Free Assange

For further information, paste the following link into a search engine.

http://www.strategic-culture.org/news/2019/09/24/theyre-murdering-my-son-julian-assanges-father-tells-of-pain-and-anguish

If you’re an Australian citizen, I implore you to write to our Prime Minister, the Minister for Foreign Affairs and your local MP, to urge the Australian Government to negotiate on behalf of journalist/publisher/human rights activist Julian Assange. If you’re a British or American citizen, please familiarise yourself with Julian Assange’s case, if you haven’t already, and politely demand justice from your government.  

Unless publishing the facts about corporate corruption, government corruption and war crimes is a crime, Julian Assange is an innocent man and should be released from Belmarsh prison immediately. The following is a slightly edited version of my email to Senator Marise Payne, the Australian Minister for Foreign Affairs. Perhaps you and your friends can improve upon my effort with letters of your own.


Dear Senator Payne

As you know, Australian journalist/publisher Julian Assange has been wrongfully imprisoned in the U.K, at the behest of the American government, for his response to the public’s right to know the truth about government corruption and war crimes. The U.S government apparently does not believe in the public’s right to know the truth about the appalling behaviour of the U.S military towards civilians etc.

If the Australian Government doesn’t strongly oppose the wrongful imprisonment and unjust treatment of Julian Assange, that will leave the public with the impression they support the cover up of war crimes and corruption. Senator, surely you don’t want Australian voters to think that about a government you are an integral part of.

If, on the other hand, the Australian Government proves it’s willing to negotiate on behalf of a courageous journalist/publisher/human rights activist like Julian Assange, that will help to restore confidence in Australian democracy. Obviously the freedom of the press and listening to the wishes of voters are vitally important democratic principles. As you presumably are aware, hundreds of thousands of Australian Assange supporters are monitoring this situation and their numbers continue to grow.

If Julian Assange’s extradition hearing is inevitable, he should at least have adequate access to his lawyers, the necessary legal documents, an effective computer, his friends, and nutritious food and quality healthcare until this nightmarish saga ends. I am of course among the many who would love to see the Australian Liberal Government do all that is humanly possible to bring that about.

 
* Paradoxically Liberal means conservative in the case of the Australian Liberal Party. They’re liberal from the perspective of deregulation for corporations etc.

* wikileaks.org contains a treasure trove of information about corporate corruption, government corruption and war crimes in the form of introductory articles, original documents and videos. If you would like to support Wikileaks, the not for profit organization founded by Julian Assange and some of his friends and associates, you can do so via wikileaks.shop or au.wikileaks.shop

Mannequin Man

Charlie has fools believing
snails fleeing the morning sun
are the top fuel dragsters
of his swiftest dreams.
A fledgeling bodybuilder waves his hands
before his glazed over eyes.

“He looks as vacant as a statue.
Let’s call im Mannequin Man”
A chorus of callous laughter ensues.
Predators man every compass point,
and point every compass.

“Leave me alone” Charlie mumbles.

“Leave me alone, leave me alone”
their caustic mimicry gouges.

Charlie ends his reptilian torpor like pause,
by drawing blood with piston paws.
Seven vultures flee in terror,
as their painted T-Rex bursts into flames.
The footpath shudders in revulsion
beneath the smouldering wreckage of his ego.

Charlie sinks back
into the mineshaft of his misery,
an ants stroll from the unconscious giant.

 

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.

Callie

Callie wants a bad boy to tame,
who knows he’s her soul mate
before he knows her name.
She purges fear and rage
with staplers and lighters.
Lust making is no escape,
unless she bites and is bitten.
She dreams of sucking sacrificial blood
from her master’s fingers
and sharing it in a kiss.

Callie waits for her protector to grow bored
with her plump curves, nipple rings
and a year’s rent worth of exquisite tattoo’s.
Then she let’s fly,
with a barrage of obscenities
as witty as Socrates
and as vulgar as bestiality in a sewer.

