Baskets of Neutron Stars

Azalea could fit a sonnet on a postage stamp.
Her stream of consciousness writing
enchanted like her soft, lilting voice.
Music was her first language.
She dreamt of being the Margaret Fontaine
of the concert pianist world.

Will met Azalea a knee slide from a piano,
the year Sydney was awarded the Olympics;
that corporate advertising bonanza,
that distracts society from horrors of war,
organ harvesting, human trafficking and soap operas.

Azalea was too embroiled in her own horror story,
to contemplate the woes of the wider world.
Will approached with the skink
he’d spotted on picturesque sandstone,
by the red spider flower.
Dragons are better conversation starters,
but they didn’t have them
in Tranquil Valley Mental Health Unit anymore.

According to Earl Gardener, the gardener,
dragons scorched his prize roses,
during Hendrix’s Woodstock rendition
of the star spangled banner.
Otherwise he would’ve been there,
“to drive those scaly varmints back to Middle Earth.”
He said the flame thrower
he’d snaffled at a Sapphire Bay garage sale,
made hell fire look like a fleeting spark.
Earl was a whacky poker player,
difficult to trump in a game of which is true.
He may well have believed
dragons inhabit this dimension.

If Will had known Azalea was weeks shy of her sixteenth,
the skink would’ve starred in a more mature story,
than Leila the Lizard Rescues Snugglepot
and Cuddlepie from the Banksia men.
Her smile was as momentous
as a flower that blooms just once,
per interglacial period.
Will heard she’d run away.
From who, or what, he didn’t know.

First, the predator seduced Azalea’s nurse.
After the attack, he stood on her feet, smirking gleefully.
“You won’t tell anyone will you” he sneered.
Beyond her testimony, no evidence existed.
She was hopelessly lost in a daze of anxiety,
at the prospect of buried truth
being pitted against professional liars.

According to the papers,
someone threw the predator off a cliff.
Jagged rocks pierced him,
from orifice to skull.
Did Poe dream of such macabre poetic justice?
The police couldn’t identify Rob Palmer’s killer
from the nickname on his ambition list.
Journalists assumed it was a man.
Lips were sealed,
like bodies in museum foundations.

Madeline never wore her “move in silence,
until it’s time to say checkmate” t-shirt on the outside.
Galileo never explored the heavens as inquisitively
as she explored grappling techniques.
Her personal experience of gravity,
overshadowed Newton’s theories.
The staff thought she had a crush on Rob.
Her interest was purely biomechanical.
If that girl snacked on food like she did fear,
the fire brigade would’ve removed her roof
and winched her ever expanding flab into a truck,
bound for an emergency weight loss centre.
Madeline ate mind bending terror for dessert.
If she’d ignored ancient memories,
of fighting Mongolian hordes in Mediaeval Japan,
psychiatric units would’ve remained
as foreign to her as exoplanets.

Thirty years later
she died in a base jumping accident.
With Icarus it was the sun,
with Madeline it was the bridge.
How did she live beyond her athletic prime?
“Attention to detail” she might’ve said.

If the stats in the predator’s diary are prophetic,
the killer saved dozens of lives,
but struck too late to rescue Azalea.
Her history department basement
was dynamited open,
as unceremoniously as her night shirt was raised.

For aeons,
caresses frightened her like razor sharp talons.
The moment claws became fingertips,
a charming drug parasite had his fill.
Then a poor, hardworking man was stolen from her.
His dower was a bedsitter immersed in love.
Azalea no longer believed
hope lay beyond the horizon.
Her grief was a drill headed robot,
fastened to a weary back.
It’s mechanical claws piercing major organs.

Where Azalea’s gone,
pianos are derided as primitive earthly instruments.
May she immerse herself
in the tranquil love of divine forests,
until it’s time to play ethereal organs,
with a heady blend
of euphoria, melancholy and fury, once more.

The day after the double funeral,
Madeline’s cryptic letter
was thrust beneath Will’s door
The rhyme at the bottom read.
“Baskets of neutron stars Mr Palmer,
crushing weight smelted into armour.
The monsters call me Instant Karma.
My hot winks meant airborne drama!
The evil cunt wished to copy Darma.
No wingsuit for that fucking charmer.

The Dregs of Drongo Vale

To quote Garth Izzard’s kindergarten teacher “That kid wouldn’t help an old lady pick up her walking stick, not unless she guaranteed him at least two thirds of her pension cheque first.”

Garth hadn’t grown kinder with age. As a boy Adolf Hitler had been his hero. After a while he noticed the correlation between praising Hitler and finding a steaming pile of dog turds in his lunch box. This prompted him to worship Richard Nixon’s secretary of state and Nobel Peace Prize winner Henry Kissinger instead. Garth’s favourite Kissinger quote is “the illegal we do immediately, the unconstitutional takes a little longer”. Izzardcorp’s Shareholders trusted him to apply this philosophy humanely.

Garth’s interest in the carbon trading scheme, reluctantly implemented by Prime Minister Jock Waffle, is as altruistic as God, all of Rudolph Mordor’s newspapers say so. Izzard was apoplectic with rage when he realized his weed imperilled wilderness on the outskirts of Drongo Vale had to be regenerated manually. He reluctantly provided his army of Sunday hippies with free tools from the reject depot of his hardware chain and permitted them to dumpster dive for biscuits, at the back of his supermarkets, providing they waived their right to insurance cover for needle stick injuries.

Garth was astonished to discover his flood of generosity wasn’t enough to inspire sixteen hour shifts of hacking into seething masses of Lantana and Morning Glory, with the ferocity of a Spartan warrior, in a fit of roid rage. Impatient to discard his ageing eco-maniacs, he fed their morning tea stockpile of stale biscuits and use by nineteen eighty six lime cordial to his pit bulls. They chased the hordes of doddering pensioners off his land once and for all. Garth’s departure speech was brief and brutal.

