The Scorpion Centipede

“Yes, centipedes the size of sausage dogs.
My eyes don’t lie.
Why does it have a tail like a scorpion
and a snail like head,
I don’t know, ask a biologist.”

“It’s so preoccupied with drinking pus,
from gangrenous goats,
I feel safe videoing it.
Hopefully the wind
carries the stench of rotting flesh westward.
When I press play, will anything be there
besides Melaleuca shadows?
The chameleon dolphin,
peeking from the dam,
assures me the creature is real.
Some say he’s less trustworthy,
than a serial killer leading a murder investigation,
but they don’t know him like I do.
Why would I question my sanity?
What do giant Scorpion Centipede’s sound like?
Dogs bark, cats meow, cows moo.
and centipede scorpions blerk and blork.
Blerking is a happy medium between hiccups and burps.
Blorking is what growling would sound like,
if it was as mellow as piccolo.
Do I mean a high pitched screech, except smoother?
Can’t you hear it?
Are you going to ask me what a duck sounds like too?”

“Sir, please remove yourself from the football field,
this ground has been booked
by the Draper Hill Dragons
and the Wiley Valley Wombats.
Only players and officials
are authorized to set foot on the field
before full time”

“Football, what are you blabbering about.
Ouch, an obese pterodactyl just collided with me.
You’re acting like nothing happened”

“There are no pterodactyls here sir,
you were struck by a football”

“A football match you say,
you’re psychotic.
I’m watching four scorpion centipedes,
with snail like heads,
They’re feeding on the hindquarters,
of gangrenous goats.
Can’t you smell their rotting flesh?
There’s a Melaleuca lined dam over there,
with a chameleon dolphin
frolicking in the shallows.
He doesn’t doubt me”

“Probably not sir”

“Probably not you say?”

“yes, probably not,
in the sense the Earth probably isn’t a cube,
resting on the back,
of an interstellar Pegasus,
that level of probably not”

“Do you have evidence,
to support your denial?
Why can I hear sirens?”


My speech is colourless and aromaless
until I get irate.
My personality is a dancing hurricane
I lock in a crate.

It’s not a twister that launches houses
into a cruel sea.
It is the ultimate sky surfer’s paradise,
oddly death free.
Some think I am boring and lethargic
others can see me.

Too many are fixated on the surface
and blind to below.
They mistake guesses for knowledge,
their stale myths grow.


Social Conventions

Before countless tints of sun rise flame,
the sea entrances like an emerald plain.
An Islamic poet,
in a white and gold Hijab,
glides across the sand,
sparking fantasies of a more brilliant paradise;
I barely notice the beach volley ball girls,
in lingerie fit for a partner swapping foray.

Christian extremist choirs stalk bikini top littered sand,
berating audacious sinners, who demand to be tanned,
obviously they’re all harlots, with wild orgies planned.

I stroll along the beach pondering social conventions,
voyeurs, exhibitionists, hypocrites and evil intentions.

In this place bare flesh is as familiar
as the cries of the gulls,
as neutral as the driest medical dictionary.

By midday, attention mainlining models
are on the road to a lobsters death;
the epitome of elegance,
in precious metal embroidered cloaks,
are destined for Vitamin D deficiency;
a puritanical Christian choir girl
has been raped “for displaying her thighs;”
and an artist murdered,
for declaring nudity is natural.

Bling Hippo Reigns Supreme

Trolleys crashing, miniskirts fluttering,
yobbos hanging from dodgy guttering;
children screaming in rage,
over ice cream they crave
like a junkie does a needle.

There’s Ferris the farrier,
wheeling away enough lager
to sink an aircraft carrier.
He’d sooner accuse me
of giving his dogs mange
than offload loose change.

A soul destroying jumble of silver coins
distracts a thief from my kick to his loins.
Endless Helen Keller imitators flock by.
I may as well be talking to a termite tower.

I’m contemplating packing up.
Amused shoppers greet Bling Hippo
and his jowls with hysterical howls.
‘That cancer research fundraiser,
he gets paid’, that bling lugging cretin,
with more chins than my extended family,
utters in a tone normally reserved for
a forum on the evils
of donating microwave ovens
to infant craving cannibals.
Bling hippo’s mum tries to mollycoddle
but her incensed son refuses to cease
his venomous garbled twaddle,
until distracted by the ice cream aisle;
no doubt that blubber isle will be a while.

As his mother demeans her beautician,
Bling Hippo returns to wish me dead
by the wires of a NAZI electrician.

As he throws an endless tantrum,
I defend his mum’s Botox dealer
by singing an ageing Barbie anthem.

‘Heirloom Barbie!’

‘That nicotine blonde icon of visual pollution
was a best seller, by the French revolution.’

‘Heirloom Barbie!’

‘Victorian Ken hasn’t been satisfied,
since she’s been partly mummified’

‘Heirloom Barbie’

Bling Hippo’s old bag read my tag and said
‘Rupert you’re boring, ugly and stupid!’

I said ‘you dear are an excitement diuretic,
infinitely worse than experimental surgery
with a six pack of light beer for anesthetic.’

Bling Hippo has the turning circle of a train
but with a little momentum, as I discovered,
his 150kg of lard can cause serious pain.

