Chess Site Profile

Hi, I’m Colin Pythagoras’ scribe, Alduous Shakespeare the 3rd. Colin assures me that it’s just a massive coincidence that he and Rod Hunter aka the Surreal Art Psychonaut have never been seen together.

Col is a self proclaimed geometry wunderkind from Jupiter who likes to ‘hang with every mad hatter that’s ever escaped from the dragon’s platter’. On his home planet he’s a heavy dude. Since his days in the manger, he hasn’t been one to distance himself from danger. Some say Colin has an addiction to fiction but he assures the world he’s more painstakingly factual than any tome in an Earthly timezone.

Chess is Colin’s favorite means of adding grams to his ‘gargantuan grey matter.’ According to his autobiography he’s been known to foil Bobby Fischer’s plans, show Kasparov a thing or two about improv and mangle the mighty Magnus Carlsen’s world championship dreams. At the age of one hundred and thirty four, Colin admits his prodigious talent is beginning to wane.

Yes, Colin has been known to talk himself up. Some say that works better for him in the psychedelic poetry realm than the chess world. He claims that in chess he is king, from the Isle of Man to Japan. Chess journalists the world over have dubbed this self titled ‘Antarctic Titan’ the ‘Blunder From Down Under’.
On a serious note, chess is surely the ultimate test of strategy. The possibilities provided by those thirty two pieces, on sixty four squares, are more complex than any known genius’s pattern sequencing ability. Super computers have proven that with their victories over the world’s best.

In my quest to play the game well I have mostly faltered absurdly. Chess enthusiasts with impressive powers of concentration and a touch of sophistication utterly bamboozle me. If I was a talented chess player, I suspect I would still prefer rural fireside gambits, to the tension of high stakes competition.

Picture this, an antique marble chess table in the center of an ancient sandstone cottage. The ghost of Marcus Aurelius floats by the garden waterfall and peers through the fog varnished window, at the peaceful combatants. Chess, the ultimate cherry on top of serene rural recreation and a sweet diversion from the tenterhooks of tenement living.

Chess can be a dreadful headache when taken too seriously but otherwise it is the mental zenith of Zorro like daring.

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.


An Experimental Opening

Mundane conversation starters, on online singles sites, are an underwhelming experience for women who are so burdened with admirers that they need a spreadsheet to keep track of them. Are they any fonder of extremely unusual openings? I decided to find out. Considering the sample size is one, further research may be required.

Hi, how are you? What’s your favourite means of expressing your creativity?
12/30/2019 7:45 PM

7:45 PM
For all I know you’re being bombarded with witty remarks from worldly and otherworldly men, so maybe I should try something different myself. I don’t have any one line lassos of love to launch your way but I do have a unique scenario to massage your imagination.

Which would you rather be, a species of hummingbird that cleans conjunctivitus from the eyelids of dragon synchronised flying troupes, or an ultra intelligent species of scorpion, that makes sculptures of its pets with a concoction of saliva and squid panda dung? Squid pandas look just like regular pandas, except for the tentacle skirt that makes them semi aquatic.
7:47 PM

Now I wait, to find out if the straightforward approach was better or not (-:

They say that madness is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result, so I tried something completely different. Apparently I over did it, at about 8:30PM I noticed the young lady had hit delete. If I was catapulted face first into the twilight zone, by a bizarre conversation starter, I’d be intrigued. I certainly wouldn’t be reflexively hitting delete. Did she believe she was being mocked, that she was talking to a time wasting joker or a mentally disturbed person? Reflexively hitting delete wasn’t the reaction I was expecting from someone who describes themselves as kind and creative in their profile.

Would I have fared better if the hummingbird was plucking the dragon synchronised flying troupe’s eyelashes instead of treating their conjunctivitis? Maybe a warrior butterfly that sculpts wizards from lava, without suffering from the slightest blister, would have been more palatable than a scorpion that sculpts likenesses of its pets from a concoction of spit and squid panda shit. If so, then maybe the young lady is too girly for my liking and being rejected by her is cause for streamers and champagne, not self flegellation and tears of grief.

Do popular women tend to prefer extremely unusual conversation openers to mundane  beginnings? I still don’t know. How does one compare being completely ignored to being as savagely rejected as a traitorous astronaut is ejected into the cold emptiness of outer space?



The Goliath Raptors

Aviation bladders keep the beast aloft.
It breaks formation with the fleet.
From a mile away it swoops.
Wily bait thrashes hysterically in slip knots.
The pilot loses control.
He’s flung clear of his steed,
a behemoth that makes wrens of hawks.

The bait is grazed by a razor sharp beak,
as it escapes its bonds
and lunges headfirst into a cave.
The eyes of the evolutionary watershed,
between flying reptiles and birds of prey,
spin like balls on a tricksters fingers,
as a carefully laid mat of turf and twigs,
snaps beneath its buffalo shredding talons.

