The Poet’s Journey

Be who you are, be what you are,
until the door of miracles is ajar.

With Earth’s cumbersome languages,
you chase the soul’s beauty,
like a wounded warrior
on the mighty jaguar’s trail.

Realising millennia of global acclaim
is less than plankton in fame’s ocean,
fails to curb your boundless devotion.

Poet, lament, invent, soak society,
with a shrewd arsenal of adjectives
and a voracious appetite for variety.

Be who you are, be what you are,
until the door of miracles is ajar.

Stella Brindabella

Stella Brindabella,
the demigod of fame walks among us.
She’s quick to declare
the coolest way to get men to stare,
is to accidentally, on purpose,
forget your underwear.
She wants to help the homeless,
but not while her diamond encrusted high heels
are in disrepair.

“Booty Shake Earthquake”
she’s labelled her size twelve rival’s latest music video.
She hopes to revive her own pop music career,
with singles like “the Geek and the Goddess”
and a remake of “Jimbo and the Bimbo”

The host of “Outsmarted by a Ten Year Old”,
discovered she’s slow,
when she said “diluting whiskey?
What a senseless way to go.
“Isn’t Africa a country, what’s an incontinent”
she demanded to know.


Perched on a crowded veranda,
I ink ‘Fruit bats disturb the flight
of cherry blossoms falling
beneath soothing moonlight’

On an empty veranda,
I contemplate forests stretching to coastal cauldrons.
The annihilation of foaming crests,
on towering cliff faces,
is as precise as a master craftsmen’s chisel.
In this dimension every molecule is mindful;
Michelangelo is reborn as the ocean.

Lake Bliss

Supply helicopters shrink on the horizon.
A canvas tent,
nestled on a rock formation
strangely like a human hand,
is home until Autumn.

The stony shallows of Lake Bliss,
are aeons from plumes of diesel fumes.
What are the comets of colour,
dancing like avian choreographers
in cobalt blue?
When did they arrive?
They’re communing with me,
like eyes of intelligent creatures.
But all my pupils digest
is swirling light,
compacted into divebombing tadpoles.

Comets and tadpoles of vibrant colour,
bend into leering question marks.
How does an unfathomable light show sneer and leer,
as surely as flitting wrens
grace me with their presence and disappear?
Thoughts terrifying and divine meld with mine.
I see them within, I see them without,
until they’re as disorienting
as the waves of river dolphin and birdsong
by an inexplicable water spout.
It dawns on me,
I’m witnessing aspects of a single aura.
Have I observed the connectedness,
or is it a fallacy implanted by the lights?
They depart.

I’m alone,
with nothing more than mild anxiety,
slowly melting beneath the caress
of beautiful isolation.
I wander in radiant shallows,
sometimes swimming over ancient valleys.
Cities from forgotten eras
dominate the distant floor.
Walls, paths, steps, as intact as London.
Timbers long since morphed into silt,
fail to bury the grandeur.
Scuba diving apparitions,
venture close enough
to decipher hieroglyphics on marble reliefs.
For fleeting moments I share their gaze.

Nearer shore,
sunlight plays with wavelets
from my feet to the horizon.
The freshwater weeds
are as edible as herb gardens
a continent away.

After a dizzy spell,
I wake inside a gleaming white sphere,
as soft as silicon gel.
Sound beyond the bubble
drips with intrigue.
That’s all I can glean from what’s probably
a form of music, or a spoken language,
but possibly neither.
Perhaps it’s the sound of machinery.
I can’t imagine this place is of human origin.
Have I left the planet as physically
as some presume my mind did long ago,
or are visitors,
with technology beyond the reach
of primitive human imaginings,
residing here?

Murmurs reminiscent of discussion,
accompany pauses between barrages of stimuli.
How many intermingled arguments
dredged from distant memories
can I withstand?
The clockwork rapidity
with which these disturbances come and go,
informs me they’re not my doing.
My pain receptors are stimulated,
until I wonder if my vocal cords will snap,
from the stress of screaming.
Perhaps the battery of tests takes weeks,
but it feels like years.

The dizziness that accompanied my capture
signals my release.
I pat foreshore grass,
like it’s a fragile puppy.
Yams, berries and stone fruits proliferate,
on a farm overrun with an emerging forest.

I’ve heard there’s phone reception,
on the rim of the crater,
but the nearest electronic device
is weeks of climbing, clambering and sliding from here.
Smartphones arrived at the monastery in 2015.

Duke Showman Sherman

There’s a swingers party of one
in the hall of mirrors
Duke calls a gymnasium.
The critically acclaimed author
of unintentional comedy,
“My Glamourous Glutes”
is too busy licking his reflections
to notice the twins
have learnt to climb like cat burglars.
Gale force winds send his teetering tiny tots
toppling over the balcony.
Catatonic with self-admiration,
Duke is oblivious to their screams.
The founder of the world’s first selfie stick museum,
can’t afford to be distracted
from flexing his eight pack.

Duke might have spotted the enemy drone,
if he weren’t dreaming about fucking his clone.
Fearful of marring such perfection,
the contract killer hesitates too long.

Duke retreats to the bottom
of his rooftop diving pool.
Transfixed by underwater mirrors,
he forgets to take a breath.
His wife collapses in the doorway,
paralytic with grief.
Duke looks more vibrant in death,
than she does in life.

Social Conventions

Before countless tints of sunrise flame,
the sea entrances like an emerald plain.
An Islamic poet,
in a white and gold Hijab,
glides across the sand,
sparking fantasies of a more brilliant paradise;
I barely notice the beach volley ball girls,
in lingerie fit for a partner swapping foray.

Christian extremist choirs stalk bikini top littered sand,
berating audacious sinners, who demand to be tanned,
obviously they’re all harlots, with wild orgies planned.