Journey Home

On the train,
Damo regaled me with tales
of taming tantrum throwing Taipans,
at Tenant Creek.
At the station nothing tamed the breeze.
The old ladies Weight Watchers have given up on
cackled at the visual Chernobyl of their billowing skirts.

My short cut
through the storm water drain
was cut short,
by a Tiger Snake sunning itself
on a trickle of washing machine dregs.
Its scales shone like a sky overcrowded with suns.

The serpent never shifted its meandering pose.
The guest list of flies on its ectothermic panels
was more exclusive than a party on a space station,
so presumably it was alive.

Perhaps the possibility of a frog
was the reason it remained as still
as the concrete beneath its belly.

My short cut down the laneway was cut short.
A girl in a bright pink bikini top dropped her towel.
Her delicious derriere was adorned with black satin,
as thin as the skin on my wide bright eyes.
Her enchanting cascade of golden blonde hair
slow danced with floral perfume scented air.
The blonde enchantresse’s girlfriend looked so dangerous
I wish I’d taken my chances with the Tiger Snake.
She pursued me over fences.
The wooden ones, with rotten palings,
she ran through them.
“Roxy, you know blood gives me nightmares,”
her bikini clad Goddess yelled.
“Roxy, running makes me sweaty” she pleaded.

My short cut through the pub was cut short.
A herd of bikies confused me
with someone they yearned to demolish.
Damo wandered in,
armed with the Tiger Snake.
Suddenly the leather bound goliaths
had a more urgent mission elsewhere.
Damo was too focused
on the sumptuous raven haired lookalikes,
behind the bar,
to notice he’d saved my life.
His reputation preceded him.
“Oh my God, it’s the Snake Man” they chorused.

Are you looking at my girlfriend,
a familiar voice boomed.
Had Damo’s short cut to heaven been cut short?
“I didn’t notice her” he pleaded his innocence.
“You’re ignoring my girlfriend then”
the mixed martial arts madwoman admonished.
“Would you like to pat my snake” Damo offered.
“What a cutie, such adorable fangs”
the crew cut version of Xena Warrior Princess crooned,
forgetting her fixation on annihilation.
I slunk away without delay.

Body Spray Dismay

Since dusk, my manly musk
has been as rancid as ancient prawns,
hiding in an equatorial bean bag.

My deodorant has sprouted limbs.
It has the audacity to flee Master?
I was ordained its aerosol leach.
Outrageously it strives to maintain
its reservoir of fragrant blood.

Apparently it’s read Orwell,
for it shuns the electronic homing devices
happily worn by those obedient zombies,
my keys and phone.

Aromatic rebel,
are you lurking at the bottom of the pond,
or hiding in those cockroach apartments,
the wall cavities?
I will hunt thee down!


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.

The Wildcats, New Year’s Eve 2013

Courtenay was served an indictment,
for wilful resurrection and murder
of men from excessive excitement.

A sparkly dress like hers has its perks.
imprisoned on its surface is everything
from galaxies to the midnight fireworks.

It seems all that glistens and gleams
is held captive between those seams.
The arc of Courtenay’s towering stiletto
in synch with back up boy’s falsetto
is more intriguing than the allegretto.
The front is a magnet, an utter must.
I’m in awe of her vocals and in lust.

By the new year I’m far too smitten
to steady my quivering quill until
my ode to pussy power is written.

Courtenay was served an indictment,
for wilful resurrection and murder
of men from excessive excitement.

Grandpa Hammersmith’s Review

I asked the grandkids to buy me
The Best of The Andrews Sisters
for Christmas.
They exposed me to a punk rock band instead.
Royal Headache they’re called,
and that they are.
I’ve heard more tuneful sulphur crested cockatoos.
Their lead screecher’s
ghastly, ghostly pale, chest
is as unimpressive as his vocals.
Put a shirt on you gangrene inspiring pin dick!
A horde of demonically possessed jackhammers
sounds more musical than these jackasses.
Please make it stop, are the final words
in their latest single. I concur.
Royal Headache’s vocalist occasionally opts
for a more mellow sound
than a tasered banshee,
but he soon reverts to imitating a bear
with its balls jammed in a blunt guillotine.
He dances like an octopus
being flailed by a tornado
and that’s being kind.
Writing this review isn’t as traumatic
as witnessing a Royal Headache performance,
but neither is yanking your brain through your nostrils,
with a pair of pliers.


You plunged into the ocean
like a hurdling hydrofoil.
No shark ever hunted a seal,
with the intensity you chased tennis balls.

After a month of fishing in a wheelbarrow,
you never did figure out the splashes
were from dripping guttering;
so it’s no surprise
being kicked in the head by a horse
failed to make you any dopier
than you already were.

You’ve been plucked from canals.
and survived a Red Belly Black attack
by biting that rampant reptile in half.
What a striver, what a survivor,
and at the scent of food,
or anything vaguely resembling it,
what a furry reservoir of saliva.
How many metres of carpet was it
that we hauled from your arse?

What a striver, what a survivor!
Eventually though, every dog has to die,
take a trip to the Pet Barn in the sky.