The Woman with the Flame Robin Tattoo


Masquerade belly dancers flowed across sprung maple,
as effortlessly as mermaids swaying through aquamarine.
Bethany’s shimmering waxed crown
merely altered the flavour of her beauty,
nothing could detract from her radiant gateways
to alternate universes.
She recited my paper aeroplane poem
‘It’s an honour just to see her move.
Oh how I long to taste the rising tide of her nectar,
to inspire an ecstatic lullaby
that escalates into a climactic scream’
‘How bold’, the raised eyebrows
of the translucent robed fantasy weaver proclaimed.
Would you like to see our apartment,
her voluptuous, cocoa complexioned, girlfriend offered,
unaware of the magnitude of my obsession.
Polyamory seemed poisonous then.



That winter I spotted Bethany on
Her pale jacket was perfectly camouflaged
by a snowy backdrop.
Wayward strands of her wavy dark hair
reminded me of an old world forest,
its Autumn splendour buried beneath ice and snow.
Her serene gaze summoned thoughts of a stone cottage,
in the depths of blizzard ravaged woods;
the harsh glow of electricity
never to illuminate its bronze age walls.
Then she was seated at a grand piano.
Her strapless, emerald, satin dress,
revealed a perfect rendering of a Flame Robin in flight.
I imagined her to be on the verge
of playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.
In a flooded valley,
she snorkelled to within reach
of a mediaeval cathedral spire.
The final photograph was a silhouette
framed in Kirlian colour.
By the time I’d composed a message
her profile had vanished.



Montages of Bethany’s magnificent performances
dominated my thoughts,
as waves thundered into rocks
a thousand rungs below my recliner.
Before I spoke in sentences
a fisherman was swept from the ladder,
in front of my uncomprehending eyes.
With Bethany on a virtual stage before me
I couldn’t finish the first paragraph
of bank heist, ritual murder
and courthouse graffiti articles.
The cabaret theatre finally faded
as a story pondering the disappearance of poets
seized my attention.
According to The Daily Reflection they’d received death threats,
in handwritten calligraphy, on human skin.
The eliminator vowed to throw her rivals
into box jellyfish infested waters.
‘Belly dancing and spoken verse wunderkind Bethany Trellis’
was rumoured to be the latest abductee.

From my cliff top hideaway I scanned the surf
with a powerful telescope,
in search of porpoises and dolphins.
On the tip of a sea ravaged headland,
a Flame Robin adorned woman gazed at the blazing horizon.
Remnants of a mighty wave concealed her.
Spray plummeted to Star Fish havens below.
She’d vanished!
Had the ocean claimed her
or had she departed from the storm whittled stage
as discreetly as a magician?
Was she was real,
or a radiant shard of a shattered mind?



I walked the winding cobblestone lane
from my cliff top village home
to the river mouth.
Trestle tables, laden with baskets of fruit,
lined the path to the shore.

In a vacant meadow,
the girl with the Flame Robin
emblazoned upon her shoulder blade
played a duet with the rising wind.
I waited for one of the villagers
to toss a coin into her barren instrument case,
to prove she was real.
“I feared you’d been abducted and murdered”
were the words imprisoned in my throat.

As I warned off a chihuaha stalking fox,
the enigmatic trobairitz vanished
as swiftly as that shifty canine.



The promotional posters, at Crystal Temple,
were the size of a swimming pool.
I would’ve recognized Bethany’s silhouette minus the aura.
The orchestral splendour of a grand piano
drifted down a spiral staircase,
washing over surreal landscapes
like surf caressing the beach.

The pianists tuxedo was as moulded
to her towering, curvaceous figure as her cocoa skin.
Exquisite lace, nestled beneath her regal ensemble,
was as pronounced as wrought iron wildflowers.
Ladies who’d thought themselves more immune
to the charms of womankind than a eunuch
found themselves in the thrall of her pan-romantic sorcery.
Her Goddess humbling form was upstaged
by the frantic ballet of her talented hands.

Ribbon twirling contortionists
accompanied the sultry musician’s miraculous voyages
into the possibilities of sound.

