Social Conventions

Before countless tints of sun rise 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 lobsters 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 displaying 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
a forum on the evils
of donating microwave ovens
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 that 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.

Misery

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.

Woofy

You plunged into the ocean
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.

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.

 

The Virtual Reality Pod

Hailey’s 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
Hailey’s delicious sales partner’s voice
is reminiscent of honey and symphonic 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 bungee cord.

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 titanic, wobbly tit wielding,
tactic telegraphing,

wank bar warbler from Wallarah,
pointed at a ‘Marijuana, a special kind of stupid’ t-shirt,
before wagging his finger at DwiteDaSpriteKnight.

Dwite was planning a thirteen pun combination,
to end the 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 the
‘Marijuana, a Special Kind of Stupid’ shirt
and smirking gleefully.

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.

 

Boy Poet

‘My arm’s as smashed as crockery
bouncing into the Great Australian Bight’ Dexter claimed.
He was a paper mache maestro,
with 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.
In the first chapter,
a
liens trained  a meerkat,
to ride a badger to victory in the Kentucky Derby.
It got stranger from there.

Emma the matchmaker didn’t miss.
Dex and Jazz were just stanzas away
from marathons of catch and kiss.