“If you greenies are doing what you love why do you need to be paid for your Olympic swimming pool of shirt saturating, eye stinging sweat? Fuck off you fucking hordes of tree hugging lemmings”

Garth’s chief accountant Niles Cash attempted to console his heartbroken employer
“Sir, unfortunately slavery is frowned upon in twenty first century Australia.
It must be hard to accept the mighty injustice that your problems can no longer be solved
with your favourite stock whip or cattle prod. Don’t fret, I’ve the utmost confidence
in Prime Minister Jock Waffle’s top secret plan to abolish the minimum wage.”

“Nile’s, why do the criminal classes expect to have their living handed to them on a platter?”

“Left wing lunatic propaganda makes them soft sir. Should I rebook your pedicure
and four hands Hawaiian massage, so your therapist can calm your Greenie mangled nerves?”

Garth eventually swallowed his pride and called Matt Rush, his estranged half brother and CEO of the self proclaimed “conservation kings”, Mother Nature’s Bodyguards. Whenever Matt wandered on to site, productivity plummeted and suicide climbed. He did the least damage when innovating from afar. His morning musings had recently led to the purchase of spy drones disguised as eagles. Unfortunately Matt’s budget only allowed for a brand manufactured in Albania. He often daydreamed about arming his surveillance fleet with low calibre weapons, to shoot down Indian Mynas. It was one of his more practical ideas.

Rush returned South Western Crew Supervisor Davo Davidson’s call, more aggressively than Andrei Agassi ever returned serve “Davo we aint changing the company name to The Weed Massacre Gurus. It’s the perfect label for a heavy metal band that advocates the use of hashish laced with crystal meth but not for a conservation company. Yes Davo, I know your Green Thumb Green Berets start screaming threats of violence at blackberry thickets before dawn, in between mumbling obscenities at tool thieving, hairy extra-terrestrial goblins, but it’s not something we want advertised on of our fleet of utes.
True, yesterday I said it’s your best idea ever but that wasn’t a compliment Davo, it was a comparison, like comparing influenza with radiation poisoning.”

“What! You’re planning to leave the company and you’re begging me to be your referee? If you leave this organisation in anything besides a body bag, all I’ll reveal to prospective employers is the true nature of your fixation with the rare Cumberland Plain Land Snail!”

Davo Davidson’s elite line up of chain sawing lunatics were yet to massacre a hectare of African Olives. Assistant supervisor Laura Bogan’s treatment of the jumping ant bite on Davo Davidson’s tackle was unorthodox to say the least. She was too focussed on her work to notice Davo’s video link to his backyard Cumberland Plain Land Snail farm.
These creatures are rare in the wild but at Davo’s place they’re in plague proportions.
“For Chrissakes not now” Davo hissed, as his phone vibrated in his pocket. He struggled to speak normally. Matt Rush’s voice tormented his ears like a demonically possessed angle grinder.

“Davo, if your hordes haven’t smashed five hectares of African Olives by midnight, you can forget about recouping the cost of fuel. Nathaniel Smoke and Mirrors Daniels, our new accountant, is more creative than Leonardo Da-Vinci. And don’t even think about sabotaging the spotlights.”

“Will you be paying us overtime rates Matt?”

“You want penalty rates, what’s the fucken point of penalising you if I have to pay for it?”

“I’ll go to the union.”

“Davo, if you approach the union, you and the snails gonna be all over YouTube. Oh, I nearly forgot, HR manager Gail Wilde will be on site tomorrow to discuss Mother Nature’s Body Guards anti-bullying policy. Make sure ya ready for that loser, or I’ll kick you up the arse so hard you’ll be farting through your nostrils and punch you in the nose so hard you’ll be sneezing out your arse. I’ve got to go Davo, the CEO of Stratosphere Apartments just arrived.”

“Yes Medusa, we’ve got that former wasteland, near the National Park, looking like forest wilderness and pretty signs advertising Stratosphere Apartments sponsorship. Nobody will suspect a thing until the bulldozers arrive. That penthouse discount is huge. Words can’t express my gratitude. Sorry, I must take this call.”

“Jonathon, of course I’m happy to edit that threatened species report for the solar farm construction site we’ve been working on. Yes, a few commas are out of place, of course that’s all you mean. I’ve got to go, Medusa Crabtree, the CEO of Stratosphere Apartments, is here for an urgent meeting.”

Matt Rush was still sampling the six hundred dollar bottle of champagne, that had mysteriously found its way to his desk, during Ms Crabtree’s visit, when Garth Izzard strolled into Mother Nature’s Bodyguards HQ, flanked by his most obsequious lawyers.
The dollar signs in Rush’s eyes flew like fireflies in a cyclone. The tender manager Billy Giant, appeared from nowhere, holding his pen like a flick knife, in anticipation of ruthless negotiations. The participants stared at each other across the boardroom table
like rival gangsters in a game of high stakes poker.

By three A.M the one hundred million dollar contract was a done deal. The tedium of re tendering charades was years away. “Get up ya mug” Matt roared, as Billy Giant collapsed from exhaustion on a crocodile hide door mat. “It’s alright he’s out cold, he can’t feel a thing” Matt explained to Rowena the cleaner, as he used Billy for a door mat on his way back inside, to get his keys.