The most exquisitely proportioned Goddess of music ever deified
was overshadowed by the mystical aura of the host.
If she were an epic poem, the silky smooth thighs,
vanishing beneath her flared satin skirt
would’ve been the least meritorious detail.
It was easy to imagine her sleeveless, iridescent blouse
choreographing the opalescent lighting.

The raven haired, Flame Robin inked, compere
recited a poem from my anthology Phantom Pilgrimage.
Her melodic voice wrapped around the audience
like divine light.

It’s Time to soar beyond the Canopy

Every chrysalis has split asunder,
our wings cannot be overwhelmed
by the deluge following the thunder.’

Adorned by pendants of jade,
we dance in a Wattle glade,
admiring cherry grevilleas
and crimson bouganvilleas,
until the heat begins to fade.

Mauve dusk gives way to moonlight.
Awkwardness melts and passion rises,
expert hands spring intimate surprises.
Sensuous animals and souls embrace
as mouths caress and fingertips trace.
Hearts are healed with summit prizes.

We cross Poseidon Creek by lantern light.
I see word pictures of your soul in auburn eddies,
which I recite before the Sun God
reveals its blazing Cyclops eye.
Venturing back into graffiti defiled urban wild
fails to murder the magic.

At the culmination of that euphoric tale
I thought I saw the vividly hued Robin
inked on her shoulder blade,
fly above the crowd and vanish.
After the dimming and brightening of the lights
her back was a blank canvas no more.
An enigmatic smile graced her lush, blood red lips.
To this day I cannot say
if the flight of the plump, diminutive bird
was a hallucination, special effects or real.



After the show, Charlotte the piano wizard
sold memorabilia in the foyer.
I waited in vain for Bethany to appear.
The oil of her testing the narrative limits of a Spanish guitar,
was it there when I entered the auditorium?
The midnight haired beauty,
on the tip of a sundrenched headland,
hadn’t she been standing beneath a waterfall
before the show?
Her birth name is Bethany Trellis
but only the woman with The Flame Robin Tattoo
captures her layers of mystique.
She is the essence of Bubushka.
Since then I’ve been as close to her
and her piano virtuoso lover as their gourmet dessert,
but my probing questions are met with no more
than a twinkling of her sapphire gaze.



Charlotte was banished
from the realm of the Flame Robin Princess,
after succumbing to the wiles of an actress
who steals lovers with the zeal Stephen Hawking
explores the mysteries of astrophysics.
While Bethany walked the streets,
lamenting the death of the relationship,
a tranquilizer dart missed her
by the width of a violin string.
The gossip mags devoted more ink to pondering
Charlotte’s wary eye bordered jellyfish tattoo.

The anniversary of my paper aeroplane poem
interrupting Bethany’s belly dancing troupe
was as momentous as the moon landing.
I found a copy of Phantom pilgrimage,
with lipstick all over the dust jacket,
hiding beneath free samples and pizza vouchers.
In the evening, a dusty wooden crate
mysteriously appeared on my veranda.
My eyelids outweighed osmium.
I waited to dawn to prise open the lid
and remove three ornately framed canvases:
a telescopic view of a statuesque figure,
on a sun drenched headland;
a close up of the sender
wearing nothing but an enigmatic smile
and a painted enlargement of a poem,
in my handwriting.

The opening verses read,
“Street lights surf wavelets across the bay.
Moonlit Casuarinas stand sentinel over fragile soil.
Flying foxes surf the midnight breeze.
This symphony of movement,
is conducted by the swaying of the belly dancer’s hips.
Her gestures sculpt the clouds into an alien menagerie.
In contrast, the intricate portrait in my coffee
is as unimpressive as a toddlers stick figure.
She steps with the lightness of hoverflies,
as I gaze into the galaxies of her eyes.

It’s an honour just to see her move,
oh how I long to taste the rising tide of her nectar,
to inspire an ecstatic lullaby
that escalates into a climactic scream.



I heard footsteps on the stairs.
Bethany had the audacity
to stroll through my house unannounced.
In her hand was a series of sketches
I’d bought from a street artist a decade ago.
Pairs of Scarlet, Flame and Pink Robins
looked set to soar from the page.
‘That was you’
she laughed at my stunned expression.

