The Trespassers

Psychology student Angela Bordeaux and her fiancee, mixed martial arts legend Quentin “the Quiet Achiever” Quinn, were oblivious to the security cameras peering from Angophora hollows. They skirted a series of billabongs, en route to a trail on the verge of vanishing in a Lantana thicket. After that expanse of pretty weeds, miniscule electronic eyes lurked in scattered boulders. Beyond the ramshacle paddock fences in the distance, a hilltop mansion loomed.

“The doors are unlocked. This place is as empty as a library at midnight, there’s no doubt about it” Quentin reassured his apprehensive partner. The surrounding fields seemed devoid of livestock. None of the fences looked like they’d been repaired since Yoda was a twinkle in the eye of an interstellar monk. There was a jungle where the tennis court used to be. Viscous slime was all that remained in the exquisitely landscaped swimming pools.

The snooker table, at the rear of the conference room sized loungeroom, was obscured by a layer of dust an inch thick. Quentin lay across an antique lounge chair, while Angela hunted for a vacuum cleaner. She threw herself into every hoover manouvre like Olympic gold was on the line. Angela was too in awe of Quentin’s Herculean physique, hypnotic green eyes and Newtonian intellect to complain about his appalling laziness. Quentin was intensely passionate about vacuuming all of a sudden, after Angela peeled her dress down to her navel and applied the nozzle to the nipple region of her sheer black lace bra.

Quentin instigated a playful wrestling match. After pinning Angela to the ground, with one arm, he lifted her on to a rosewood dining table and trailed his fingertips over the silk and lace hidden beneath her floral summer dress. Quentin took a break from teasing Angela into a frenzy to unclasp and untie her delicates. He flung he oppulent underwear to a distant corner. Somehow he managed to snag her brassiere on a chandalier, above the mezzanine level. Eventually, Quentin put his awestruck lover over his shoulder, ascended a marble staircase, flung her onto the nearest king size water bed and introduced her to wild pleasures few have even read about.

It took four hours for Walter Nixon the 5th to look away from the taboo shattering marathon on his cinema size screen. As Walter exited his basement apartment surveillance room, hidden cameras continued to record every caress, kiss, lick, thrust and ecstatic squeal. Walter constantly checked the location of his uninvited, yet welcome guests via his watch screen. He carried a taser in his left hand and a twenty two calibre pistol in his right.

For good luck, Walter wore a dental implant necklace, fashioned from the lifelike pearly whites of the voluptuous lingerie model he’d surreptitiously lured to his home two years earlier. Those toothy pegs even had a couple of precious metal and gem stone fillings to give them a more natural look. A taxidermist by trade, Walter had collaborated with a robotics engineer to convert the anonymous model’s corpse into a sex robot. He was more interested in giving his victims names than learning the ones their grieving parents had chosen for them.

Walter was considering selling the curvaceous model’s renovated remains to a Japanese businessman he’d met in an amputee brothel. His offer was generous one. It was an agonizing choice though. The conversation simulator, substituting for the anonymous beauty’s brain, responded more enthusiastically to Walter’s classical guitar playing than any living, breathing woman ever did. Being showered with poetic compliments, on a daily basis, was proving to be addictive.

Quentin’s hound like hearing detected Walter’s careful footsteps on the stairs. All those years of vising headphone nightclubs were paying off. He motioned for Angela to be silent and stood as still as a statue behind the partially closed door.

Walter grew apprehensive, as he recalled witnessing the cobra like reflexes of his adversary on Martial Arts TV. The low calibre pistol felt awkward in his unsteady hand. Firearms weren’t his thing, he preferred to work with electricity and surgical instruments. At the top of the stairs, Walter glanced at the CCTV footage on his watch for the last time, before crossing the marble floor as patiently as a cat stalking a sparrow. Quentin was no sparrow though, he was more like a pterodactyl that has been domesticated by vikings.

Sulphur crested cockatoos were making a ruckus in the silky oaks bordering the yard. Walter hardly had time to contemplate what might’ve triggered their riotous squawking. Raptors, a conspiracy of ravens and a coalition of noisy miners were among the possibilities

Eventually, Walter peered beneath the master bedroom door. He expected to see Quentin’s feet. Their absence left him as confused as a Mediaeval villager waking up in a space station orbiting an exoplanet. The solid oak door crashing down was as unexpected as an earth quake. Quentin “the Quiet Achiever” Quinn has never been a gentle man. He didn’t hesitate to jump on the fallen door, with Walter beneath it.

“Welcome to my trampoline” Quentin bellowed like the maniac he is.

“Please, please that’s enough” Angela yelled in horror.

“How dare you question my actions bitch” Quentin raged once he grew bored of his leaping and stomping.