Matt Rush, Billy Giant and HR manager Gaile Wilde embarked on a mission to assemble
the greatest conservation and land management crew ever to wear Mother Nature’s Body Guards high vis orange and forest green. Most in demand was former Western Sydney Warlords prop forward Richard Johnson. It was said that Lantana shrivelled and died in terrified anticipation of the first cloud of Round Up from his lethal weapon.
Johnson was most famous for mistaking escaped serial killer Ivan Milat for a bunyip,
after Milat made the mistake of robbing a cosplay store, in search of a disguise. Johnson was half way through barbecuing the notorious murderer for breakfast, when he realized his error. The revelation did nothing to diminish his appetite.

Once Johnson had been poached from Weed Busters, Liverpool’s landscaping, amateur stunt car driving and mixed martial arts legend Dangerous Dylan Donovan was in Mat Rush’s sights. The man could plant trees as fast as he could get a hand bag snatcher in a headlock. In the combat sports world, he liked to blur the boundaries between grappling and striking with his back flip double knee to the collar bone, followed by an aerial choke hold as his opponent crumpled to the canvas. Dangerous is also famous for pioneering the front flip double axe kick. The laws of physics and common sense flee from his path like finches from a leopard.

The unofficial reason for Dangerous Dylan Donovan’s employment was putting Richard Johnson back in his cage, if he insisted on using plutonium to kill Alligator weed, like he’d allegedly done during his stint at If it’s Noxious we Nuke It. According to David Attenborough, “Richard is disturbingly prone to taking things literally.”

It was rumoured Johnson was under investigation by ASIO and the Federal Police, concerning alleged links to the Russian mafia. Many assume that was how he acquired his long since confiscated stock pile of radioactive herbicides. Johnson was still in denial concerning the illegality of lacing Fluroxypyr with uranium.

Dangerous Dylan Donovan’s sidekick, Jumping Giles Corkhill, was renowned for splatter gunning Lantana in places where a goat wouldn’t dare tread. In his never ending quest for a more cost effective means of delivering herbicides to rugged mountainous areas, Giles had pioneered the adaptation of RPG’s to weed control.

Then there was Dexter Finklestein, a former botanist and master story teller. The man was like a psychedelic hybrid of Grandpa Simpson, Robin Williams and Aussie garden show presenter Don Burke. You could never tell when his forty minute talk on alternative methods of ironing would give way to how he once robbed a Melbourne tram with a cap gun, while dressed as a fifteenth century Japanese bandit. Dexter’s hobbies included pressing weeds and telepathic communication with ducks. With Dexter on board, Plant File was obsolete.

Oliver Oxford, the man who spoke of his heroics with the S.E.S, as though they were unsurpassed by the most daring exploits of the S.A.S, joined the crew as some sort of consultant. Precisely what his job description was nobody knew but he seemed to enjoy polishing tools, making sure the site boundaries had been marked correctly, listing his qualifications, discussing the botanical dictionary he’d been working on since he was four and ranting and raving about what he’d do if he were Prime Minister. What Oxford loved most was giving orders.

Ricardo Hohns, the last recruit, was renowned for cutting down African Olives and privets in his sleep. Some mornings he’d wake to find himself poisoning a stump halfway down a cliff. Matt Rush bought him a tent and made him the site security guard. After all, at 3am, how many things are scarier than a guy with a zombie like stare charging at you with two bow saws and a tube of weed killer? Drongo Vale local, and former member of the south western crew Laura Bogan, was appointed supervisor, on the basis of Matt Rush’s belief evil people get the job done.

Aware that Matt would be onsite, on the first day, Laura marked the site boundaries at dawn. A tennis ball skipped across the shallows of a heavily polluted creek, like it had been struck by Roger Federer and splashed an evil looking puddle into her face. The mouthful of water from Izzard Creek was infinitely worse than raw sewage. Laura looked about wildly for the culprit. She imagined Ricardo Hohns was responsible and wrote this down. After a few dabs of liquid paper the tennis ball became a rock. Laura rolled her eyes at Dexter Finklestein. Dexter was too busy reading the aura of the koala he’d just finished shaving and tattooing with his self portrait to acknowledge her.

Shock waves from Dangerous Dylan Donovan’s speakers had more than Laura’s coffee cup vibrating, to the tune of Uptown Funk.

“Too hot, hot damn, too hot for the Police and the Fireman,
too hot, hot damn, make a dragon want to retire man,
to hot, hot damn, say my name, know who I am……”

At first glance Dangerous Dylan Donovan looked like the best equipped bush regenerator she’d ever seen, then she realized his trailer was merely the casing for gigantic speakers.
Laura motioned for him to turn the music off.

“Mister Donovan, how are you? Wow, so these are the famous hands I’ve heard so much about. How about we put them to the test in my favourite cave. It’s a moist wonderland with countless satisfied visitors. There’s always plenty of work to be done there”

“I’ve heard about it. A couple of my mates reckon it needs to be fumigated regularly”

“What do you mean fumigated?”

“You know, pump it full of poisonous gasses to kill off the tiny monsters lurking inside. That place is more dangerous than Afghanistan, you’ve got to be real careful what you put in there.” Laura’s beaming smile transformed into a snarl.

Jumping Giles Corkhill, somersaulted to Earth from the lounge chair bolted to the floor of Dangerous Dylan Donovan’s ute tray.

“The boy knows how to make an entrance” Dangerous stated with pride; before turning his attention to Oliver Oxford. ‘Give me the run down on Golden Whistlers Oxford.
That’s one there isn’t it?

“The scientific name is Pachycephala pectoralis, Mr Dangerous. They’re distributed throughout eastern and southern Australia as far north as Cairns and as far south as Tasmania. They inhabit rainforest, scrub and open forest. Usually solitary and deliberate in their movements, they possess a sweet and ringing song.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t listening, can you repeat that Oxford?”

“Don’t annoy me by raving on about birds, I’m busy” was Dangerous response to take four.

