The Relaxation Therapist

Felicity’s roller coaster of high distinctions and zeros
killed her status obsessed parents.
She kept their Canberra crash pads.
Youth Off the Streets turned their mansions
into schools for troubled teens.

The funeral attendees
were the who’s who of sycophantic scum;
vultures stalking the wounded wren of publicity,
that’s how they imagined Felicity.
Maximum damage was their motto.
“No Prime Minister,
I won’t be donating to your campaign,”
Felicity’s words echoed off the valley
like a bomb blast.

A series of cartwheels and backflips,
across her sacreligious parents graves,
caught the attention of vampire knaves.
Hideous headlines of stenographer hordes
kicked off the festival of hate.
Felicity scored from the kick off.
Propaganda outlets ignored the siren.
“No comment” the bright eyed mantra weaver repeated,
as reporter tsunamis swept her away.
Sunglasses were her curtains.
Her autobiographical mythbusting blog reached millions
She’d became a tick on the eyeball of tabloid hacks.

Someone’s controversial ANZAC Day views
turned Felicity’s Hawaiian surf into a still pond.
Tube riding sharks forgot she existed.
YouTube viewers became off camera characters
in  her therapeutic plays.
She caresses their ears with sweet mantras,
as her double belly dances
and her triple plays the flute.
Four blends herbs and spices
as passionately as Van Gogh mixed his palette.
Five and six are synchronized swimmers
in a Utopian sandstone pool.
Seven and eight are tailored suit clad heavies,
patrolling the perimeter.
The man behind the pool cue is you.
Sink the black and number eight
will fulfil your need
to knead her athletic flesh.

Last week Felicity played Himalayan singing bowls
in a crystal cave.
Tomorrow she’s a hypnotist in the Garden of Eden,
sharing tree of knowledge pie.
Then she’s Hitler’s assasin
posing as a burlesque comedian.

Felicity’s guitar chords are the umbilical cords,
connecting her fans
to their spiritual space stations.

Hmm

Bizarre statistical anomalies creep past,
like Lochness Monsters in Hawaiian shirts
tiptoing across the stadium.
Were they bots or people?
There was no conversation
to demystify the equation,
just weird numbers.

Today I’ve got one visitor
from four countries WordPress.
It’s hardly as odd as yesterday,
but still stranger than a rainbow surfing koala.

That was tubetacular Blinky Bill.
Look at those rainbows,
whipping across the sky
like rhythmic gymnasts ribbons.
Blinky rode them like a flying dolphin deity.

No, I haven’t thrown out my medication,
I’m just being poetic, it’s my recreation.

Monsters Among Us

The Monsters Among Us Podcast is my favourite trip into the twilight zone between truth and fiction. There’s a heady mixture of scepticism, blind belief and everywhere in between, on every topic from Mothman to UFO’s, to Bigfoot to giant spiders with human faces. There is even a tubby ghost that is just legs and a butt.

If you think a ghost that’s just legs and a butt sounds unlikely, you aint heard nuthin yet. They say sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction and I say there is no such thing as keeping your mind so open that your brains fall out.

My favourite Monsters Among Us stories are the ones about the so called Mirrored Men, three creepy dudes that behave like a dance troupe, except they’re too perfectly synchronised. Apparently they can always tell when they’re being watched because they slowly turn around to face their observer. The freaky thing is that their features turn more slowly than their heads. Whether these beings are practical jokers, interdimensional or interstallar is in dispute. I like to think they’re a combination of all three. All sightings of these trios are reportedly terrifying and involve a few hours of lost time.

I’m of the view that the vast majority of listeners who contribute to Monsters Among Us, with emails and recordings, are sincere. I think a surprising number of them really saw what they say they did. There can be a huge gulf between being able to describe something and knowing what it is though, as tends to be acknowledged. The producer/writer/host Derek Hayes does an excellent job of pondering the possibilities.

Not that anyone who knows me is likely to wonder, but I’d like to make it clear that I’m simply a fan of the show, that I don’t benefit from promoting it. This review is as independent as Dumaresq Street Cinema, where I saw one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen.

