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Audio Muse

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

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

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

Spin

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May the pathetic lies be superseded,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

 

Fun House

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

Fragile

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

Ancient Update

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

More

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

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

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

Reanimated

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

Morning Mayhem

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

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

Gone

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