I removed a velvet box
from the bottom of the dusty wooden crate.
Inside were Bethany’s annual self-portraits,
ranging from a toddler’s smiley face
to Archibald Prize entries.

Her mind was elsewhere.
‘Poet, how versatile is your tongue’,
was among her many questions.
By the time we collapsed into each other’s arms,
few fantasies remained unexplored.



Bethany selected her Saturday night outfit
from a suitcase the size of a coffin.
I watched in horror as calligraphy
in the style of the poetess death threats
protruded from the pocket
of her bouquet embroidered jeans.
She put on an exhibition
of ambidextrous mirror writing,
in more styles than the F.B.I’s forgery files.
‘Maybe the one in your handwriting is a suicide note’
she quipped, after setting it alight
and burying the charred remains in a pot plant.
“I copied the calligraphy of the poetess killer,
for a comp run by”
she insisted, as light heartedly as she’d
declared herself the better darts player.
“Let’s play Robin Hood,
I’ll tie you up at sword point
and give your stereo to the poor” Bethany pleaded,
as she played with my ornamental cross bow.
“Something wrong with my timing”
an impish grin spread across her angelic face.



There was a thunderous knock at the door.
Charlotte was as insistent as a wolf
starving a child from the safety of a tree.
Exasperated, we let her in.
Her eyes were wild with fury over unanswered calls.

Videos of missing poets, chained to each other,
inside a tunnel as anonymous as a composted corpse
and thrashing about in a human eyeball
and box jellyfish infested tank,
arrived in Bethany’s inbox.
“You’re next” the text bubble menaced.
Charlotte looked as unmoved as a snuff movie fan.
Her tattoo was beginning to look as ominous as a swastika.
Bethany trembled as she rang 000.
Charlotte snatched at her phone.
Holding her back was like wrestling Ronda Rousey.
Somehow I escaped with my shoulder sockets intact.
The videos were on YouTube,

A police car arrived.
Minutes into ‘protective custody’,
we were handcuffed,
herded into a warehouse at gunpoint
and confronted with a box jellyfish infested tank.
Lifeless bodies floated on the surface.
“You ignored my warning” Charlotte lamented,
as she pointed to her tattoo. 

The apparent victims were erotic android doubles.
Pseudo police officers fled the scene.
The abductees were found in a forest,
a mile from the scene of the prank,
looking as refreshed as meditation retreat residents.
Detectives suspected them of colluding
with the manufacturers of their sex toy lookalikes
but evidence remained as elusive as Bigfoot.





David Cook

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The Wrath of Erskine Jay Magoo

I was shown a thing or ten about fondling and beyond
by Cassandra Sapphire Parella, a statuesque blonde,
with the sweetest chest morsels either side of the pond.
Then she married bondage guru, Erskine Jay Magoo,
that guy lived to discipline her with Bernard Bamboo
and give tips on technique while his disciples did too.
Cassandra still wanted my mushroom tipped rocket.
Her alleged free love hubby said he’d steal and hock it.
A text message mutilation threat is a prior confession,
but ‘jail’s Bernie’s free hotel and he loves aggression.’
Rumours of Cassie and Conor Mcgregor’s love child,
proved real danger renders Mr Magoo meek and mild.





Rogerio Silva

Claudia, Sit Portrait, Graphite B3

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Wrong Angled Triangle

The Bannister sisters and I were a “wrong angled triangle”.
We changed the definition of an elective
and smirked at the principal’s invective.
Every afternoon our gang absconded
through lorikeet infested shrubbery,
for a feast of lascivious grubbery,
and to photograph the grandest vandalism
ever to grace a storm water drain.

In a psychedelic haze we’d gaze
at each and every foaming curl
painters had chosen to unfurl,
on a hippie ship drifting perilously close
to the waterfall at the edge of the world.
Nearby, hamsters hang glided in hurricanes
and dugong harlots waited
for a tie dye t-shirt wearing Bluebeard
to don his dope goggles.
Spear gun wielding, werewolf transvestites
paddling after yowie Voodoo Lords,
weren’t the strangest of the hordes
gawking from those gallery walls.
The artists were crazier than your average
Angel Trumpet munching, LSD lunching,
smoke imbibing, needle punching, Kombi zombies,
but they were all natural trippers.