Can anyone explain how straws can fly from a straw dispenser, while nobody is touching it? Seconds before this surprising event, I applied ample pressure and the lone straw that was dispensed did not fly through the air. I wouldn’t be remotely suprised if a magician were to replicate this event but was a magician responsible for what I saw? Did I imagine this strange occurrance? Not unless the person who sold me a movie ticket that day imagined it too. They believe a poltergeist was reponsible. I don’t know what the cause was but I’m open to the possibility that it was poltergeist or human generated telekinetic activity. Other possible causes were not evident.

If you’ve seen anything weird like that, or far weirder, why not send Monsters Among Us an email or a voice recording? Sometimes I give Monsters Among Us six stars out of five and sometimes I give it four, on average it’s a five star show.

http://www.monstersamonguspodcast.com/

P.S I’m not affiliated with Dumaresq Street Cinema either, I just love their extremely affordable movie tickets and snacks. They’re better than that other cinema up the road.

 

The Tinfoil Hat Apocalypse

Rabbit hole plunging zombies,
circle Greta Thunberg like tiger sharks in tinfoil hats.

If you want to know NASA’s position,
in the climate change war of attrition,
don’t ask NASA!
And be sure to consult M.I.T
via a random YouTuber
who gave himself a degree.

Rabbit hole plunging zombies circle Greta Thunberg,
like tiger sharks in tinfoil hats.

In the pursuit of knowledge
they are athritic amblers,
bursts of reason richochet
off those rabid ramblers,
like debt collectors bouncing
from Herculean gamblers.

Greta can’t be their heroine
while fiction is their heroin.

The Lemming Shepherds

The shrieking gale slowed to a dying breeze.
Eastern rosellas, galahs and gang gangs
flocked to distant billabongs.
Canvas tents shieled elderly tourists
from the February oven.

In the village,
dog walkers paused on grassy islands.
Three year old Ben thought the’d tamed the kangaroos,
who’d emerged from the forest
to graze in the twilight.
“Are they circus kangaroos” he wondered
as they slipped through a barbed wire fence unscathed.
He didn’t ask Uncle Bertie,
who was famous for staring at half empty bottles
as though they were encyclopaedia sets.

“Come on Aussie come on”,
cricket ad crowds chanted,
on Bertie’s black and white TV.
Patriotism was a virtue
long before Ben learned the word,
until it was as vacuous as the evasive waffle
of propaganda spruiking Prime Ministers.

In the ensuing years:
there were lakes to kiak,
beaches to explore,
shells to collect
and missions to Endor to direct.
The bushland was an Ewok planet one day
and steaming jungles
of World War Two Papua New Guinea the next.
Paddocks were every sporting arena,
from the Roman colosseum to Wimbledon.
The village was more parallel universes
than the second hand bookstore
could cram into its science fiction shelves.

Today, the forest is scarred with golf courses
and lakefront mansions
as uninspiring as toilet blocks.
The serenity has been murdered
by go karts, trail bikes and jet skis
as numerous as the goannas once were.

On the towering new council chambers
“The Lemming Shepherds”
was sprayed with Rembrandt precision.
That strange merger of skeletons and tree trunks,
haunted environmentalists and property developers alike.
Following the mayor’s enraged editorial,
his weekender was marred with the same phrase.
Coffins full of wallaby bones,
were left on his front lawn.
His dreams were invaded
by a figure in a lizard skin mask,
whose rage was as tangible as a vat of acid.
Sleeping pills could not banish him.
Closing the new driving range
and nurturing the land, until the forest reclaimed it,
hardly softened the fury in his weaponised eyes.
Donating his assets to environmental activists,
was as ineffective as resigning.
A best selling autobiography
entitled Confessions of an Environmental Vandal,
dissolved the nightmares.

Unidentified

Xerxes Lagoon exists to paint music
in clouds of ambient noise.
The disembodied heads of composers
stare from his rhythmic auroras.
Picasso called him the Sultan of Synethesia.
Dali called him the oddest roller
in the pinball parlour of life.
Those who question the authenticity of his eccentricity,
their sluggish, shrunken brains are lacking electricity.