“It’s plain to see, you’re the kind of guy
who would inject a stroke victim with HIV.
I wouldn’t wish your drone on a serial killer.
Clearly, when God made you
he’d finished with the plot
and was on to the filler”
Callie lambasted her last boyfriend,
after she caught him flicking through
copies of Plus Size Prize, Petite Treat
and the Leggy Elite.
Teeing off on his smirk
was as tempting as ice cream pie,
long before he impregnated her sisters.
Callie drew frowny faces on her arms
with cigarettes instead.

After changing the locks,
the Princess of Pain retreated to a secluded corner,
of platform four
and played noughts and crosses on her thighs,
with a compass.
The most exquisite creature she’d ever seen,
locked eyes with her.

Callie blindly followed the corporate Goddess
on to the intercity express,
her dentist appointment
as forgotten as Neolithic past lives.
“I knew you’d follow” the mystery woman purred.
She opened her briefcase,
to reveal pain converted into string and ribbon art.
Callie quivered from excitement
over a rubenesque blonde,
with silk butterflies pinned to her breasts.
She was eager to emulate a flame haired beauty,
adorned with pink flamingos.

“You’re going to feature in an art exhibition”
the anonymous businesswoman promised.
Her modus operandi didn’t involve questions.
Callie unabashedly ogled her lady in shining armour.
Joan of Arc was among the characters Mistress Rowena played,
during business hours.

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.

The Scorpion Centipede

“Yes, centipedes the size of sausage dogs.
My eyes don’t lie.
Why does it have a tail like a scorpion
and a snail like head,
I don’t know, ask a biologist.”

“It’s so preoccupied with drinking pus,
from gangrenous goats,
I feel safe videoing it.
Hopefully the wind
carries the stench of rotting flesh westward.
When I press play, will anything be there
besides Melaleuca shadows?
The chameleon dolphin,
peeking from the dam,
assures me the creature is real.
Some say he’s less trustworthy,
than a serial killer leading a murder investigation,
but they don’t know him like I do.
Why would I question my sanity?
What do giant Scorpion Centipede’s sound like?
Dogs bark, cats meow, cows moo.
and centipede scorpions blerk and blork.
Blerking is a happy medium between hiccups and burps.
Blorking is what growling would sound like,
if it was as mellow as piccolo.
Do I mean a high pitched screech, except smoother?
Can’t you hear it?
Are you going to ask me what a duck sounds like too?”

“Sir, please remove yourself from the football field,
this ground has been booked
by the Draper Hill Dragons
and the Wiley Valley Wombats.
Only players and officials
are authorized to set foot on the field
before full time”

“Football, what are you blabbering about.
Ouch, an obese pterodactyl just collided with me.
You’re acting like nothing happened”

“There are no pterodactyls here sir,
you were struck by a football”

“A football match you say,
you’re psychotic.
I’m watching four scorpion centipedes,
with snail like heads,
They’re feeding on the hindquarters,
of gangrenous goats.
Can’t you smell their rotting flesh?
There’s a Melaleuca lined dam over there,
with a chameleon dolphin
frolicking in the shallows.
He doesn’t doubt me”

“Probably not sir”

“Probably not you say?”

“yes, probably not,
in the sense the Earth probably isn’t a cube,
resting on the back,
of an interstellar Pegasus,
that level of probably not”

“Do you have evidence,
to support your denial?
Why can I hear sirens?”

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.

Body Spray Dismay

Since dusk, my manly musk
has been as rancid as ancient prawns,
hiding in an equatorial bean bag.

My deodorant has sprouted limbs.
It has the audacity to flee Master?
I was ordained its aerosol leach.
Outrageously it strives to maintain
its reservoir of fragrant blood.

Apparently it’s read Orwell,
for it shuns the electronic homing devices
happily worn by those obedient zombies,
my keys and phone.

Aromatic rebel,
are you lurking at the bottom of the pond,
or hiding in those cockroach apartments,
the wall cavities?
I will hunt thee down!

Featured

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.