“It’s okay Oliver, it’s all good practice” Rowena, the crew’s morale and safety officer consoled. She would’ve reprimanded Dangerous Dylan Donovan but his boulder pulverizing biceps, meteor shattering manly jaw and larrikin grin left her too dizzy to speak.

The news that Matt Rush, the owner of Mother Nature’s Bodyguards, was on site prompted the crew to scurry to the makeshift parking lot for a discussion on weed targeting priorities, the dangers of cutting down trees in which crew members had taken up residence and questions concerning how Richard Johnson had acquired a dozen mining helmets since signing on.

Richard had a gripe of his own. “I wanna know whose bin spreadin bullshit bout me being cannected to the Wussian Mafia. Whoever it is I’m gonna knock im inta the middle of next year.” Oliver Oxford, who had been front and centre poised to impart his knowledge on everything from Work Health and Safety legislation to the likely date of the apocalypse had mysteriously disappeared.

“What do you mean rumours? It’s true isn’t it” Ricardo Hohns piped up.
Johnson lurched forth like Frankenstein. He swung and missed, almost uprooting an African Olive. Hohns looked as relieved as a man who has successfully crossed Conrod Straight, during the Bathurst One Thousand, by a hairs breadth.
After regaining his composure, Ricardo sang “Do ya, do ya, do ya wanna dance”

“I hate that song” Johnson bellowed. As he covered his ears Riccardo lunged and planted a leaping overhand left on the point of his chin. It had less effect than a marble clanging against the turret of a tank.

Dangerous Dylan Donovan barked instructions ‘Riccardo, use your speed, circle clockwise, unload with a left on his recently re-attached right ear’

“What speed?” Ricardo asked.

“Betta find some real quick or I’m gonna havta step in for ya”
Dangerous removed his jacket faster than a Spanish bull fighter shifts his capote and flung it the length of a bowling alley, into the waiting arms of Jumping Giles Corkhill.
If he’d been any more accurate Giles would’ve been wearing that jacket.
Hohn’s taunted his Godzilla dwarfing opponent “Johnson, you look like a teletubby hybridised with a troll. You’re so stupid you’d crack open a coconut to make a cup of cocoa.”

Ricardo ducked beneath a haymaker that might’ve decapitated him if it had landed.
“Grow up” Rowena screeched, startling the combatants into statue stillness and shocking the cheering mob into silence. Any more of that and both of you can stand in neutral naughty corners all day without pay.”

Matt Rush, who had bet Dangerous two thousand dollars on Ricardo being knocked senseless by the first punch Richard Johnson threw, gave Rowena a nod of approval. Matt completely forgot about the coal miners helmets Richard Johnson had mysteriously acquired. It never occurred to management that Hohn’s vs Johnson might’ve been staged as a diversionary tactic, with the added bonus of $2000 being split three ways.

Within minutes, Large Leaf Privet massacring chainsaws and Lantana annihilating brush cutters destroyed the serene atmosphere once more. Only Dangerous Dylan Donovan’s sound system could compete with the cacophonous roar of machinery. A team of knap sack herbicide sprayers blanketed the vastest Moth Vine, Cape Ivy and Morning Glory patches, which had spread so rapidly time lapse photography was barely needed to watch their advance. Dangerous spread Acacia seeds on the patches of bare Earth.

A chain saw wielding Richard Johnson, stem injected the world’s largest African Olive with a jackhammer and a drum of diesel, before charging at the next Olive infestation like he was going over the top at Gallipoli. Four former NFL players, seconded from the landscape construction crew, hauled the slain weed trees from his path. Rowena Grey ran around with the grace of a flamingo dancing, in her bid to poison the stumps in time. Ricardo Hohns stacked the butchered invaders remains, between towering Eucalypts and Corymbias.

After morning tea, Ricardo and Rowena extricated Erharta From a patch of Weeping Meadow Grass. Riccardo was spellbound by Rowena’s tales of everything from mushroom farming to entertaining hospitalised children with her ukulele. He delighted in pointing out every passing Rufus Fantail and Yellow Robin. He named every rare native herb he spotted. What magnificent specimens of Solenogyne bellioides and Cymbonotus lawsonianus he proclaimed. One could be forgiven for thinking they were thought to be extinct since the ancestors of whales first fished in coastal shallows.

“Out of the sun Ricardo” Laura Bogan barked with the fury of a rabid Doberman.

“I’m perfectly comfortable” Ricardo answered.

“Get the fuck out of the sun now” Laura screamed, as she aimed the nozzle of a Staraine laden sprayer at his eyes. With his hands raised in the air Ricardo did as he was told.

“I’m just thinking of your safety Ricardo.” Rowena looked ready to flip Laura into an African Box Thorn thicket. Laura made a note in her diary “Ricardo always seeks the shadiest spots to work, at the expense of the crews health”

Richard Johnson yearned to spray an Asparagus Fern patch with Agent Orange. “Who is Agent Orange” he demanded to know, after Laura Bogan invited Rowena,
the site safety and morale officer, into the conversation on the whereabouts of his illegal herbicide supply.

After terminating the interview, Laura gazed at a pair of red belly black snakes slithering into a hollow Grey Box stump. Ms Bogan was nothing like red bellies, the timid puppy dogs of the venomous serpent world. She longed for a cup of their venom, to add to the crew’s coffee, in her quest for younger, more subservient replacements. Her crew damning diary contained more fantasy material than the complete works of JRR Tolkien. Ricardo Hohn was the main character. She’d hated him ever since he’d informed her the weeds she chastised him for ignoring were native plants. This diabolical humiliation occurred at the now defunct At War With Weeds, on the day the Challenger Space Shuttle exploded. Laura had been plotting her revenge ever since. Mother Nature’s Bodyguards CEO Matt Rush, looked forward to reading her damning reports.