Enroute to an artists retreat,
Xerxes was oblivious to the jarring motion
of the all terrain vehicle.
He didn’t notice the driver swerve
to avoid a coyote.
We could’ve been on a dancefloor,
in a rodeo arena,
or a cooking pot, for all Xerxes knew.
He was shocked to discover
the rainforest had given way to desert.

Above the cacti canopy,
on a barren hilltop,
the smoke shrouded, blood red sun
glinted off a mysterious object.
It was abstract enough to baffle us all,
yet recognizable enough
to inspire countless hypotheses.
Interstellar spacecraft,
experimental military aircraft,
meteorological research station,
avant garde limousine, in levitation mode.
psychedelic sculptor’s residence,
and interdimensional pixies conference centre,
were among the multitude of theories.

I reached the object from a rocky outcrop.
A sequence of dull thuds,
upon its shimmering surface,
was followed by percussive orchestral brilliance.
It’s vibratory contortions
converted random strikes into eerie melodies.
I couldn’t shake the feeling
it was trying to communicate.
Somewhere in Xerxes comprehending gaze,
lay the keys to the ghost in the machine.

While we watched a hawk descend on a wounded rodent,
the mysterious object vanished.
In its place
was an exquisitely detailed mandala.
Under a microscope,
random imperfections hinted at hand painting.
It was wet when we found it.
Rhiannon concluded it was a gift
from extra terrestrial hippies,
that their sky borne palace
existed to give birth to mind mending art.

Xerxes uttered his first words in weeks.
“Sometimes my ideas solidify.”
He refused to elaborate.
Xerxes next words were “biscuit of light.”
The context was as forthcoming
as a stone age nuclear winter.
Had he descended into word salad
or was he alluding to the nourishing light of reason?

For the duration of the retreat,
Xerxes was quieter than his brushes.
He painted for days, collapsed into sleep
and resume painting before he awoke.
Sometimes he remembered to eat.

Xerxes winter exhibition “Astral Travel,”
blurred the distinction between painting and sculpting.
He’d created aerial views of tree obscured landscapes
we’d passed while his head was buried in a cushion.
The oldest painting on display
predated our desert journey.
It depicted the unidentified object,
on the barren hilltop,
above the cacti canopy,
from a demystifying angle.

Mannequin Man

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

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

“Leave me alone” Charlie mumbles.

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

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

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

 

The Trespassers

Psychology student Angela Bordeaux and her fiancee, mixed martial arts legend Quentin “the Quiet Achiever” Quinn, were oblivious to the security cameras peering from Angophora hollows. They skirted a series of billabongs, en route to a trail on the verge of vanishing in a Lantana thicket. After that expanse of pretty weeds, miniscule electronic eyes lurked in scattered boulders. Beyond the ramshacle paddock fences in the distance, a hilltop mansion loomed.

“The doors are unlocked. This place is as empty as a library at midnight, there’s no doubt about it” Quentin reassured his apprehensive partner. The surrounding fields seemed devoid of livestock. None of the fences looked like they’d been repaired since Yoda was a twinkle in the eye of an interstellar monk. There was a jungle where the tennis court used to be. Viscous slime was all that remained in the exquisitely landscaped swimming pools.

The snooker table, at the rear of the conference room sized loungeroom, was obscured by a layer of dust an inch thick. Quentin lay across an antique lounge chair, while Angela hunted for a vacuum cleaner. She threw herself into every hoover manouvre like Olympic gold was on the line. Angela was too in awe of Quentin’s Herculean physique, hypnotic green eyes and Newtonian intellect to complain about his appalling laziness. Quentin was intensely passionate about vacuuming all of a sudden, after Angela peeled her dress down to her navel and applied the nozzle to the nipple region of her sheer black lace bra.

Quentin instigated a playful wrestling match. After pinning Angela to the ground, with one arm, he lifted her on to a rosewood dining table and trailed his fingertips over the silk and lace hidden beneath her floral summer dress. Quentin took a break from teasing Angela into a frenzy to unclasp and untie her delicates. He flung he oppulent underwear to a distant corner. Somehow he managed to snag her brassiere on a chandalier, above the mezzanine level. Eventually, Quentin put his awestruck lover over his shoulder, ascended a marble staircase, flung her onto the nearest king size water bed and introduced her to wild pleasures few have even read about.