While nerds wondered if their algebra had slipped,
we went to a wake in a walk in crypt.
We didn’t mean to miss the maths test,
a blues guitarist’s tapestry of sound
rooted us to hallowed ground.

We spent the final week of school
in an empty mansion playing pool.
A Rolls Royce idling in the driveway,
prompted our escape from Rose Bay.
Revenge mad suits in swift pursuit
went sprawling over a fig tree root.
Textbooks launched into the harbour,
made room for loot as conspicuous
as bunyips playing frisbee, with a flying saucer,
on the White House lawn.

After we’d indulged in a heavenly blend
of four hands Swedish, Hawaiian and Thai massage,
I had the Bannister sisters mischievous, angelic faces
tattooed on my back by an Archibald Prize winner.
The dregs of our fortune evaporated in Gold Class.
Another Hollywood doomsday soon arrived.
None of the tsunami surfing Leviathans
headed for the Harbor Bridge survived.

The movie was a prophesy for a calamity.
The girls were a writhing mass of limbs
as they landed in the storm water,
their lifeless bodies snagged and snapped on a bridge.
A playful wrestle was twisted into mutual murder.
The papers claimed our polyamorous arrangement
was rocket fuel for enraged jealous derangement,
a ‘wrong angled triangle’ they called us.
I lost count of the cameras I sent cannoning into brick walls
and the drones I slingshotted into the bitumen,
before the story was buried
in the sediment of sport and celebrity gossip.





Untitled by Kedai Lelaki

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I Admit it, it was I, DwiteDaSpriteKnight

‘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,
I think you may need professional help.





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

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The Virus

Internationally renowned food critic Pierre Broderick,
abandoned his scathing attack on the presentation,
of the worst dessert he’d sampled in a generation,
to admire the most exquisite creature in his universe.
Resisting a second and third glance
was akin to silently stepping in semi molten granite.
That visual banquet strolled from Pierre’s life
before he could jokingly ask her to be his wife.
Was she the artistic genius of his imagination,
a malevolent dunce with less creative flair
than a garage porn director, or between extremes?

That night, Pierre met Satan at The Fallen Angel.
The statue of Buddha was a Juke Box.
Yahweh’s pupils were disco balls
and his beard a haven for finches and wrens.
These days the Prince of Darkness
is a helicopter salesman,
who shares Pierre’s love of bird watching,
mountain climbing and knitting.
The psychedelic food critic was certain
his bright red skin and razor sharp horns
weren’t an illusion.
He mentioned his yearning for Mariah.
Satan promised to help.

Pierre’s clairvoyant confidante, Jeremiah Elijah the 2nd,
a proud franchisee of Sutton’s Psychic Therapy,
claimed a smorgasbord of delicious luck
awaited his gustatory adviser.
Pierre probed for intel on Mariah Bordeaux
“Legend has it that vivacious Goddess
was imprisoned in an otherwise empty cage,
for a month, without dropping a dress size”
was all the self proclaimed sage had to say.

“Wear odd socks, one golden, one midnight black,
for good luck, Elijah advised
before Mariah’s debut exhibition.
Her psychedelic self-portraits
hung beside a golden hornet’s invasion
of a honey farming glow worms fortress.
That insectoid farmer composed symphonies
with shifting patterns on its luminous skin.
The classical music loathing hornet retreated.

As Pierre sought Mariah’s autograph
she looked down her patrician nose
at his off the rack clothes.
Once she caught a glimpse of his odd socks
he thought she’d call security.

“At last, the man with one golden sock
and the other as dark as a forest night.
My psychic told me he’s the cunnilingus magician I seek.”
“Jeremiah, you sly dog”, Pierre texted.
“Ready to get on your knees James?” Mariah purred.
“Sorry darling, I was hoping for someone
more compassionate than a branding iron,
closer to monogamy than a bonobo
and less sacrilegious than a brothel in a cathedral.
Declaring yourself more enticing
than Mary, Mother of God,
in a mini skirt and crotchless panties,
is the most chaste remark you’ve made all evening.”
“Whatever, you’re addicted to my depravity,
you down on your knees is as sure as gravity” Mariah crooned.