The moment Laura disappeared from view “Richard Johnson rummaged through her bag. He was desperately hungry. The two litre bottle of Coke, packet of Oreo’s and the feral goat, he’d had for morning tea weren’t enough. He felt around for false compartments, sniffing for anything that vaguely resembled food. Eventually he pulled out an exercise book. After reading the chapter entitled Richard Johnson, he considered sending Laura Bogan’s van falling end over end into the broad, fast flowing creek, that wound its way through the property. The handbrake would be no use against the one man scrum that is Richard Johnson.

All he found in the other vehicles was a jar of instant coffee and the manuscript for Oliver Oxford’s memoir’s. According to chapter seven, Oxford taught Johnson the art of simultaneous brush cutting and knap sack spraying.

“That Mista Puniverse bludga musta shown me howta do it with the Lego version of a brush cutta and spraya. Otherwise howda fuck coulde’ve lifted em?” Richard Johnson raged. He went to lunch early, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. He was feeling a bit sleep deprived, so he poured the jar of instant coffee down his throat.

Johnson paid little attention to the late model silver Lamborghini he nearly ran off the road. The driver got a good look at the Mother Nature’s Bodyguards logo on the side of his vehicle. If Office Works had of been closed, it might’ve been the victim of a ram raid, for the sake of borrowing a shredder. Johnson fed the life and times of Oliver Oxford into the biggest, baddest document destroyer available.

“Are you going to buy that sir? You’ve been testing it ever since I started working here”
sales assistant, Melanie Tulip challenged him. He glared down at her, as though she were trying to talk him into paying five dollars a minute for the air he breathed. Then he used his unbelievably good eyesight to examine her sheer, lacy underwear. Shoddy brain surgery, after Johnson’s prize fight with a self driving tractor, had given him the ability to see through any clothing less opaque than a leather jacket.

“Your panties are blue” he stated, as proudly as if he’d just solved one of quantum physics most baffling mysteries. From that day forth, Melanie wore six pairs of stockings
and yoga pants beneath her trousers. Richard reread Laura Bogan’s diary as he drove back to site, only twenty k’s over the speed limit.

Johnson had one hand pressed firmly on the horn, to drown out everyone who had a problem with his latest multitasking feat. He almost side swiped Dangerous Dylan Donovan at an intersection. Dangerous’ own lunch time escapade would prove to be more action packed than Richard’s, but he didn’t know it yet. That afternoon, Richard worked as hard as a lone tank versus the United States air force.

“I am King Kong’s conqueror, Godzilla fears me. God, I dare you to unleash your fury upon me” he roared as he sprinted towards a patch of Inkweed, wearing a spray pack the size of a swimming pool. Dexter Finkelstein wandered off to share his supply of LSD with a wombat. Laura Bogan took her usual three hour lunch break, to visit her dope dealer and attend an orgy hosted by an extra terrestrial from somewhere in Alpha Centauri. It’s claim to fame was four breasts and more penises than fingers. Oliver Oxford spoke to everyone in earshot about the superior ergonomics of his loppers and his reclining camping chair. He shifted every hour, to saw another tree. He was one of those people who manages to do less work than the long term unemployed, without ever being out of a job.

Dangerous Dylan Donovan raised his middle finger as a scowling, silver Lamborghini driving, gang leader cut him off at the service station entrance. Dangerous was searching his wallet for cash, when something slammed into his cheek bone. Had a wedge tailed eagle just committed suicide on his face? Dangerous whirled around to see a shirtless body builder type shadow boxing and kissing his own biceps in triumph. Needless to say, he was not amused.

In his endeavour to give the narcissistic gym junkie some insight into his personality Dangerous grabbed his detachable driver’s side door and used it for a shield as he advanced. Luckily he was wearing Kevlar body armour beneath his work clothes and the door was reinforced with titanium because a variety of stolen weapons ranging from a crossbow to an AK-47 were trained on him. All of them were fired simultaneously. There was an eerie silence, once mirror boy’s henchman realised they’d exhausted their ammunition.

Jumping Giles Corkhill returned from the pizza store across the street. Dangerous Frisbee’d the ute door to him and motioned for him to reinstall it. He headed for the self kissing show pony, with his right arm cocked. A startled looking Mirror Boy took evasive action. In his haste he crashed into the outhouse wall. Now he was cornered, his ailing bravado was re-inflated. Donovan’s right arm was reminiscent of a cobra poised to strike. His left dangled by his side as though it were partially paralysed. As Mirror Boy prepared to counter a devastating right cross he was knocked senseless by a left hook.
“Idiot” Dangerous remarked as he strolled back to his vehicle and refueled.
“That’s Dangerous Dylan Donovan. The Americans call him the twenty first century Arthur Fonzarelli. The Chinese call him the Aussie Bruce Lee” A bystander proclaimed.

“I call him dead meat” the gangsters roared in unison. Jumping Giles Corkhill casually sipped his frozen Coke. Dangerous had gotten them into and out of situations more dire than this. He looked bored by the ease with which he flung his attackers into their vehicles. Jumping Giles slashed their tyres before they could disentangle themselves.
Two carloads of police officers took time out from replenishing their donut stockpile to arrest the thugs. Nobody had reported the fight. The service station attendants were reoccupied with putting out a fire in the dumpster and getting their lunch time exercise chasing away graffiti vandals.

“Not again” the owner Lawry Wise, moaned as he discovered the confectionery freezer had been stolen.

“Giles, I heard Conor Mcgregor is signing autographs at Drongo Vale Mall, that #### owes me money. Let’s pay him a visit” Dangerous declared as he turned out of Drongo Vale Service Station and put his foot to the floor. Fortunately for Mcgregor, he was on his way to the next book signing by the time Dangerous pulled up in the cark park.