Quentin the Quiet Achiever Quinn, as he was known to his hordes of naive fans, had had enough of his latest lover. At gunpoint, he ordered the somewhat recovered serial killer to savagely rape her. Eventually he gave Walter a choice between injecting her with dry cleaning fluid and being shot in the testicles. Walter was aghast, he’d intended to keep Angela alive for months.

Necrophilia wasn’t among Quentin’s hobbies but sadism had always been his most burning passion. He took great delight in forcing Walter to have sex with his vast collection of stuffed corpses. Used to having a good nights sleep and a massage before a desecration session, Walter complained incessantly. He didn’t stopĀ  whining until shortly before he collapsed and went into a thirst induced coma. One of his freezer cabinets contained an assortment of human organs in clearly labelled plastic bags. Quentin would’ve ticked canibalism off his bucket list, if he weren’t concerned about the possible side effects interfering with his preparation for his next fight.

“Boring me is a dreadful crime but maybe Angela got more than she deserved” Quentin said to himself, as heĀ  strolled back into the bedroom to get dressed. The twinge of guilt he felt soon faded. He dropped Walter’s pistol into the sceptic tank, before setting off on the long trek back to his vehicle.

Blood streamed from Quentin’s left temple as he was struck by a sling shot propelled ball bearing. Twelve year old Jake Sorenson thought nothing of hunting cockatoos but accidentally killing a human left him on the verge of a panic attack. He contemplated fleeing on his mountain bike but something compelled him to explore the isolated palatial home first.

Jake was drenched in cold sweat and trembling violently as he entered the ballroom sized loungeroom. The bookshelf door leading to Walter Nixon the 5th’s vast basement apartment was open. Nothing in the surveillance room had been switched off. An unlocked door was all that had prevented the distracted Quentin “the Quiet Achiever” Quinn from strolling in. Jake called the emergency number as soon as he spotted Walter’s unconscious form on one of the CCTV monitors.

 

The Messenger

Everyone said that horseback drama
had taken it’s toll on Nautilus Glen.
He was prone to vanishing into mystical haze.
The former jockey’s dreadlocks
concealed him like a burka.
He knew the gardens too well to part them.
After what appeared to be another morning
of sending telepathic messages
to a statue of Zeus,
Nautilus turned to address me.
When he finally spoke,
his words painted a picture as disturbing
as a Munch and Picasso hybrid.
“The frozen wasteland of his soul is on fire.
His granite liquefying gaze,
makes sparks of supernovas.
His enemies melt like hail stones
stranded in the core of the sun.
What say you, Surreal Art Pyschonaut?

“Um, um, that’s amazing” I muttered,
hoping supreme admiration
is still the solution to the equation
that is Nautilus Glen.
He shook his head.
“What it is, is dangerous” he mumbled,
as he glanced nervously over his shoulder,
before continuing his silent conversations
with stone locked divinity.
“Whose granite liquefying gaze” I wondered.

It was 3a.m
when my upstairs bedroom window shattered.
As I hurried downstairs, my bowels loosened.
Thankfully the doors were locked and bolted.

.22 calibre rifle in hand,
I gazed at the yards from the balcony.
There was something inhuman,
about it’s leering grin.
It’s eyes made the Spanish inquisition
look as harmless as a bee hummingbird.
Aware I was on the verge
of pulling the trigger,
it stopped.
It’s hideous smile broadened,
as it turned
and casually walked away.

I wasn’t sure whether to call the police,
a psychiatrist, or an exorcist.
Footprints leading into the forest
made up my mind.

B Grade Troll

I’m Wilfred Anders Napoleon Kent,
no, not the one who craves cryptic crosswords,
the one who lives on a diet of skunk carcasses,
sewage leaks and diluted detergent,
under Ramble Road Bridge.
Sometimes my friends call me
Wilfred Anders Napoleon Kent Enrique Rodriguez.
I don’t know why.

When my therapist saw my green skin
and monstrous features,
she assumed I’m a body modification addict.
But I’ve never been tinted by a tattooist,
or sculpted by a scalpel.
My amazing transformation started
during the infancy of the information age.

The internet is an astoundingly efficient
means of mocking losers anonymously.
In 2005, I first noticed
the green tinge from my temples to my toes.
At first,
I thought my liver wasn’t functioning correctly.
The blood tests were inconclusive.
Then I turned white again.
There was no Wi-Fi onboard,
during my Antarctic cruise, you see.

Once ashore,
it took mere hours to restore my hate tan.
I’m Wilfred Anders Napoleon Kent,
the ultimate comments section assassin,
the greatest genius in the nation,
I restore facts to every situation,
I’ve got a black belt in humiliation.

Even my molars
were beginning to look like fangs,
by the time an ill informed loser,
followed my recommendation,
to rid the Earth of her intolerable presence.
My sloping forehead is coming along nicely.

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

1.

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.

2.

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.

3.

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.