
on the walls of my new apartment.

Dinnertime arrives.
“That cornflake looks like Richard Nixon”,
I muse,
as I rescue it from my serial bowl,
before drowning the likenesses of lesser criminals
in chocolate flavoured soy milk.

Cornflake Nixon is inspirational.
He will star in an animated advertisement.
I can see the agri-giants limousines
causing a multi car pile up,

in their bid for parking spots
at the premier.
Naturally they’ll risk financial ruin,
at the auction for the rights to
“The Adventures of Dick the Cornflake”

13/8/15

An advertising executive suggests quitting smoking.

Selective Amnesia

Glumdrabba could fit a football in his mouth. His ears are invisible, without the aid of an electron microscope. The nostrils between them are as useless as an Australian Prime Minister. They couldn’t detect anything as subtle as bullshit. Somehow I mistook Glumdrabba for a Homo sapien, until he claimed our world has enough forests. It was then that I noticed he looked more termite than human.

Enough forests? Glumdrabba should’ve looked out the window as his spaceship approached the surface. His idiotic confidence was disconcerting enough to cause a bout of selective amnesia. I forgot that in the national parks I frequent trees older than European settlement are rarer than pink diamonds. Their value lies in their potential. I forgot that old growth forests need buffer zones.

Termite Man wanted to build a carpark beside the world’s largest tree. That sounded as crazy as eating razorblades to hack up an ever expanding tape worm but I was briefly unable to articulate why. Reforestation is a major part of the solution to global warming. Somehow I failed to recall that too.

Glumdrabba’s hordes built mountainous nests. The forest views they craved were soon replaced by an endless expanse of desert. The last skeleton crumbled to dust long before Glumbrabba’s descendants arrived, in search of his remains. I did tell him that the conservation industry is a net job creator, but he’s an expert on planets he’s barely been to, so he didn’t listen.

What’s that Glumbrabba Junior? Oh, there isn’t even one pink diamond in any of the national parks I’ve been to, so how could the ancient trees be even rarer? Well Glumbdrabba Junior, either it’s a metaphor or I was speaking about the rarity of pink diamonds in general, not in a particular place. No, a metaphor is nothing like a meteor. That’s right, not an army general. Don’t you have sixteen candles to blow out?

The Beatles Fan from Betelgeuse

I thought her blissful moans were cries of pain,
until she arched her back so powerfully
the ceiling took evasive action.
Her record collection was as eccentric
as the Come Together hippie
and as beautiful as Audrey Hepburn.
Her cat herds were wren stalking art galleries.
What would PETA think
of the Marilyn in the clouds tattoo,
on the shaved puma?
The Beatles fan from Betelgeuse!
She’s as enigmatic as vicious,
as compelling as capricious.
Her garden gnomes speak in tongues.
Oh, how she loves tongues,
in adventurous places
and on necklaces, golden ones.
The Beatles Fan from Betelgeuse,
says there’s no decomposing bodies
in her market garden.
Nobody asked.
The Beatles Fan from Betelgeuse!
There’s too much truth in her fiction,
but her probing kiss is my addiction.

 

All Surface

Cobblestone paths encircle putting greens.
Inside granite goblets,
horses are riverboats for wrens.
Wimbledon standard courts
feature tennis royalty.

A cottage they’d said,
in contrast to the palace of Versailles maybe.
It’s tapestries are older than Hadrian’s wall.
The carpets make Persia’s finest
look like threadbare disasters.
Cinema size televisions
dominate palatial loungerooms.
But the people are as heartwarming as algorithms.

The ramshackle servants quarters,
are discretely hidden in a bird attractant garden.
Smoke wafts from an ancient chimney.
A homemade chess set
waits patiently for its creators.

Overlapping Universes

1.

Stella Henley dreamt of a hidden universe,
its galaxies rarely perceived
from the dimension where Trump rules,
and Boris isn’t a bargain basement microphone man.
Bernie Taupin’s alter wrote
“those shiny happy people
have been walking on sunshine all night long.”
and headlines proclaimed him more original
than fifteenth century printing presses.
“The purple rain disguised my red corvette.
Samantha transformed her into a raspberry beret”
Syd Barret’s alter mumbled
as his first and last chemical assisted trip faded.
Monastery mystics revealed the scenic route
to mind altering mayhem.
He embarked with irrepressible joy.

In the dream universe’s London,
Stella wandered through a leafy suburb
as unrecognisable as incinerator victims.
Two masked men beckoned.
Shorty looked as crestfallen as the last of his kind.
Towering Adonis,
behind gold leaf adorned rosewood,
danced like gravity was his slave.
His comedic timing relegated his moves
to the realm of concussed drunks.

Adonis’ banter was unnaturally brilliant,
like his gleaming white teeth.
“Take me to bed”
Stella’s mineshaft pupils begged.
By the time she sensed oddness in awesomeness,
her torn lingerie dangled from the ceiling fan,
his seed had swum to her stomach,
her legs were as spread as the Spanish flu
and her moans as ecstatic
as levitating atop Chomolungma.
Magic Man’s mask slipped.
Gangrene looked so pretty now.