Pierre swaggered away like the ultimate alpha
but felt like an alcoholic fleeing a bar.
Run, a diver surfacing from the ocean
of his subconscious pleaded.
The click of Mariah’s high heels
was as hypnotic as tribal drums.
She corralled Pierre in a storeroom
and parted the teeth of his zipper
with bewitching slowness.

In his disembodied state,
Pierre heard someone squealing in delight.
The journey into Mariah’s wild, hungry eyes
reduced a burst water main humbling orgasm
to a mere footnote.
“It’s time for your diving lesson Pierre”
Mariah breathed in his ear.

With every trace of tension gone,
the marble storage room floor
felt as good as a four poster bed
resplendent in silk sheets.

After weeks of fasting, Pierre felt as full as an anaconda
that treats jaguars like jelly beans.
“Legend has it Mariah was imprisoned in a glass ball
for a month, without food or drink
and didn’t drop a single dress size.” Jeremiah once said,
in the mock serious tone
he’d mentioned the Lochness Monster gate crashing his pool party.
Hunger pangs finally hit.
There was only one food Pierre craved.
Within minutes of pleasuring Mariah,
he felt like he’d won the world pie eating championships.
The former food critic was more puzzled
than a Neolithic tribesman in a quantum computing lab.

“How could your nectar be as nourishing
as a feast for fifty, Mariah” Pierre probed.
“Nutritionists and pathologists say my magic well
contains fewer calories than diet cola.
It’s infested with DNA reprogramming viruses
that render food as toxic as funnel web venom
and the appetite as absent as Peter Dutton’s conscience.
Carriers convert air pollution into nutrients.
Too long without worshipping my love tunnel
and they’ll be as emaciated as anorexic junkies.
Literary demolitions of my grandfather’s restaurants
are treated like treason.
Your passion for garlic and basil sprinkled barramundi,
soaked in lemon juice, followed by homemade
passionfruit and pineapple iced cream
is as dead as lava swimmers.

After Mariah banished Pierre from her harem
she revealed there was an antidote.
He’d long since sold his house and car
to buy a helicopter from Satan,
for travelling to and from pristine mountain air
quickly enough to avoid starvation.

“The man who sells the antidote created the viruses
during stints in germ warfare labs.
He’s quite the entrepreneur, he sells helicopters too”
“Is his name Satan by any chance?”
“No, I think it’s Sutton.”

Pierre returned to The Fallen Angel.
The helicopter salesman no longer had horns
or skin as bright red as Mariah’s stretch lace lingerie.
“I heard you’ve been banished from Mariah’s harem,
where are you going to
replenish your stocks of the virus now?”
Satan, or Sutton as he calls himself these days, sneered,
as he poured a test tube of the virus into his  beer.

“I must return to my life as a food critic,
how much for the antidote”
“Give me your soul and it’s free.
I can throw in a branch of Sutton’s Psychic Therapy,
for fifty per cent off, if you wish.

Paradoxically, the antidote was fresh air.
A pure country breeze restored Pierre’s appetite.
On the verge of death, he crawled to the nearest pub.
Potato wedges with sour cream and sweet chili sauce
overshadowed his grandest 3 Michelin star adventures.
As he sipped from a bottle of boutique beer,
Pierre pondered how to regain his soul,
without gourmet delights repulsing him
like aging road kill marinated in sewage.





Biohazard, Halloween Signage by Bill Dickinson


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Digby Musgrave, Erotic Movie Magnate, Counsellor, Extraordinaire

you haven’t been the same
since your brawl with a killer whale,
during your morning Channel swim.
Take the box jellyfish by the tentacles
and start living your life again.
Try hang gliding across the Grand Canyon,
flying a hot air balloon across the Atlantic,
or base jumping from the Devil’s Marbles.

“Lately, diving boards make me hyperventilate,
like short fused dynamite crammed up the date.”

