Images

Hopefully the following micro poems will trigger creative writing of your own.

1.
Baseballs turns black in the twilight.
Earthward bound they overtake eagles.

2.
Stockings as ornate as Versailles chandeliers
cling to her like a lover.

3.
The ink cartridge is an ocean of potential.
Her diary is a temple of dreams.

4.
The sun’s farewell
is painted on the shallows
of a windswept beach.

5.
Santa’s sleigh zooms across
a ten thousand dollar TV.
Elf size viewers
scrape mould from their breakfast.

6.
His spirit lived in the soil.
Few could see the forest he propagated.
Who picked up a spade
before the grave diggers?

7.
Rotten watermelons carpet the yard.
Pranked basement prisoners
collapse from thirst.

8.
Politicians in chains,
staring at the corpses
of forgotten political prisoners.

9.
Enough Wikileaks t-shirts
to cause a cotton shortage in Texas,
bury the Christmas tree.

10.
A sinker for every Clinton and Trump lie.
Not enough fisherman in the USA
to stop them spilling on to the streets.

11.
Forest fire embers
descend on a climate change deniers essay,
like a hawk on a rodent.

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.

 

Callie

Callie wants a bad boy to tame,
who knows he’s her soul mate
before he knows her name.
She purges fear and rage
with staplers and lighters.
Lust making is no escape,
unless she bites and is bitten.
She dreams of sucking sacrificial blood
from her master’s fingers
and sharing it in a kiss.

Callie waits for her protector to grow bored
with her plump curves, nipple rings
and a year’s rent worth of exquisite tattoo’s.
Then she let’s fly,
with a barrage of obscenities
as witty as Socrates
and as vulgar as bestiality in a sewer.

“It’s plain to see, you’re the kind of guy
who would inject a stroke victim with HIV.
I wouldn’t wish your drone on a serial killer.
Clearly, when God made you
he’d finished with the plot
and was on to the filler”
Callie lambasted her last boyfriend,
after she caught him flicking through
copies of Plus Size Prize, Petite Treat
and the Leggy Elite.
Teeing off on his smirk
was as tempting as ice cream pie,
long before he impregnated her sisters.
Callie drew frowny faces on her arms
with cigarettes instead.

After changing the locks,
the Princess of Pain retreated to a secluded corner,
of platform four
and played noughts and crosses on her thighs,
with a compass.
The most exquisite creature she’d ever seen,
locked eyes with her.

Callie blindly followed the corporate Goddess
on to the intercity express,
her dentist appointment
as forgotten as Neolithic past lives.
“I knew you’d follow” the mystery woman purred.
She opened her briefcase,
to reveal pain converted into string and ribbon art.
Callie quivered from excitement
over a rubenesque blonde,
with silk butterflies pinned to her breasts.
She was eager to emulate a flame haired beauty,
adorned with pink flamingos.

“You’re going to feature in an art exhibition”
the anonymous businesswoman promised.
Her modus operandi didn’t involve questions.
Callie unabashedly ogled her lady in shining armour.
Joan of Arc was among the characters Mistress Rowena played,
during business hours.

Featured

Singles Site Suitor

Ladies, the superbly sculpted,
burdensomely endowed,
entrepreneurial wizard
of your wildest dreams is here.
It’s true, I’m often mistaken for God.
My old boss claims I’m as useless
as a paint chart on a black and white TV.
I should’ve been running that company.

I’m seeking a voluptuous poetess,
to join me for adventures,
artistic and animalistic.

What kind of art soars off your chart?
Traditional landscapes and portraits
can be as exquisite as the finest floozy,
ever to frolic in my oceanic Jacuzzi;
but I prefer transparent unicorn serpents,
with amphibious goblins swimming in their stomachs.
That’s a bit dark isn’t it.
What has a more sunshine and rainbows appeal?
Maybe a version of Medusa,
who merely bedazzles besotted suitors,
bathing in the sun kissed billabongs of her eyes,
instead of turning them to stone.
Her pygmy dragon, belly dancing troupe
is off their leads in the background.
Now that’s art.