2.

Soothing needles of cosy water
failed to banish nauseating fear.
Breakfast show propaganda and DJ banter,
finally archived Stella’s nightmare.
Work was the usual blur of phone calls, emails
and invitations to awkward situations.
Speed dating at the Downstairs Club loomed.
Mister five three looked completely doomed.
thanks to Adonis his chances were entombed.

The movie with the girls was forgotten,
as Stella stepped into Adonis’ Maserati.
She was the invisible woman
behind windows as tinted
as a poker players sunglasses.
Hilarity flowed like champagne.
Adonis’ basement gallery,
made Dorian Grey’s oil abomination
look like a beauty queen.
Stella didn’t see
the gold leaf adorned, rosewood mask,
looking down on satin sheets.

The crestfallen, child sized man heard a scream.
He pedalled furiously to the gated mansion,
scrambled over the wall like a cemetery rat,
jabbed an airborne Pitbull like a world class welterweight,
and gave a jujitsu lesson that ended with an audible snap.
The screams ceased.
“Jealous were you” the giant chuckled
as his tiny friend glided into Stella’s corpse.

After he’d recovered from the stroke,
caused by the freshly tattooed cadaver
dumped on his lawn,
Stella’s father Jason burnt “revenge” into the grass.
His private investigators six figure salaries,
were dwarfed by their credentials.
Stella’s mother Sapphire’s rage
manifested as phoenixes born from Krakatoa.
Those paintings look like candlelit dinners
beside Stella’s sister Cynthia’s fury.
She swapped ballet for Muay Thai
Hip hop for capoeira
and chess for the army.

“Misery is the burnt out wreckage of rage,”
said a mangled, mountainside airliner.
Crowe’s pecked dead mountaineers.
Gloating demons peered from the frame.
The exhibition was entitled “the vomit of grief”

A philanthropist converted it into an astonishing sum.
Occasionally, he wheeled Stella’s taxidermied remains
from the refrigeration room
to admire her mother’s work.
Sapphire Henley almost suffered the same fate.
She entitled her next painting the Satanic Aphrodisiac.

Adonis is the health and fitness guru,
at Tiger Shark Bay Correctional Centre now.
The diaries of the living dead
stretched his sentence to millennia.
Adonis feels compassion
but his abs are a greater priority.
He loves the third person like his biceps.

Vungtorb, the Reptilian Orangutan

Vungtorb the reptilian orangutan, recharged his brain via his solar electric scales. A meal of antelope would’ve energised him more swiftly but in the Lorp Desert, hawk hornets and ballet scorpions, are the only readily available sustenance besides the merciless midnight sun.

Vungtorb the reptilian orangutan and his partner, Elvira the medusa poodle, began their land journey at the equator. Fortunately their all terrain vehicle, didn’t lose a wheel until they reached Gorbantula’s south pole. They’d honeymooned there an Earth century ago. Elvira’s wedding collar was stolen by the Gorbantula’s, the dragons after which the planet was named. Despite the theft, Vungtorb and Elvira considered retiring, just a flame from the geographical pole. Their interspecies marriage made them outcasts on most planets, but the Gorbantula dragons didn’t care what phylum their neighbours fucked. They were too preoccupied with treasure.

Vungtorb was confident the Gorbantulas would return Elvira’s wedding collar. His drag queen act had won over dragons before. Eager to see more, past audiences had parted with synthetic humanoids, reconnaissance drones, fully equipped interstellar spacecraft and a menagerie of soprano octopoids, baritone insectoids and a crustacean that sounded like a violin whenever it was immersed in a cloud of Vungtorb’s flatulence. These creature’s were currency throughout the Milky Way, but not as valuable as Vungtorb’s favourite money maker.

That reptilian Orangutan’s high heels were the final frontier in his act. While lassoing butterflies, with his flower draped erotic organs, he liked to launch his jewel encrusted shoes into the audience. Sometimes he engaged the retractable spears in the heels and sent them hurtling into a dartboard. In case you’re wondering, the butterflies love it.

The Garbantula’s burlesque cave was desperate for new acts. Elvira’s wedding collar was on display, behind RPG proof glass, in the kink museum upstairs. Apparently unimpressed with Vungtorb’s Muhammad Ali like agility, Jackie Chan humbling acrobatics, Fred Astaire rivalling rhythm and Elton John surpassing outfits, the manager refused to pay him the symphonic chameleons he’d promised, let alone consider returning Elvira’s wedding collar. Hoobdubba, the Gorbantula’s monarch, nodded its approval as Vungtorb approached, with his head bowed.

“I humbly thank you, for the honour of performing before you” Vungtorb proclaimed, before passionately kissing Hoobdubba’s cranium tentacle sphincter. It was momentarily startled. Vungtorb proferred his jewel encrusted, silk veneer high heels.