“You used to explore the remains of the Titanic
and hunt Great Whites without a hint of panic.
How about trekking through the Amazon?”

“I’d rather sit here and sample apple ciders
than be terrorized by snakes and spiders.”

“What about a holiday to the moon,
if I sedate you for the journey?”

“I’d get terribly home sick.”

“Does an ultra-marathon foursome,
with model triplets, sound awesome?”

“Away from thee, you twisted offspring of Satan.”

Digby summoned leggy lovelies in luxurious lingerie.
They leapt from translucent dresses
and lounged in front of Digby’s once lifeless friend.
A waiter brought champagne
and fresh fruit salad buried in gelato.
Constantine gasped, his eyes bulged.

“Think us, an emperor sized waterbed
and you earning that sumptuous treat
by going where few men dare tread”
the trio of leggy lovelies said.

“I’ll leap from a U2 in a wingsuit
if you let me watch you make love
and kiak off Victoria Falls if you let me join in!”

“Enjoy the pool, I have paperwork” Digby declared.
The trio’s bikinis shone like supernovae.
Their synchronized swimming
made flamingos appear as graceless as beached leopard seals.

All Constantine had to do was make Evel Knieval and Icarus
look as ordinary as senior citizens at the skate park
and hedonistic heaven was his.

Digby ticked the last box on his hit list.
Surely, not even the great Constantine Jumper
could survive plunging off Victoria Falls in a kiak.





Wingsuit Backflyer by Richard Schneider


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Crossing the Line

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 a series of photos
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
and guided Melanie 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 him to fellate
a green haired turtle
hadn’t evoked 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.





100 Days of Summer # 74 – No Passing

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The Stoned Sniffer Dog


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.


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.’

Bypass Ferals

One adjective occupants of a hoon nest on wheels,
leant out windowless, mismatched doors,
so far out a truck could have taken them out
without risking side swiping precious scrap metal.

The driver looked as crazy as confronting arachnophobia
by pashing the dunny Red Back.
He hurled abuse with the gusto of tornados
tossing pagodas like pergolas.
His most riveting repartee was more painfully stupid
than performing acupuncture with a javelin.
The smartest among them lacked the discretion
to tell diamonds on velvet from pebbles on hessian.

The backseat passenger
was the most obnoxious of that tragic troglodyte trio.
Calling that expletive machine gunner a spineless,
hag fish pashing, son of an inbred necrophiliac
would’ve been way too complimentary.
I’d rather teach salt water crocodiles
the art of synchronized swimming
than share oxygen with that arsehole,
having the Ebola Virus
and the Bubonic Plague back to back
would be preferable.

Fear wasn’t an issue,
I felt about as scared as Blitzkrieg the Pitbull
after receiving death threats from Lullaby the Yorkie.
Back seat bomber thought he was a verbal Tyson.
My words could have hit him like a cloud of ricin.
I informed my antagonist and his bogan crew
“If the Guinea Pig at Pan’s Pesticides gets the flu,
that’s the only way out of the dole queue for you”

The prettiest of the lot had a smile more vile
than necrotic tissue floating
in a Guiness Book of Records sized cyst;
her breathe stank like she’d been drinking at a pub
where the filtered water is vile enough
to inspire a sewer rat to erect a no swimming sign.
I casually informed that putrid wench
that only a drum of sneezing powder
could rid my nostrils of her stench.

Her bare butt out the window was her comeback.
I laughed when I noticed who had the inside track.
If that carload of human detritus
saw the police pull up beside them,
the news contains no propaganda,
Ali was K.O’d by a jockey’s backhander
and I’m a reggae singing salamander.

Earlier that day, the baddy bunch
stole a tablet computer from a cerebral palsied Octogenarian.
Being a prison psychologist,
I’ve been appointed as their self-esteem coach,
for the duration of their incarceration.


Cash Stash

A beehive, in an abandoned lounge chair,
sits at the blackberry infested entrance
to the strangest stretch of suburban creek line in Australia.
The brambles conceal a Casuarina grove
decorated with tinsel, angels and strap on dildos.
Forest regeneration in Feral Valley
is more surreal than a blizzard in Tahiti.