If they’d watched the news that night Dangerous and Jumping Giles would’ve seen CCTV footage of their stoush with the Drongo Vale Boys. Mirror Boy and his cohorts had robbed two service stations in twenty minutes before their defeat at the hands of the most feared weed killer since Genghis Khan took up gardening. Overshadowing that triumph was Dangerous’ Australian Rules football style catch of a baby, who toppled over a Drongo Vale Mall railing. It was quite an impressive feat considering that he was chasing a handbag snatcher at the time. At last count there were four babies who would’ve gone splat, if Dangerous wasn’t looking for Conor Mcgregor, at the right time.

Laura Bogan missed the news as well. She was busy trying to contact Dangerous Dylan Donovan, to interrogate him about misuse of company vehicles.

“You’re telling me that speeding on two wheels is against company policy? Since when? I’m busy darlin, the Warlords are playin. I’ve got five hundred riding on the first scorer. We’ll talk about work at work. Then again, I’ll probably be too busy then too.” Dangerous turned the volume down, knowing Laura would screech for an eternity before pausing to discover he wasn’t listening. He recorded every call from Laura Bogan and sent the audio files to Ricardo to summarize the death threats.

Not content with disturbing Dangerous Dylan Donovan, during a Western Sydney Warlords match, Laura Bogan made the mistake of offending Richard Johnson again. “What do ya mean we can’t arm drones with herbocide cannins. I could fly em by remote control from my car during an extended lunch break. I’d neva be more than two feet from an ice cold six pack.” he raged.

“Garth Izzard isn’t paying the company enough to support the use of that kind of technology” she insisted, as one of Mother Nature’s Body Guard’s surveillance drones emerged from its hiding place in the clouds overhead.

Within moments of Laura being out of sight Richard had stolen her diary again and sped off on another Office Works escapade. This time there was a strong police presence in the shredder section. Melanie Tulip’s new trousers were as opaque as a fortress. An enraged Johnson wreathed photo copier laden shelving high into the air. Each rep was more reckless than the last. Exasperated with the local police’s refusal to risk pepper spraying or tasering Richard Johnson the manager tried a different tack.

“If I give you this state of the art shredder for free, will you promise to never come back?”

“I will consider your offa” Johnson replied as he headed for the car park, shredder in hand. It made short work of Laura Bogan’s forty thousand words of meticulous fabrication. Richard made a phone call to Oliver Oxford, who he hoped had taken time out from bird watching to fill up his herbicide spray pack.

Matt Rush initiated a video conference call, to discuss Laura Bogan’s diary. Richard Johnson listened from afar. Two kookaburras and three goannas suffered from strokes during his fits of maniacal laughter. The electronic copy of Laura’s diary had been mysteriously deleted from her laptop and online back up. Using her name for the password had proved to be a bad idea. Every member of the crew knew Lady Justice’s guillotine was about to descend upon her, except her. It was a guillotine they’d all had a hand in building, sharpening and polishing.

“Closed circuit television footage will show that since the beginning of the job Laura has repeatedly left site during lunch without returning until mid afternoon” Ricardo informed everyone.

Garth Izzard nodded his approval, as he joined the meeting from his Honolulu office. He forgot to switch off his camera as his four hands Hawaiian massage ventured into disturbing territory.

“It’s true Matt, it was quite cunning how Miss Bogan avoided the regular trails and built her own personal gates but not as cunning as Dangerous Dylan Donovan’s repositioning of the perimeter cameras.” Izzard confirmed. Richard Johnson was halfway to the airport by the time Izzard realized he was broadcasting some questionable muscle spasm healing techniques to the entire Drongo Vale crew.

Realizing she was destined for a long walk to the bus stop Laura Bogan attempted to ring her cousins for a lift and to organise a hit on Ricardo Hohns and Dangerous Dylan Donovan. In their current predicament it was surprising they’d managed to keep their phones. What was less surprising was that they were in prison for the armed robbery of two Drongo Vale service stations and conspiring to rob a third.

My Flying Amphibious Car

An edited and expanded version of my Facebook status update, from April 18, 2014.

Writing is like travelling in your very own flying, amphibious car, you can go anywhere.

It’s excitement plus here in Campbelltown, I just activated my Opal Card. I might even embark on a public transport mystery tour but then again, I could just be the envy of all my friends, as usual, by spending the weekend studying weeds. While they’re out dirt bike riding or hang gliding I’m reading up on Ricinus communis, the most toxic plant known to humankind. Beat that, if you dare!

Alas, one of my rivals just trounced my hardcore spirit of adventure. They’re Googling Nepenthes attenboroughii, the Giant Pitcher Plant, which is even more lethal than Ricinus communis. It has been known to catch and kill rats.

Not even the notorious Orphan School Creek has Nepenthes lurking amongst the junkies needles. What do you mean you’ve never heard of Orphan School Creek? You know of the Amazon, The Nile, and the Colorado River, yet you’ve never heard of this waterfront wonderland, nestled in among the most prestigious estates in Canley Vale and Carramar?

Nepenthes attenboroughi, possibly the only diabolical invasive species never to haunt the most picturesque weed choked storm water creek on the planet, kills rats by dissolving them in an acidic cocktail. The less deadly Ricinus communis is unsurprisingly a good source of ricin, a poison with a malevolent reputation. It conjures up images of the ricin tipped umbrella used as a stealth weapon, by an agent of the Bulgarian secret police, to murder dissident writer Georgi Markhov. 

This status update/article, has turned into a slice of horror history. Anyone who said writing isn’t fun should be dipped head first into the world’s largest specimen of Nepenthes attenboroughi. Either that or they should be sentenced to 10 hours of Juncus acutis deseeding, in the Brick Pit, at Sydney Olympic Park. Which is worse, you decide.