Spears rain down from tree hollows.
Boulders burst through vine curtains,
and smash into the flailing wings
of a monster known to pluck canoes from rapids,
with the occupants still inside.

The mighty flyers kin
soar towards the sadistic midday sun.
Their co-pilots launch volleys of arrows
at the spear hurling monkey riders,
hidden in the canopy.

Beneath the misty veil of winter darkness,
Tamarin back warriors retreat into the jungle,
leaving generous portions of the goliath eagle carcass,
for their Katana fang panther retrievers.

At nightfall, an egg is spotted at the ambush site
and winched on to a buggy.
Before it’s rolled into the warmth,
by the fire, in a canyon hideout,
it begins to crack.

Dear Diary


Have these tourists never seen a seagull before?
Close your eyes and it’s easy to believe
they’re marvelling over spectacular plumage, 
not seen beyond taxidermists workshops
since Linnaeus fathered taxonomy.

The gulls are stalking my sandwich,

like they’re the bomb squad
and it’s a doomsday device.
I almost wish I had an air rifle, 
to scatter a few feathers
and deflate the mood a bit.

Buskers abound.
The levitating reptilian
levitates the coins
scattered across his banjo case.
The guano mine in his hair doesn’t phase him.

My eyes almost land on the pavement,

as I spot a Federation era one hundred pound note,
among the fivers.
It looks as freshly printed
as the fifties the ATM spat into my world.
“I’ll give you a thousand dollars for that”
I offer with surprising calm.


“I found it in a rusty old safe,
in the basement”
I tell the museum reps,
as they apply their magnifying glasses
to my random discovery.
A few tests later,
I’m admiring the Picasso fakes
on the walls of my new apartment.

Dinnertime arrives.
“That cornflake looks like Richard Nixon”,
I muse,
as I rescue it from my serial bowl,
before drowning the likenesses of lesser criminals
in chocolate flavoured soy.

Cornflake Nixon is inspirational.
He will star in an animated advertisement.
I can see the agri-giants limousines
causing a multi car pile up,

in their bid for parking spots
at the premiere.
Naturally they’ll risk financial ruin,
at the auction for the rights to
“The Adventures of Dick the Cornflake”


An advertising executive suggests quitting smoking.

Selective Amnesia

Glumdrabba could fit a football in his mouth. His ears are invisible, without the aid of an electron microscope. The nostrils between them are as useless as an Australian Prime Minister. They couldn’t detect anything as subtle as bullshit. Somehow I mistook Glumdrabba for a Homo sapien, until he claimed our world has enough forests. It was then that I noticed he looked more termite than human.

Enough forests? Glumdrabba should’ve looked out the window as his spaceship approached the surface. His idiotic confidence was disconcerting enough to cause a bout of selective amnesia. I forgot that old growth forests need buffer zones. I forgot that trees older than European settlement are rarer than pink diamonds, in the national parks I frequent. Their value lies in their potential.

What’s that Glumbrabba Junior? Oh, there isn’t even one pink diamond in any of the national parks I’ve been to, so how could the ancient trees be even rarer? Well Glumbdrabba Junior, either I was speaking metaphorically or I was referring to the rarity of pink diamonds in general, not in a particular place. That’s right, not an army general. No, a metaphor is nothing like a meteor. Don’t you have sixteen candles to blow out? How silly of me to think you could calculate that when you’ve only got twelve fingers.

Junior’s dad wanted to build a multi level carpark beside the world’s largest tree. That sounded as crazy as eating razorblades to hack up an ever expanding tape worm. Glubrabba’s know all grin was a synaptic vampire, so I couldn’t explain why. Reforestation is a major part of the solution to global warming. Somehow I failed to recall that too.

Glumdrabba’s hordes built mountainous nests. The forest views they craved were soon replaced by an endless expanse of desert. The last skeleton crumbled to dust long before Glumbrabba’s descendants arrived, in search of his remains. Despite my mental fog, I did share the fact that the conservation industry is a net job creator, but he’s an expert on planets he’s barely been to, so he didn’t listen.


The Beatles Fan from Betelgeuse

I thought her blissful moans were cries of pain,
until she arched her back so powerfully
the ceiling took evasive action.
Her record collection was as eccentric
as the Come Together hippie
and as beautiful as Audrey Hepburn.
Her cat herds were wren stalking art galleries.
What would PETA think
of the Marilyn in the clouds tattoo,
on the shaved puma?
The Beatles fan from Betelgeuse!
She’s as enigmatic as vicious,
as compelling as capricious.
Her garden gnomes speak in tongues.
Oh, how she loves tongues,
in adventurous places
and on necklaces, golden ones.
The Beatles Fan from Betelgeuse
says there’s no decomposing bodies
in her market garden.
Nobody asked.
The Beatles Fan from Betelgeuse!
There’s too much truth in her fiction,
but her probing kiss is my addiction.