It took four hours for Walter Nixon the 5th to look away from the taboo shattering marathon on his cinema size screen. As Walter exited his basement apartment surveillance room, hidden cameras continued to record every caress, kiss, lick, thrust and ecstatic squeal. Walter constantly checked the location of his uninvited, yet welcome guests via his watch screen. He carried a taser in his left hand and a twenty two calibre pistol in his right.

For good luck, Walter wore a dental implant necklace, fashioned from the lifelike pearly whites of the voluptuous lingerie model he’d surreptitiously lured to his home two years earlier. Those toothy pegs even had a couple of precious metal and gem stone fillings to give them a more natural look. A taxidermist by trade, Walter had collaborated with a robotics engineer to convert the anonymous model’s corpse into a sex robot. He was more interested in giving his victims names than learning the ones their grieving parents had chosen for them.

Walter was considering selling the curvaceous model’s renovated remains to a Japanese businessman he’d met in an amputee brothel. His offer was generous one. It was an agonizing choice though. The conversation simulator, substituting for the anonymous beauty’s brain, responded more enthusiastically to Walter’s classical guitar playing than any living, breathing woman ever did. Being showered with poetic compliments, on a daily basis, was proving to be addictive.

Quentin’s hound like hearing detected Walter’s careful footsteps on the stairs. All those years of vising headphone nightclubs were paying off. He motioned for Angela to be silent and stood as still as a statue behind the partially closed door.

Walter grew apprehensive, as he recalled witnessing the cobra like reflexes of his adversary on Martial Arts TV. The low calibre pistol felt awkward in his unsteady hand. Firearms weren’t his thing, he preferred to work with electricity and surgical instruments. At the top of the stairs, Walter glanced at the CCTV footage on his watch for the last time, before crossing the marble floor as patiently as a cat stalking a sparrow. Quentin was no sparrow though, he was more like a pterodactyl that has been domesticated by vikings.

Sulphur crested cockatoos were making a ruckus in the silky oaks bordering the yard. Walter hardly had time to contemplate what might’ve triggered their riotous squawking. Raptors, a conspiracy of ravens and a coalition of noisy miners were among the possibilities

Eventually, Walter peered beneath the master bedroom door. He expected to see Quentin’s feet. Their absence left him as confused as a Mediaeval villager waking up in a space station orbiting an exoplanet. The solid oak door crashing down was as unexpected as an earth quake. Quentin “the Quiet Achiever” Quinn has never been a gentle man. He didn’t hesitate to jump on the fallen door, with Walter beneath it.

“Welcome to my trampoline” Quentin bellowed like the maniac he is.

“Please, please that’s enough” Angela yelled in horror.

“How dare you question my actions bitch” Quentin raged once he grew bored of his leaping and stomping.

Quentin the Quiet Achiever Quinn, as he was known to his hordes of naive fans, had had enough of his latest lover. At gunpoint, he ordered the somewhat recovered serial killer to savagely rape her. Eventually he gave Walter a choice between injecting her with dry cleaning fluid and being shot in the testicles. Walter was aghast, he’d intended to keep Angela alive for months.

Necrophilia wasn’t among Quentin’s hobbies but sadism had always been his most burning passion. He took great delight in forcing Walter to have sex with his vast collection of stuffed corpses. Used to having a good nights sleep and a massage before a desecration session, Walter complained incessantly. He didn’t stop  whining until shortly before he collapsed and went into a thirst induced coma. One of his freezer cabinets contained an assortment of human organs in clearly labelled plastic bags. Quentin would’ve ticked canibalism off his bucket list, if he weren’t concerned about the possible side effects interfering with his preparation for his next fight.

“Boring me is a dreadful crime but maybe Angela got more than she deserved” Quentin said to himself, as he  strolled back into the bedroom to get dressed. The twinge of guilt he felt soon faded. He dropped Walter’s pistol into the sceptic tank, before setting off on the long trek back to his vehicle.