The thread of logic in this article might be fraying fast but I think I’ve proved the idea that writing is like travelling in your very own flying amphibious car. You can go anywhere you like. There is no limit to the parties you can crash. 

 

Appendix

The Brick Pit, at Sydney Olympic Park, began life as a clay mine. It used to produce two thirds of the red bricks found in Sydney houses. It was also the site for Bartertown scenes in Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome. This hole is now one of the last refuges in the Sydney Basin for the Green and Gold Bell Frog. The soil down there is not a great deal more fertile than moondust but the place is looking less like a desert than it once did, thanks to unrelenting efforts to transform it into a haven for birds, lizards and frogs. 

 

 

Featured

The Mirrored Men

The multi hued dawn,
is as sensuous as a divine kimono.
Crepe Myrtle blooms dance in the breeze, 
like care free children.
The olfactory bliss of Lemon Myrtle
is marred by diesel fumes.

The forest beckons.
Serenity shatters like a glass cathedral,
in the path of a choir boys vengeance.
Punk parrots die of fright mid flight.
Their shadows scream
like throat cancer afflicted banshees.

In a hilltop clearing, 
hooded figures move as one.
Gravity is their slave,
their synchronicity as unnerving
as the taxidermied hybrids,
hanging from the Olive grove.

They traverse treacherous terrain
more fluently than a waterfall. 

As slowly as a fish suffocating on a jetty,
they pivot in my direction;
their faces turn faster than their heads.

My limb hair is as upright
as the star picket I’ve torn from the Earth.
Their frog like mouths curl into leering grins, 
as I meet their black hole like gaze.
They close the distance
as gradually as grains shifting in an hourglass.

Midnight has come from nowhere.  
The star picket has been twisted
into the infinity symbol
and embedded in the trunk of an Angophora.

 

 

This poem was inspired by the Monsters Among Us Podcast. http://www.monstersamonguspodcast.com/

 

The Cockroach Guru

Mr Bellinger was busy marking essays
reminiscent of typing monkeys,
when his siblings died
in a head on collision with a road train.
Their brakes had been declared perfect,
by a mechanic as suspect
as a property developer’s ecological survey.

Bellinger described his weekend
as “less fun than a choice between
having his brain vacuumed through his nose
and his liver extracted with a spoon”
Mister Piccolo, the music co-ordinator,
found his colleague more depressing
than a legless Taekwondo addict.

Bellinger’s return was
more tricky
than untangling plaited vas deferens.

Being weeks from retirement,
was all that kept him from slashing his wrists.
He
expected the final bell to be as exhilarating
as beating a forest fire to a barren hilltop.
During lunch,
daydreams of 
a bamboo massage parlour,
in a patch of urban rainforest,
enhanced his mushroom and eggplant pie experience.
Maybe that patch of paradise awaited him.

First, Bellinger had to judge a speech contest.
“Is the current leader worthy of a consolation prize?”
he mused,
as the final speaker 
strode to the podium.
Guessing Huon Stratton’s  topic

was like wondering if the Melbourne Cup
is going to be a horse race this year.

“Bogans, nerds and distinguished scholar,
I wanted to explore the evolutionary history of Blatta orientalis,
but Bellsy said that would be less entertaining
than watching gangrene spread.
Find a topic more light hearted than infanticide, he said.
If I can’t convince you studying cockroaches is fun,
I’ll wear a hot pink mankini to the swimming carnival.

The cockroach brain is decentralized
so don’t be surprised if the one you decapitated,
with a razor blade, last week, is still alive.
Do not despair, ultimately it will succumb to thirst .
Due to it’s rectal water re-absorption you might die first.

Roaches can spit but can’t blow bubbles.
Alas they will never know the joys of bubble gum.
Incapable of burping,
or playing the gas bugle
they’d be insectoid gelignite,
before the end of the night,
if it weren’t for teeth below their oesophagus.

Cockroach kidneys writhe like snakes
as they purify their white blood.
Dracula deduced they’re are as good as juiced;
they have no blood vessels.

Roaches probably aren’t religious
but Ramadan would be a stroll through the dinner scraps
for these nuclear holocaust survival candidates.
They’d think nothing of enforced fasting for a month.

If cockroaches were Catholics the Pope would love them;
male roaches present their mates with sperm packages
wrapped in protein coats,
leaving them perpetually pregnant.

Cockroaches Achilles heel is poor eyesight in red light,
so they’re easy to kill in strip clubs.
Elsewhere they’re hard targets
for the swiftest of clown shoes.

Motion detecting hairs on their posterior
make the average stalker feel so inferior;
ordinary hunters are bound to despise
the two thousand lenses in their eyes.
It’s hard to envelope these insect Houdini’s
when they can slip through cracks as thin as an envelope.
Some species are harder to detect than stealth bombers;
small enough to hide in ant nests.

These ninjas of the insect world
are engineering marvels
but forensic experts would gladly break
all eighteen of their knees,
because they like to
track the arterial flow of murder victims across ceilings.
Many are globetrotting fugitives,
thumbing their nose at extradition treaties.
They’re stowed on ships and planes
before disgruntled crime scene technicians
and outraged cooks know they’ve fled.

In the seventeenth century the Danish Navy
dealt cockroaches self-esteem a stinging blow
by offering a bounty of a single bottle of brandy
per thousand carcasses.
William Bligh, captain of the Bounty,
once de-roached his entire ship with boiling water.