“A gift for you darling. Please take a closer look at what were my most prized possessions until I felt inspired to give them to a more worthy owner.” Hoobdubba was startled once more, as it tentatively sniffed the bejewelled offering. Its courtiers stared at their royal highness quizzically.

Vungtorb appeared to be mumbling gibberish as he crawled off stage. What Hoobdubba and his entourage couldn’t have known, is the crafty drag queen was issuing instructions, in an archaic language, to the multitude of miniature drones he’d sent into Hoobdubba’s blood tunnels. They waited for the signal to empty their hallucinogen tanks.

“The festering zombie donkeys, their bits don’t merely fall, their leprosy is volcanic” Hoobdubba yelled in terror.

Zungtorb addressed the room. “I regret to inform you there is a curse on the monarch.
The only way to free its royal highness from the curse is to return my darling Elvira’s wedding collar. If you’re wondering how this curse came about, we bought the collar from a witch, a Jorbblaga asteroid belt witch. Need I say more?”

“A collar you say. Oh that old thing, what a small price to pay for restoring the health of our royal highness. Hoobdubba is so attached to it but he couldn’t sell it if he wanted to. The most cunning shyster wouldn’t be able to trade it for an Earthling space probe, not even one from the fossil fuel era” Hoobdubba’s procurement officer chuckled.

Its Royal Highness babbled for a little longer “Resplendent in their evening gowns, they waddle across the boomerangs. Look how those throwing implements hover above the methane clouds. The aerial jellyfish swerve from their path. Why must they use their tentacles as satellite phone receivers, when they should use them to massage the urethras of viper maggots” Hoobdubba briefly slipping into a coma. When it awoke, it was its old self.

Vungtorb’s breaking of the curse was rewarded with seven symphonic chameleon’s.
Elvira’s wedding collar was presented in a marble replica of Zarbblimpers ark.
Zarbblimpa was renowned for salvaging plants and animals from planets destined to be demolished for their mineral wealth.

In the morning, a pair of ultra marathon Gorbantulas flew the proud interspecies couple and their crippled all terrain vehicle back to their interstellar cruiser.

Strenuous Sleep

I fought exhaustion like a gladiator,
before drifting into dreams with no colosseums in sight.
“Why dry July?” asked the bus stop graffiti.
“Are your droughts broken with floods?”
was scribbled on the weeping fig fractured footpath.
“Happy to collect locusts with the Baptists,
or trekking to the land of vodka rain”
was scrawled across the toothpaste ad
on the side of the bus.

“Fluoride is an industrial waste product”
said the chemistry encyclopedia beneath my seat.
The stench of tobacco and last night’s bourbon
hung in the air, like fumes from a volatile factory.
Owen’s breath was the keys to freedom,
for the contents of my stomach.
I painted the bullet proof glass
with something resembling the latest
Museum of Contemporary Art masterpiece.

A blue collar philosopher snapped a photo
of that chunky ticket to the visual art community.
The dazzling array of berries
in my vegan ice cream
had done a pretty face justice.
My one in a billion chunder,
looked like a gymnast riding a unicorn,
in what the ladies from Pride and Prejudice
might call a most improper manner.

As I departed,
the driver shook his mop in rage.
The getaway car
raced to Burrogorang Road.
In a forest gully,

Tawny Frog Mouths flocked
to the bottle orchestra man’s treehouse.
A cloud of red browed finches
obscured his dreadlocks.
He nodded with approval
at the poisoning of African Olive regrowth.
The oil on canvas version
of my vomit on window,
hung on his wall.

“Did you know there’s a lack of independent research
into the safe level of fluoride?” he whispered.
“Colgate’s spies walk among us” he continued.
“Is four parts per million too much?”
a sulfur crested cockatoo probed.

The bus featuring my one in a billion art work
flew from an unfinished bridge,
scattering my skull in eighty two directions.
It’s lucky his ghost loves jigsaw puzzles,
the funeral director whispered.

I thought I was dead, as I woke up in bed.
until I felt the intact portions of my head.

I felt like a ghost as I wandered to the bus stop.
My fellow pedestrians
appeared to peer right through me.

“Why dry July” asked the bus stop graffiti.
“Are your droughts broken with floods”
was scribbled on the weeping fig fractured footpath.
“Happy to collect locusts with the Baptists,
or trekking to the land of vodka rain”
was scrawled across the toothpaste ad
on the side of the bus.
The driver assured me I wasn’t hallucinating.
Owen’s bourbon and tobacco breathe made me gag,
I felt ill as I reached beneath the seat
and grabbed a book.
Cold sweat threatened to drown me
as I hauled the industrial chemistry enyclopaedia,
on to my lap.
A tsunami of relief washed over me,
as I remembered there’s no bridge on the farm.

The driver turned to me and said.
“I had this crazy dream last night.
You chundered a masterpiece on to the window,
depicting a mermaid riding a unicorn,
in an x rated fashion.”

“A mermaid?
Are you sure it wasn’t a gymnast?”

“Maybe it was a gymnast mermaid”