The Virtual Reality Pod

Her fluttering mini skirt and translucent blouse,
immobilize Herbert like a tranquilizer dart.
She puts a steadying arm around his waist
and leads him to a virtual reality pod
Her delicious sales partner’s voice
is reminiscent of honey and triple rainbows.
“Would you like to watch a movie from the inside?,
the first seven minutes is free”
she whispers in his ear.

The director is allergic to orthodoxy.
Solid marble is plasticine
beneath Athena’s lathe humbling touch.
Her opalescent Lady ego
and an Amazonite Lady empathy wrestle for supremacy,
on a granite globe.
Bee monkeys swing from the sculptors left ear lobe.
It stretches like a rubber band
in response to every bungee acrobatics command.
No telescope is required to view alien oceans here,
Athena’s eyes are cosmic portholes.
In exchange for premasticated sea weed,
terrestrial cephalopods skate on beach slugs.
Through tentacle sweat glands,
they give their gastropod buddies sun tanning lotion
and colour enhancing drugs.
A bat on a leash
rotates Athena’s fan at hypersonic speed.
It’s just an exhibition advertisement.

The movie approaches like a cloud of parrots at sunset.
This place makes Alice’s Wonderland look as mundane
as an accounting manual.

The Poetry Fight

Claude Maude, the tactic telegraphing,
titanic, wobbly tit wielding,
wank bar warbler from Wallarah,
tugged at his ‘Marijuana, a special kind of stupid t-shirt,
before wagging his finger at DwiteDaSpriteKnight.

Dwite was planning a thirteen pun combination,
to end that estate agent as swiftly as a guillotine.
Now he opted to sustain the pain.

Dwite’s promoter, Kevin Celebrity Lucich,
lugged his bling to the ring.
According to Claude Maude,
he winked at the judges so blatantly
everyone thought he was a cyclops.

Referee Darius Lagoon was as ready as a rodeo clown.
Gentleman, the standing eight count
and three knock down rule are both in effect.
Protect yourself with all rhymes.
Claude Maude was still pointing at his
‘Marijuana, a Special Kind of Stupid’ shirt
and wagging his finger at Dwite.

As the bell sounded, Dwite unloaded.
“Why applaud Mister Maud
or his micro sordid sword?
He’s an intellectual plodder,
pile of sardonic wit fodder;
he’s never smelt marijuana,
let alone spelt marijuana,
yet that tragic serial joker
says I’m a wacky smoker.
I never thought marijuana
was a highway to nirvana……..

Claude struck back
“Mockery foreseen and mean copped fiery fates?
You can’t guess how Claude Maude retalliates!
DwiteTheSpriteKnight, he cannot prophesize
all the ways I can chainsaw him down to size.
Most of the time the SpriteKnight can rhyme.
Like him, all else he does is an idiots crime.”
Kevin Celebrity Lucich flinched in his ringside seat.

Dwite came off the ropes.
“You think air swings hurt,
I’ve seen smarter parasites
in lead contaminated dirt.
The spasms of mental chasms
can be remolded and soldered.
There is poetry to be gleaned
from minds too brittle to be folded.”

Claude countered.
For millennia The Sprite Knight rehearses
retorts too clueless to be worth copper purses.
All Claude’s verses are triggered by the curses
of a deadbeat slower than passengers of hearses.

Dwite delivered an aircraft carrier humbling broadside.
“Claude’s an elbows and knees kind of rhymer rammer,
that tidal flat tower scammer should be in the slammer.
It’s enough knock down rounds for funeral mounds.
Every rhyme he raised, was erased or out of bounds.
Ground and pound bound, no need for five rounds.
Claude Maude is gettin Clawed and Mauled.

Dwite begged Lagoon to save his hapless foe,
before delivering the cataclysmic final blow.

Claude has a laugh like The Riddler
but he’s never written any riddles,
he’s just a pocket pissing fiddler,
a slum dunked, debunked diddler.

The Real Estate agent was speechless.
Referee Darius Lagoon had seen that glazed over look before.
If he let this continue
Maude would’ve ended up in Serenity House,
more far gone than the psychiatrist
who thinks the C.I.A are spying on him,
with miniaturised submarines
lurking in his septic tank.

Unworthy

Once I’d confessed I was carnally obsessed,
I felt as anxious as a peacenik hypochondriac
forced to work in a germ warfare lab.

Unable to arrest my compulsive talking inclination
I was thrashing around in a cauldron of trepidation.
Flashes of disdain in the windows to her huge brain
warned me not to dive inside her with words again!

She said, ‘enduring your hunger for me is too hard
Shrivel up and die like a slug in a salt avalanche,
weedy, weed bouquet bearing, bin banquet, bard.’

After I’d planted a soixante-neuf montage
in the delicate flower of Rihanna’s mind
she wished her imagination had gone blind.

Her rolling eyes said, men in custom made suits,
worth more than your  monstrosity mobile,
are entitled to drink in this vision of paradise,
if their physique is as magnificent as their tailor
and their career lucrative enough
to indulge in their quad passions
of floating palaces and private islands,
floating islands and private palaces.

The girl’s Teutonic and cryptically tectonic;
with a punch like that she could be bionic,
but I will forever believe she is my tonic.

Boy Poet

‘My arm’s as smashed as crockery
bouncing into the Great Australian Bight’ Dexter claimed.
He was a paper mache maestro,
and had fashioned a cast as convincing as Apollo 13’s.
He’d forged the signatures of doctors
onto his supposedly mangled limb.
There’d be no rock climbing for him.
Miss Mance had more chance
of creating a sonic boom in a luge
than unmasking his subterfuge.

Between ogling his whiteboard sage,
Dexter’s writing flew across the page,
in tribute to his little sister Paige.
‘Girl with a rainbow upon her arm,
she’s a nursery remembrance balm.
With that love heart upon her cheek
she’s the cutest elf I’ve seen this week,
a teddy bear tall good luck charm.’

Dex moved on to confess
he was in awe of a teacher
never seen in a girly dress.
Our teacher Emma Mance
looks hot in leather pants.
She’s as sweet and petite
as a five cottage street
and calms bulls with a glance.
Dexter turned grey,
as Miss Mance asked
what his pen had to say.

At lunch it wasn’t by chance
that Dex met Jasmine Mance,
a writer of gothic romance.
No fool would’ve debated
to whom she was related.
She recited ‘The Raven’,
as she played hopscotch.
Most children thought her more cuckoo
than Dexter’s novel about aliens
abducting his thoroughbred badger
and training a meerkat,
to ride it to victory in the Kentucky Derby.
Emma the matchmaker didn’t miss.
Dex and Jazz were a stanza away
from marathons of catch and kiss.