When I’m not gazing at butterfly sail galleons
at the gallery,
I’m searching for truly psychic psychics
and ghosts that are more than a sneaky breeze.
I know human observations aren’t always
more accurate than a sixteenth century musket,
in the hands of a Parkinson’s victim,
but sometimes arrows split atoms.

This thrill seeker also enjoys sprint cars.
I can’t say I’ve backflipped my way
from the grandstand to the pits
and raced one,
but I drove a go kart once.
Not one of those glorified dodgem cars,
that could be overtaken by a mum pushing a pram,
a real one.
Unfortunately the lining of my helmet
slipped over my eyes
and I ran over the track attendant.

I’m more likely to win a poetry prize than a Grand Prix.
Ladies, my erotic rhymes will make you swoon.
They’re as adventurous as a space shuttle orgy,
hurtling towards the wildest interstellar moon.
I authored the Kama Sutra for acrobats darlin,
this mighty love machine’s no literary buffoon.
If you’re as vivacious as I’m salacious,
my appetite for your soul is rapacious.
Yep, I swallow Thesaurus’s
and shit out classics.

You’re not ready to meet after our umpteenth epic chat
and naïve enough to imagine I’ll graciously accept that?
I want to know the love of my life before palliative strife.
Why not reveal how captivated you are by my free verse,
before it’s time to rehearse for the hearse?

Genie of the Forest

We rest our weary legs
in a Weeping Meadow Grass carpeted clearing.
Rufous Fantails dart between Clerodendrums,
beckoning us to follow.

The hum of traffic is a fading memory.
Her fingertips bathe me in compassion.
The gleam in her eyes,
the wonder of her words,
such a bewitching duet.

If an excruciating debacle
snuffs out her precious sparkle,
I want to cradle her in my arms,
resuscitate her joyful charms.

Later, I meditate on the paradise of a kiss
and imagine her face in the throes of bliss.
Genie of the forest,
you granted every wish but one.

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.

Aphrodite Versus Eleos

Zeus’s daughter is on Tinder.
Luscious creatures of mortal birth
cannot compete.
They train with the scientific zeal
Tesla lit up the world,
but dedication cannot elevate them
to the Zenith of Olympus.

The Goddess of desire has grown weary
of clueless nineteen year old boys.
While Earthly delights chase Adonis,
Aphrodite has chosen me,
for a few hours at least.
I’m an intriguing museum piece.
Does it still work, she wants to know.
She’s as superficial as spray on tan.
Athena thinks “I’m as hypocritical
as the no fat chicks sticker
on the ice cream man’s panel van.”
I am reaching for Aphrodite’s mind,
between gaping in awe
at her Isis humbling hips.
That’s a luxury apartment for triplets right there.

Yes, Isis, the Egyptian Goddess of fertility.
Aphrodite hasn’t stunned
any terrorist organizations into submission
with her delectable geometry lately.

Her Lusciousness finds His Quirkiness hilarious,
but won’t tax herself by responding beyond LOL.
Would she appreciate the dawn sun,
peeking above the waves,
if it was as grey as coastal soil?
Has she ceased lingerie shopping,
to wonder what that means?
Globules of glibness infect her goblet of glamour.

Maybe the Goddess of desire possesses
the acerbic wit to light Momus’s wick,
and embarrass Thoth in debate, chess and poker,
between out-pranking Gotham’s nemesis the Joker.
But all she need do to transcend the magic of genie’s,
is decorate herself with a stunning array of bikinis
and she knows it!

Tomorrow I’m Aphrodite’s fashion consultant.
The flowers on her short fluttery dress,
are sure to look more alive
than the fluffy, golden Acacia blooms
along the trail.
She’s every flavour I wish to savour,
but who’s the woman behind the myth?

Zeus’s daughter isn’t the only Goddess
in the Lotto of love.
Yesterday, Eleos entered the fray.
She transcends dessert, she’s every course,
in the juxtaposition of parallel universes.
Hot springs overlooking jungle horizons,
can’t compare to lacing hands
with the Goddess of compassion.
Everyone within her orbit is bathed in love.