For the sports nuts among you,
cockroaches scale speed is on par with top fuel dragsters,
those finely tapered vehicles with parachutes for brakes.
Fortunately their reflexes would embarrass
formula one driver Michael Schumacher,
at the pinnacle of his prowess,
otherwise they’d be crashing into the fridge a lot.
The machinery driving these fiendish super athletes
has animatronic wizards salivating.
Insect dance troupes beckon.
These athletic marvels can spin fast enough
to make a ballerina’s brain explode
from the centrifugal force.
Roaches can hold their breathe
from kick off to half time,
so white water rafting murder plots
are dead in the water before they’re concocted.

Is mixed martial arts your favourite sport?
Male Madagascan hissing roaches
possess horns for ramming rivals
from their alpha male mantles.
Sadly their trash talking is indecipherable.

During the Middle Ages
it was customary to release cockroaches
into new dwellings.
Today, outside of sporting circles,
roaches aren’t so widely revered.
In the Plano, Texas Cockroach Hall of Fame,
Liberoachi was the star attraction.
He sat at a miniature grand piano,
his white mink cape
as flamboyant as his dazzling claw strokes.

Mr Bellinger cleared his throat.
“At last, something worth judging.
T
he winner is a blue ribbon bonsai,
older than the Sphinx.
The also rans are
 toxic weeds
that germinated yesterday.”

“Sir, the art of pun sai, the forerunner of bonsai,
originated in eighth century China.
The Sphinx dates back to 2494 BC.”

“Poets licence Huon, poets licence.”

“They must be easier to get than drivers licenses.
Sir, did you know the Egyptian desert roach,
Polyphaga aegyptiaca, can absorb water vapour?”

“Mister Stratton, did you know first prizes
can be arbitrarily revoked?”
Bellinger was smiling, like a kid in a toy store.
For the first time since the Carter administration,
he considered working until nursing home heavies
dragged him from his desk.

The Demise of Hilda Johnson

Wasps drift on the micro swell.
Sunshine kissed ripples radiate from plunging stones.
Speedboat wash strikes the mangroves.
Clouds peek over the tree line
like abominable vapor men.

On the ocean side,
Senator Hilda Banks clicks on the most elegant heels
she’s seen since Imelda Marcos
gave her a guided tour of her wardrobe.
In the buying frenzy that follows,
she battles grimly
to stay within a monthly limit
that could bring Christmas to a country town
for a generation.

A wren species not seen since federation,
is wounded by a lunging feral cat.
It crash lands on Hilda’s shoulder.
She swats it into the ocean,
like it’s just another blow fly.

A news report,
highlighting decades of warming,
captures her attention for the time it takes
the critically endangered bird
to drown in a rock pool.
Useless modern thermometers,
Hilda murmurs as she waddles
from her mobile mansion to the lookout
The grandest solar model
could have powered her satellite televisions
and
 arsenal of hair dryers
but Hilda can’t bear to waste good oil and coal.
She’s ordered a truckload of each,
to supply her camping needs.
A traumatized dolphin submerges,
after witnessing her masturbating
before a waxwork likeness
of her favourite fossil fuel lobbyist.

Thunder confirms the sky has taken offence.

Beyond the frothy cauldron where the beach was,

monstrous surf is indistinguishable from bleak skies.
Ephemeral billabongs and rivers merge.
Hilda’s camp site is a shrinking island.
Cocooned inside her mobile palace
she snorts derisively at an article
on the correlation between climate change
and extreme weather events.
She’s oblivious,
until her monument to the fossil fuel industry
is launched into the Pacific.

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.

Hershel rowed a car roof, with driftwood 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.
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 helicopters hovering near 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.

‘This sink of yours,
are you sure it’s not a computer’
a baffled journalist asked.

‘Do you wash your dishes on your laptop’ Hershel queried.

 

Placid Island

Glimmering wavelets dance in mangrove forest gloom.
Flotillas of stone carved, fire hollowed canoes
deftly steered between botanical snorkels.

Masters of clay and wood
pay homage to alien atmosphere floaters.
No submarine canyon creature looks odd now.
Wind chimes fly like reaper taunting acrobats.
Never ending greens snake through shrubbery.
Bowls mirror peninsula curves.

At the nineteenth hole, androids blend all,
from watermelon, guava and strawberry,
to pineapple and passionfruit with a hint of mint.
The musicians are carbon-based life forms, mostly.

Placid Island can’t coax Helena
into venturing beyond high-rise sanctuaries?
Book cases are her best friends.
Moonrise is her walking hour.
The spectre of muggers
frightens her less than the frantic cacophony,
of carefree children and day time traffic.

I’m told Helena’s uninterrupted stream of parcels,
stems from the quirkiest web cam shows
in the known universe.
Her long-term devotees know
she’s turned eighteen seven times now.

In the background,
Dragon Trees and Aloe Vera flourish
where the home cinema used to be.
Dwarf Azaleas fill the microwave void.

Helena’s rivals pretend to love inserting foreign objects,
for the benefit of strangers
with less imagination than plastic bags.
Helena plays muted drums in a panda suit.
Five star ratings accumulate like Autumn leaves.
Virtual bouquets undo hidden zippers.
Patrons glimpse nimble, elegant thighs,
hints of exquisite lace and angelic eyes.

When the money river turn to pools
the heart beat orchestra subsides.
Gentle spirits transfixed
by flower arranging and origami wizardry,
extol her virtues.

Ponytail Palms reach for Helena’s skylight.
Moss carpet decorates her toilet seat.
The shower curtains are fog drinking ivy.
Someone yearns for Mother Nature, with a twist.
Helena, tell me again how you effortlessly resist
the lure of Placid Island in the Autumn mist.

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 decommissioned 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 on 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.
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.
Mistakes are fast forwarded
and slow motion reserved
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.
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 favourite place 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 in to temptation.

 

 

 

Photo

Satan by Oscar

oscartian547

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

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