Blood streamed from Quentin’s left temple as he was struck by a sling shot propelled ball bearing. Twelve year old Jake Sorenson thought nothing of hunting cockatoos but accidentally killing a human left him on the verge of a panic attack. He contemplated fleeing on his mountain bike but something compelled him to explore the isolated palatial home first.

Jake was drenched in cold sweat and trembling violently as he entered the ballroom sized loungeroom. The bookshelf door leading to Walter Nixon the 5th’s vast basement apartment was open. Nothing in the surveillance room had been switched off. An unlocked door was all that had prevented the distracted Quentin “the Quiet Achiever” Quinn from strolling in. Jake called the emergency number as soon as he spotted Walter’s unconscious form on one of the CCTV monitors.

 

Hellier Hill

Post Sleep

Come to Hellier Hill for hillier hell,
reads the graffitti
carved into Herman’s kitchenette.
The closest thing to diamonds around here
are shattered windscreens.
Herman doesn’t mind the threadbare carpet
and absence of modern appliances.
Warm water,
on a scorching summer’s day,
contrasts pleasantly with the mine field
of Doberman, Rottweiler and pit bull turds
littering the landscape.

During his commute to the Helping Hand Club,
where he endures sixteen hour shifts
as a “bar tender,”
Herman passes the “Have a go, you’ll get a go” billboard.
The toothpaste ad smile of the sloganeer
is as long gone as the local wildlife.
His words cling to existence
like silicon implants on a corpse.

The lascivious smirks of Helping Hand regulars
are as stomach churning as excrement pie.
Journaling between customers
keeps Herman more sane
than the meth head/petrol sniffers
wandering the graveyard like zombie bees.

Pre Sleep

Dusk masks torched forest fumes.
Herman can’t decide
if the human detritus passed out on factory rubble
reeks more of bourbon dregs and bootleg tobacco
or diarrhoea, urine
and scavenged pizza geysers.
The mattresses in the alleyways
have been rotting for so long
the mould outweighs the springs.
Transient furriers squat in abandoned bus shelters.
Roofied stray cats are their fox bait.

A barrage of hailstones
muffles anonymous threats and screams
bouncing off sewage overflow ponds.
The moment the storm passes
torched forest smoke returns.

There aren’t many rate payers in Hellier Hill.
Drug dealers and protection racketeers
keep the plumbing working,
the lights on
and the community gardens
from being stripped bare by human locusts.
They’re not thieves, they’re “tax collectors.”
The authorities will permit them to govern
until the scourge spreads beyond the tollways.

The End

Herman showers in a lukewarm broth
of rust and cholera.
Needles of clear water strike his skin
before his twenty litres are gone.
His final change of clothes
is hidden in a beanbag.
The only payment the laundromat accepts
is oral sex
and Herman can’t afford an errand whore.
He uses the moonless night,
shattered street lamps
and knowledge of the storm water ditches
to evade the patrols.

METHOD ACTOR NUMERO UNO,
reads Herman’s t-shirt.
On the other side of the tollway,
a baseball throw from the Helping Hand Club,
he sinks to the shower tiles
and basks in the steaming torrent.

Despite his midnight journey,
Herman wakes at four
and searches for his silk uniform
before recalling his escape.

Limbo

Just when you think
the American government’s image
can’t burn more poisonously,
a means of further obliterating
its charred blood and shit stained reputation
looms on the horizon.
The state sanctioned murder of Julian Assange
is nigh.

Trump’s limbo stick is so low
Rubber Man mistook it for the skirting board.
Even the rats,
with their collapsible skeletons,
can’t fathom how he slips beneath it.
Can the 45th best president of the United States,
maintain his ranking until 2020?
Dig up Richard Nixon
and he’s bound to slip to forty sixth.

The state sanctioned murder of Assange
is nigh.
To rescue him from extradition,
you must fund his legal magician.
Head to wikileaks.shop,
to dynamite destiny.
N/A F.B.I, C.I.A, N.S.A,
peaceful justice,
not the lit wick of doomsday.