Radio Fallout

“This is your morning show host,
Miles Platinum, on 2GC.
Responsible protestors are out in force today.
Their banners read:
“Don’t fuck, don’t fiddle.
“Contraception is evil.”
“Miscarriage is murder.”
“War is the road to peace.”
“The Flintstones is a documentary.”
“Science is a cult.”
“Ban teenage pregnancy.”
“Burn French letters.”
“Cognitive dissonance has too many letters.”

Get your protesters license today.
And remember,
unauthorized slogans may result in kneecapping,
according to riot police discretion.

In other news,
the Heroin Dealers Association
successfully lobbied parliament
to abolish quality controls today.
According to a recently deceased journalist
“Black Pearl Corp’s needle samples have sampled everything.”
Rinsing is expensive, autoclaving unthinkable.
Needle exchange nurses,
they’re worse for business
than a tsunami at a seaside resort.
Their lead coffins are free.
Their cemetery lies beyond the continental shelf.
Our benevolent dictator says
“They’re good guys,
they did a terrific job, tremendous”
the executioners that is.

Making environmental news today,
satellite pictures of our world heritage listed areas,
have revealed mountains of syringes,
coated in the bloated corpses of endangered species.
Rangers cigarette butts float to earth like dead bees.
Concreting over all remaining wilderness
is the only means of cleansing the nation.
Syringe Everest tourists,
run over litter bugs for sport.
They empty their tanks on the way to nowhere.
May they crucify other ecological crusaders
and exchange their barbed wire crowns
for armoured vehicles.

Yesterday, climate change hoaxer Rob Green
lit a fire on his rural property.
Hazard reduction burning?
That’s as deranged as brain transplants.
You’re a hypocrite Green.
Sparky wants you for arson.

According to a discredited journalist,
who was reported missing on Monday,
my urban cottage has four fireplaces.
I want justice.
The defamation inferno is out of control.

Sydney property values continue to plummet.
Some blame white supremacist gentlemen,
for replacing their footballs
with the heads of refugee quadruple amputee scum.
Those in the know blame Islamic immigration.
My equity sales have sailed beyond the horizon.
I demand compensation.
It’s worse than the Great Depression.

Overlapping Universes


Stella Henley dreamt of a hidden universe,
its galaxies rarely perceived
from the dimension where Trump rules,
and Boris isn’t a bargain basement microphone man.
Bernie Taupin’s alter wrote
“those shiny happy people
have been walking on sunshine all night long.”
and headlines proclaimed him more original
than fifteenth century printing presses.
“The purple rain disguised my red corvette.
Samantha transformed him into a raspberry beret”
Syd Barret’s alter mumbled
as his first and last chemical assisted trip faded.
Monastery mystics revealed the scenic route
to mind altering mayhem.
He embarked with irrepressible joy.

In the dream universe’s London,
Stella wandered through a leafy suburb
as unrecognisable as incinerator victims.
Two masked men beckoned.
Shorty looked as crestfallen as the last of his kind.
Towering Adonis,
behind gold leaf adorned rosewood,
danced like gravity was his slave.
His comedic timing relegated his moves
to the realm of concussed drunks.

Adonis’ banter was unnaturally brilliant,
like his gleaming white teeth.
“Take me to bed”
Stella’s mineshaft pupils begged.
By the time she sensed oddness in awesomeness,
her torn lingerie dangled from the ceiling fan,
his seed had swum to her stomach,
her legs were as spread as the Spanish flu
and her moans as ecstatic
as levitating atop Chomolungma.
Magic Man’s mask slipped.
Gangrene looked so pretty now.


Soothing needles of cosy water
failed to banish nauseating fear.
Breakfast show propaganda and DJ banter,
finally archived Stella’s nightmare.
Work was the usual blur of phone calls, emails
and invitations to awkward situations.
Speed dating at the Downstairs Club loomed.
Mister five three looked completely doomed.
thanks to Adonis his chances were entombed.

The movie with the girls was forgotten,
as Stella stepped into Adonis’ Maserati.
She was the invisible woman
behind windows as tinted
as a poker players sunglasses.
Hilarity flowed like champagne.
Adonis’ basement gallery,
made Dorian Grey’s oil abomination
look like a beauty queen.
Stella didn’t see
the gold leaf adorned, rosewood mask,
looking down on satin sheets.

The crestfallen, child sized man heard a scream.
He pedalled furiously to the gated mansion,
scrambled over the wall like a cemetery rat,
jabbed an airborne Pitbull like a world class welterweight,
and gave a jujitsu lesson that ended with an audible snap.
The screams ceased.
“Jealous were you” the giant chuckled
as his tiny friend glided into Stella’s corpse.

After he’d recovered from the stroke,
caused by the freshly tattooed cadaver
dumped on his lawn,
Stella’s father Jason burnt “revenge” into the grass.
His private investigators five figure fees,
were dwarfed by their credentials.
Stella’s mother Sapphire’s rage
manifested as phoenixes born from Krakatoa.
Those paintings look like candlelit dinners
beside Stella’s sister Cynthia’s fury.
She swapped tai chi for Muay Thai,
hip hop for capoeira
and chess for the army.

Sapphire’s exhibition was entitled “the vomit of grief”
“Misery is the burnt out wreckage of rage,”
said a mangled, mountainside airliner.
Crowe’s pecked dead mountaineers.
Gloating demons peered from the frame.
A philanthropist converted it into an astonishing sum.
Occasionally, he wheeled Stella’s taxidermied remains
from the refrigeration room,
to admire her mother’s work.
Sapphire Henley almost suffered the same fate.
She entitled her next painting the Satanic Aphrodisiac.


Adonis is the health and fitness guru,
at Tiger Shark Bay Correctional Centre now.
The diaries of still breathing victims,
stretched his sentence to millennia.

“Are you the devil?”
It’s a question Adonis hears a lot.
He typically answers
“Compassion isn’t alien to Adonis,
he just measures it in parts per million.
He rates low fuel consumption
above swerving to miss toddlers.
In his lifetime,
he’s run over enough children,
to buy a movie ticket and a coffee.
It’s’ all relative.
Your evil might be a drop of cyanide in a bathtub.
Adonis evil is a drop of water,
in a lake of cyanide.
He’s not better or worse than you,
he’s just different”
He tacks that on the end,
if he’s tortured your family to death.