Vungtorb, the Reptilian Orangutan

Vungtorb the reptilian orangutan, recharged his brain via his solar electric scales. A meal of antelope would’ve energised him more swiftly but in the Lorp Desert, hawk hornets and ballet scorpions, are the only readily available sustenance besides the merciless midnight sun.

Vungtorb the reptilian orangutan and his partner, Elvira the medusa poodle, began their land journey at the equator. Fortunately their all terrain vehicle, didn’t lose a wheel until they reached Gorbantula’s south pole. They’d honeymooned there an Earth century ago. Elvira’s wedding collar was stolen by the Gorbantula’s, the dragons after which the planet was named. Despite the theft, Vungtorb and Elvira considered retiring, just a flame from the geographical pole. Their interspecies marriage made them outcasts on most planets, but the Gorbantula dragons didn’t care what phylum their neighbours fucked. They were too preoccupied with treasure.

Vungtorb was confident the Gorbantulas would return Elvira’s wedding collar. His drag queen act had won over dragons before. Eager to see more, past audiences had parted with synthetic humanoids, reconnaissance drones, fully equipped interstellar spacecraft and a menagerie of soprano octopoids, baritone insectoids and a crustacean that sounded like a violin whenever it was immersed in a cloud of Vungtorb’s flatulence. These creature’s were currency throughout the Milky Way, but not as valuable as Vungtorb’s favourite money maker.

That reptilian Orangutan’s high heels were the final frontier in his act. While lassoing butterflies, with his flower draped erotic organs, he liked to launch his jewel encrusted shoes into the audience. Sometimes he engaged the retractable spears in the heels and sent them hurtling into a dartboard. In case you’re wondering, the butterflies love it.

The Garbantula’s burlesque cave was desperate for new acts. Elvira’s wedding collar was on display, behind RPG proof glass, in the kink museum upstairs. Apparently unimpressed with Vungtorb’s Muhammad Ali like agility, Jackie Chan humbling acrobatics, Fred Astaire rivalling rhythm and Elton John surpassing outfits, the manager refused to pay him the symphonic chameleons he’d promised, let alone consider returning Elvira’s wedding collar. Hoobdubba, the Gorbantula’s monarch, nodded its approval as Vungtorb approached, with his head bowed.

“I humbly thank you, for the honour of performing before you” Vungtorb proclaimed, before passionately kissing Hoobdubba’s cranium tentacle sphincter. It was momentarily startled. Vungtorb proferred his jewel encrusted, silk veneer high heels.

“A gift for you darling. Please take a closer look at what were my most prized possessions until I felt inspired to give them to a more worthy owner.” Hoobdubba was startled once more, as it tentatively sniffed the bejewelled offering. Its courtiers stared at their royal highness quizzically.

Vungtorb appeared to be mumbling gibberish as he crawled off stage. What Hoobdubba and his entourage couldn’t have known, is the crafty drag queen was issuing instructions, in an archaic language, to the multitude of miniature drones he’d sent into Hoobdubba’s blood tunnels. They waited for the signal to empty their hallucinogen tanks.

“The festering zombie donkeys, their bits don’t merely fall, their leprosy is volcanic” Hoobdubba yelled in terror.

Zungtorb addressed the room. “I regret to inform you there is a curse on the monarch.
The only way to free its royal highness from the curse is to return my darling Elvira’s wedding collar. If you’re wondering how this curse came about, we bought the collar from a witch, a Jorbblaga asteroid belt witch. Need I say more?”

“A collar you say. Oh that old thing, what a small price to pay for restoring the health of our royal highness. Hoobdubba is so attached to it but he couldn’t sell it if he wanted to. The most cunning shyster wouldn’t be able to trade it for an Earthling space probe, not even one from the fossil fuel era” Hoobdubba’s procurement officer chuckled.

Its Royal Highness babbled for a little longer “Resplendent in their evening gowns, they waddle across the boomerangs. Look how those throwing implements hover above the methane clouds. The aerial jellyfish swerve from their path. Why must they use their tentacles as satellite phone receivers, when they should use them to massage the urethras of viper maggots” Hoobdubba briefly slipping into a coma. When it awoke, it was its old self.

Vungtorb’s breaking of the curse was rewarded with seven symphonic chameleon’s.
Elvira’s wedding collar was presented in a marble replica of Zarbblimpers ark.
Zarbblimpa was renowned for salvaging plants and animals from planets destined to be demolished for their mineral wealth.

