Art Museum Statue

If I wasn’t stone my back hair would be fleece to lease
but foul, feral fleas are hard to please with granite follicles.
I’m older than the oceans.
For eons I was rock, lava and magma.
I recently became a statue, of a morbidly obese man,
suspended above a barbecue throne, in imitation of levitation.
Touring the world’s premier art galleries
is better than being banished to a storeroom prison,
without a lawyer or a trial.
People watching is my main interest.
If I weren’t frozen in stone it would be easy to smile.
Opposite me is an Arctic oil,
as life like as a voyage on an ice breaker.
To my left is the glow from the window of a 3 a.m poet.

I’m not as content as I was before a descendant of Michel Angelo
released me from the mountainside.
I was happy as an amalgam of crystals on that blizzard swept slope,
but curious about the dying world of the parasitic, bald apes.

My sculptor, Quincy Macquarie, has no faith in quarrymen,
It took seventeen Sherpa’s to wheel my finished form
down ten miles of precipice bordered goat trails.
I was loaded by the mother of all forklifts
on to a second hand Black Hawk helicopter.

This is my ninety ninth gallery.
I’ve had stints in the Louvre, Hollywood sets,
the National Museum of Korea
and Kim Jong-Un’s palatial bedroom; aren’t I glad that’s over.
I currently reside in the penthouse level of birthday world,
an art amusement park.
The graffiti roller coaster looks set to grow beyond the walls
of this towering monument to the ridiculous.

There are peepholes in my skull.
A schoolkid is gawking at my pseudo cerebellum right now.
My brain is a solution of honey and water, in wrinkly, grey plastic.
I need it like relaxation therapy needs Death Metal.
My thinking apparatus is purely subatomic.

Wow, someone dedicated a hectare of wall space
to a photograph of a jumper knitted by an Alzheimers victim.
It’s as shoddy as the web of an acid tripping orb weaver
and as boring as an entire continent reduced to a salt pan.
Thankfully, time is relative to the speed of perception.
I fast forward mistakes and reserve slow motion
for the likes of Marilyn Monroe.
During my Hollywood era I was her telepathic shrink.
Assuming I’m as innocent as a teddy bear
she practised the subway grate scene
in front of me countless times.
I can assure you she wasn’t wearing lace edged virginal white.

New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art awaits me.
Eventually I’d like to combine my interests
in hang gliding, volcanoes and euthanasia.
When I was a little pebble,
I wondered what was all the hullabaloo about youth in Asia.
I look forward to Armageddon.
Live volcanoes will be plentiful then.

The Devil in Their Midst

Satan had been frog watching,
with a static electricity torch
to keep him from plunging
into the empty darkness of a ravine.
He strolled into a megalithic church hall.
Staggered by a blast of infatuation,
he fought gamely to regain his equilibrium
amidst a sea of midriff tops,
navel sapphires, and tantalizingly short skirts.
The place inspired more perversity
than a stroll through the university.

After studying the lyrics of the hymns,
they remained as meaningless to him
as the trussed and gagged Zombies
defacing three of Derek Simms limbs.

The remnants of Lucifer’s concentration vanished,
as he glimpsed Angie Becket’s stained glass window lingerie.
Was she a trusting little darling
proclaiming to the good Lord her body is her temple
or making it known to yours truly,
that cheeky cloven hooved,
pitch fork twirling, life of the party,
that she’s a bad girl?

Pastor Jenkins discussed God’s ban
on sex outside of marriage.
Fuck the idea of a license to fuck,
Satan muttered before taking another peek
at the stained glass windows
decorating his favoured places of worship.

By SMS, he proposed a trip to a skating rink.
Angela said yes please, with a wicked wink.
The lace peeking from her paint tight leotard
made dancing on the glassy ice doubly hard.

All they wore was the shine of the blue moon,
as Angie’s epicentre overshadowed a monsoon.
Olympic gold could not upstage the revelation
it was the pastor’s sister who gave into temptation.

 

 

 

Photo

Satan by Oscar

oscartian547

www.flickr.com/photos/137346868@N04/23845882198

Some rights are reserved, you must acknowledge the author, provide a link to the license and indicate if changes were made. You must not use this work for commercial purposes, prevent others from using it according to the license or distribute a modified version of it. For further information use the link above.

 

Crossing the Line

James Meyer, a real estate agent
involved in a never ending love affair
with architecture, home decorating
and the sound of his own voice,
searched for his gold plated phone
like it was a time bomb
ready to splatter his charred flesh
the length and breadth of the carriage.