I stroll along the beach pondering social conventions,
voyeurs, exhibitionists, hypocrites and evil intentions.

In this place bare flesh is as familiar
as the cries of the gulls,
as neutral as the driest medical dictionary.

By midday, attention mainlining models
are on the road to a lobster’s death;
the epitome of elegance,
in precious metal embroidered cloaks,
are destined for Vitamin D deficiency;
a puritanical Christian choir girl
has been raped “for revealing her thighs;”
and an artist murdered,
for declaring nudity is natural.


Bling Hippo Reigns Supreme

Trolleys crashing, miniskirts fluttering,
yobbos hanging from dodgy guttering;
children screaming in rage,
over ice cream they crave
like a junkie does a needle.

There’s Ferris the farrier,
wheeling away enough lager
to sink an aircraft carrier.
He’d sooner accuse me
of giving his dogs mange
than offload loose change.

A soul destroying jumble of silver coins
distracts a thief from my kick to his loins.
Endless Helen Keller imitators flock by.
I may as well be talking to a termite tower.

I’m contemplating packing up.
Amused shoppers greet Bling Hippo
and his jowls with hysterical howls.
‘That cancer research fundraiser,
he gets paid’, that bling lugging cretin,
with more chins than my extended family,
utters in a tone normally reserved for
damning the evils of donating microwaves
to infant craving cannibals.
Bling hippo’s mum tries to mollycoddle,
but her incensed son refuses to cease
his venomous garbled twaddle,
until distracted by the ice cream aisle;
no doubt blubber isle will be a while.

As his mother demeans her beautician,
Bling Hippo returns to wish me dead
by the wires of a NAZI electrician.

As he throws an endless tantrum,
I defend his mum’s Botox dealer
by singing an ageing Barbie anthem.

‘Heirloom Barbie!’

‘That nicotine blonde icon of visual pollution
was a best seller, by the French revolution.’

‘Heirloom Barbie!’

‘Victorian Ken hasn’t been satisfied,
since she’s been partly mummified’

‘Heirloom Barbie’

Bling Hippo’s old bag read my tag and said
‘Rupert you’re boring, ugly and stupid!’

I said ‘you dear are an excitement diuretic,
infinitely worse than experimental surgery
with a six pack of light beer for anesthetic.’

Bling Hippo has the turning circle of a train
but with a little momentum, as I discovered,
his 150kg of lard can cause serious pain.

Journey Home

On the train,
Damo regaled me with tales
of taming tantrum throwing Taipans,
at Tenant Creek.
At the station nothing tamed the breeze.
The old ladies Weight Watchers have given up on
cackled at the visual Chernobyl of their billowing skirts.

My short cut
through the storm water drain
was cut short,
by a Tiger Snake sunning itself
on a trickle of washing machine dregs.
Its scales shone like a sky overcrowded with suns.

The serpent never shifted its meandering pose.
The guest list of flies on its ectothermic panels
was more exclusive than a party on a space station,
so presumably it was alive.

Perhaps the possibility of a frog
was the reason it remained as still
as the concrete beneath its belly.

My short cut down the laneway was cut short.
A girl in a bright pink bikini top dropped her towel.
Her delicious derriere was adorned with black satin,
as thin as the skin on my wide bright eyes.
Her enchanting cascade of golden blonde hair
slow danced with floral perfume scented air.
The blonde enchantresse’s girlfriend looked so dangerous
I wish I’d taken my chances with the Tiger Snake.
She pursued me over fences.
The wooden ones, with rotten palings,
she ran through them.
“Roxy, you know blood gives me nightmares,”
her bikini clad Goddess yelled.
“Roxy, running makes me sweaty” she pleaded.

My short cut through the pub was cut short.
A herd of bikies confused me
with someone they yearned to demolish.
Damo wandered in,
armed with the Tiger Snake.
Suddenly the leather bound goliaths
had a more urgent mission elsewhere.
Damo was too focused
on the sumptuous raven haired lookalikes,
behind the bar,
to notice he’d saved my life.
His reputation preceded him.
“Oh my God, it’s the Snake Man” they chorused.

Are you looking at my girlfriend,
a familiar voice boomed.
Had Damo’s short cut to heaven been cut short?
“I didn’t notice her” he pleaded his innocence.
“You’re ignoring my girlfriend then”
the mixed martial arts madwoman admonished.
“Would you like to pat my snake” Damo offered.
“What a cutie, such adorable fangs”
the crew cut version of Xena Warrior Princess crooned,
forgetting her fixation on annihilation.
I slunk away without delay.



He hails from Freezeburn Swamps,
a place where rock bottom
is just another ledge,
on the way to another nameless bog hole.

He’s not granted death.
He drowns again,
in the flood of his own
rising and raining blood.

He lives in the cold,
a cold where sheets of ice
as hammer proof as granite
are sought like thermal blankets.

Black dogs roam freely,
across withered tundra,
their fetid breathe asphyxiating the weak.
Anthrax powder in mother’s milk,
is the most benign wish of their ilk.


You plunged into the breakers
like a hurdling hydrofoil.
No shark ever hunted a seal,
with the intensity you chased tennis balls.

After a month of fishing in a wheelbarrow,
you never did figure out the splashes
were from dripping guttering;
so it’s no surprise
being kicked in the head by a horse
failed to make you any dopier
than you already were.

You’ve been plucked from canals.
and survived a Red Belly Black attack
by biting that rampant reptile in half.
What a striver, what a survivor,
and at the scent of food,
or anything vaguely resembling it,
what a furry reservoir of saliva.
How many metres of carpet was it
that we hauled from your arse?

What a striver, what a survivor!
Eventually though, every dog has to die,
take a trip to the Pet Barn in the sky.