In the morning, a pair of ultra marathon Gorbantulas flew the proud interspecies couple and their crippled all terrain vehicle back to their interstellar cruiser.

Don’t Despair Big Foot, I Believe in You

Recently I joined a Facebook page under the impression it’s purpose is to support Wikileaks. I discovered its credibility is sky high, when compared with online communities that promote engineering more potent strains of the Ebola virus. I couldn’t find anything on the page about the political imprisonment of Wikileaks founder Julian Assange, for the part he played in exposing U.S war crimes. After watching a few minutes of a video post about chemtrails, I left the group.

I can’t say I have analysed emissions from passenger jets myself, I wouldn’t know where to start. It’s those who think chemicals are being sprayed from planes, to control the weather and people’s minds that need to provide evidence though. They’re the ones making a claim. I don’t have to prove a negative, otherwise I’d have to disprove claims that my stories about reptilian orangutans and their medusa poodle lovers are non fiction. Disproving everything would be a mind boggling waste of time.

For those of you who possess less imagination than a prawn, a reptilian orangutan is anatomically similar to a mammalian orangutan. Their solar electric scales are the most obvious difference.

I’ve never met a reptilian orangutan, or any other shrewd creature, that believes in chemtrails, have you? No real scientists or investigative journalists have found a shred of evidence to support chemtrail conspiracy theories. I would rather put my money on Bigfoot posing for selfies with Michael Shermer than the powers that be subjugating us with the aid of chemtrails. For those who don’t know, Michael is the founder of the Skeptics Society.

How will Bigfoot feel, once he realizes Michael Sherma doesn’t believe in him? Maybe his self esteem will be irrevocably scarred, leading to the kind of violence that is banned from YouTube and Facebook, almost as swiftly as it can be re-uploaded. If you ever meet Big Foot, just say “I believe in you” and all will be well. Otherwise the most convincing evidence for your existence could disappear too.

If you’re looking for a non fiction publisher, on the subject of human rights, I recommend Wikileaks, but be careful which Wikileaks support groups you join. If you are able to help pay Julian Assange’s legal fees, you can do so by purchasing clothing or books from the Wikileaks online shop. There is also the option of making a donation. If you think Julian doesn’t deserve your help, that embarrassing the U.S government, by exposing American war crimes, is unacceptable then you’re what’s wrong with the world.



The Roolnblies

The pale moon smirks from its lofty throne.
Professor Blake ducks and weaves
along trails overgrown
with weeds as dangerous as machetes.
Beneath a tattered mist curtain they follow,
envisioning suicide in the plunge of leaves
from gnarled choking masters;
As Blake has mercy on his bladder,
they sip his vitality
through heinously grinning eyes.

The Professor rejoins his riverboat crew.
Eerily synchronized bubbles
follow them deeper into the jungle.

At dusk they spy a city carved into a cliff.
Towering statues glare from lofty pedestals.
Hornets fly from the empty darkness of their eyes.
People fly from their granite nostrils;
tattoos of animals unknown to northern naturalists
resplendent on their brawny flesh.
Their canines glow in the twilight
as they advance.
Doctor Blake feels as vulnerable as a ladybird
a long walk into a Venus fly trap.

The last thing Blake remembers,
before his enforced nap,
is opening his mouth to scream
and a smoking pipe being thrust into the gap.
He wakes face to face with the surging tide,
on a stony beach.
The figurine pressed into his palm
seems to mimic his expressions.
His barge is in flames, out of reach.
Roolnblies aren’t partial to lessons
the empire wishes to teach.

A vicious sea claims that botanist bigot.
Currents drag him to a desolate rock.
From there he’s rescued by a frigate. 

Roolnblies watch via scrying stones,
as Blake informs the Loombese parliament
“better yields could be gotten from buck wheat fields,
if Roolnbli savages were farmed for blood and bones.
Finer specimens 
could be short listed for the colosseum
and deformed juveniles earmarked for the museum.”

The Roolnblies feel that being burnt alive to save bullets,
sieved and married to manure holds less allure
than using a Death Adder for a dildo.
Being pit bulls opponents in a sports variety show,
also prompts a resounding no.

Professor Blake’s too busy
 other men’s wives to orgies and plays,
to ponder stories 
of giant hooded stowaways
making jetty getaways.
He’s traipsing through the woods
with yet another finely schooled maiden,
who thinks him safe and kind.
Ever since an unconscious Roolnbli kiss,
deadly spores have been quietly filling
the ruts of his guts and slowly rotting his mind.
Within hours of their lips meeting
her entrails are quivering, quaking, disintegrating.

The Professor’s grief gives way to disbelief,
as he realizes he’s surrounded
by seven hooded figures as many feet high.
In halting, heavily accented Loombese,
they chant ‘We kissed this city goodbye’.