“I’ll call you, what’s your number”
Melanie, a leggy legal secretary, offered.
“Thanks” he murmured,
as a muffled ringtone emanated from his briefcase.

James was so accustomed to beautiful women’s company
he paid no further attention to Melanie,
until she sent a series of photos
more provocative than a declaration of war.
Her fear of revenge porn was on par with
Ayrton Senna’s fear of speeding.

“My blood type is AB-,
the rarest blood type in the world,
but it’s not as unique as my erotic repertoire”
Melanie boasted as they added a volume
to the encyclopedia of kink.
Their exploration of unorthodox desires
lead to places stranger than a Green Haired Turtle.

Melanie’s insistence on introducing
a Green Haired Turtle to the action crossed the line.
Moving interstate was no escape
from her showers of flowers 
and sketches of lewd stretches.
Hiding them from his detective fiancee
was as difficult as selling a Hollywood mansion
to a Himalayan mystic.  

James finally placated his pleading ex lover.
His descriptive flair made a sunset picnic,
in a weed infested forest remnant,
sound more blissful than a Tahitian honeymoon cruise.
He fastened a blindfold
and guided Melanie along the track.
Nudging her off a cliff, was easier
than devouring her slice of strawberry cheesecake.
“Delicious” James remarked,
as Melanie bounced headfirst off a rocky outcrop,
before she could shriek.
He congratulated himself on her mercifully swift demise.
His guilt was akin to a sensitive soul’s remorse
after murdering a cockroach.

Imagining a Green Haired Turtle
as the third wheel in their love machine,
had James looking as distraught as
an accidental death witness.
“No, Melanie begging him to fellate
a green haired turtle
hadn’t evoked feelings of violent rage” James insisted,
as Detective Sergeant Mulder repeated questions
inspired by Melanie’s diary.
Forensics were unable to determine
if she’d fallen or been pushed.  

While James was driving to a Michelin star standard restaurant,
to celebrate Melanie’s demise,
a drunk driver crossed the median strip
and t boned his gleaming Maserati.
As he slipped in and out of consciousness,
James discovered his blood type was AB-,
the rarest in the world.

 

 

 

Photo

100 Days of Summer # 74 – No Passing

www.flickr.com/photos/elviskennedy/28401819854

Some rights are reserved, you must acknowledge the author, provide a link to the license and indicate if changes were made. You are not free to use this work, or derivatives of it, for commercial purposes. You must not prevent others from using it according to the license. For further information use the link above.

 

 

 

 

In Synch with the Sink

Iceberg Lemonade,
cool enough to give a penguin hypothermia,
spruiked the caption on a canister of life saving liquid.
Hershel’s gargantuan gulp nearly ruptured the straw.
As he mangled Nimrod Island’s
last strand of Melaleuca murdering Moth Vine,
drops of hornet drowning proportions
exploded on drought baked soil.
An ants Atlantis disappeared beneath the onslaught.
The surrounding marshes became a lake.

In a desperate bid to reach the car park,
Hershel used a car roof as a makeshift boat
and driftwood for oars.
‘It’s not worth the risk’, the crew chorused.
‘You fools, I must see my kitchen sink in daylight,
before the opalescent jaguar breaks free’
Hershel bellowed in sheer exasperation,
as if it were a self-explanatory situation.
He was as wet as a mermaid whore, mid shift,
as he clambered up a brown snake infested hillside
in the direction of the bus stop.

Hershel unlocked his fridge with a finger print scanner.
Using a spoon, engraved by Uri Geller
from a thousand miles away,
he mauled the pop top on a bottle of Matador’s Elixir,
the ale for all that ails you.

As Hershel donned his echidna quill robe
the gleaming surface of his psychic sink
streamed pictures from all over the globe.
He’d always thought it would help him to debunk
tales of a bald yeti, tattooed with a tattooed skunk,
selling body builders a plethora of injectable junk,
but his sink confirmed the existence of that punk.

Hershel urged his revelation sorter to surge.
‘Take me to the pinnacle of the knowledge zone
my mould sloshing, dish washing, scrying stone’
Hershel says his kitchen sink was as good as a video link
to the helicopter hovering nearest to Nimrod Island.
He insists his sink recruited the ghost of Alan Turing
to hack into the rescue ships on-board computer
and guide it to the marooned conservationists.
The pilot disagrees.