In the centre of a Cestrum and Tobacco Bush infestation,
Kirk Mcdonald spots the rusting remains
of a flower power era bus.
The guitar stashed under the bonnet
is as unblemished as a music shop display.
The only instrument Kirk can play is the radio.
To him, music is just auditory maths.
He thinks nothing of smashing the six stringed treasure,
to reach the wads of cash inside.
Despite the oven like heat, Kirk empties his water bottle
and stuffs it with excess wads of one hundred dollar bills.

Sharing with the crew is unthinkable.
Bush Regen Jesus would spend it all on bibles,
to leave in the glove compartments
of atheists and pagans.
A man who thinks Methusaleh lived to be 969,
cannot be trusted with money.
The Crown of Thorns Parading Goat Fucker,
that slithering Janus,
he’d waste it on fighting defamation suits.
Princess Sheree, she’d squander it on cosmetic surgery.

The afternoon passes like a drag racer with a death wish.
It’s thirty seconds to beer o’clock.
Kirk looks as focused as a clay pigeon shooter,
on the verge of pulling the trigger,
that ring pull doesn’t stand a chance.
An entire case couldn’t sicken him
like the sudden realization he’s lost his wallet.
He hasn’t seen it since he smashed the guitar,
to set a quarter of a million dollars free.
It was full of cards for his home bonsai business.
What if the cash stasher finds it?
Kirk’s heart rate accelerates,
like a jet powered car on a salt pan,
as his horror movie ring tone sounds.

‘I know what you did, you’re gonna pay’,
a bone marrow freezing voice promises’
Within seconds of Kirk dead locking the door,
and closing his bullet proof roller shutters,
a thunderous knock drowns out the television.
A bikie, built like King Kong, waits impatiently.
Why is he carrying a bucket?
Maybe it’s filled with hydrochloric acid.
Kirk’s fear subsides,
once he realizes the unkempt goliath
is raising money for charity.

Just in case a cash retrieving sniper
is hiding in nearby shrubbery,
Kirk slides change beneath the door.
He runs the gauntlet, to the convenience store,
for a packet of cigarettes.
A black panel van sidles up beside him.
As the door opens, he flees
like he’s being pursued by a starving lioness.
“I’m lost, can you direct me to the motorway”
the driver pleads.
Kirk warily consults Google maps.

Gang members follow the cash scavenger
down a disused laneway.
His bowels loosen as they surround him.
“Have you seen my guitar ancient man”
their leader menaces.
“Y-y-your guitar, w-w-what does it look like?”
“Have you seen my guitar ancient man,
I think it was stolen by a geriatric fan,
a tragic geezer in need of a busking ban”
“Y-y-you’re just singing a song?”
Their good natured laughter is like desert rain.

The stairs to Kirk’s ensuite creak and groan.
In his terror stricken state he can’t remember
if he’s hidden the cash beneath the floor,
or left it on the kitchen table.
“Yoohoo, Kirk, is that you?
I baked some scones.
You look as worried as Uncle Freddie,
the day the police questioned him
about an armed robbery, are you ill?
I’ll make you some vegetable soup.”
“Knock next time mum”

“They don’t know what I did, it was a prank call,
Kirk repeats long into the night.
Screeching tyres shatter the early morning serenity.
“I know what you did” the driver roars,
before departing at tyre melting speed.
Apparently they’re waiting for his sanity
to fray and snap like an old rubber band,
before moving in for the kill.

On Monday morning Kirk has two cups of coffee,
followed by coffee on his cocoa pops.
To calm his nerves for the journey
from the front door to the driveway
he dresses in riot squad gear
he purchased for a fancy dress party.
“Don’t ask” Kirk warns,
as he stops at a friend’s to change.

The bushland reserve,
where Kirk will be drilling and poisoning
Large Leaf Privets and Camphor Laurels,
is home to hundreds of foxes.
It offers perfect camouflage for snipers.
Maybe it’s time to move to Darwin.

“I know what you did” Bush Regen Jesus roars
as he holds up two charred bibles
and a few that have been defaced
with graffiti of Judas performing fellatio on Satan.
“I found the video of the bible burning
on a USB drive in your wallet.”