The Last Exam

As James head sinks into the pillow,
arguments for and against
the atom bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
swirl around his mind
with details of the stock market crash,
the New Deal
and Japanese bombers descending on Pearl Harbor.

Dreams of post exam freedom give way to
Auger Beetles Swiss cheesing his fingernails,
as he clings to a crumbling crag.
The patch of summit he collapses on collapses.
Dragon scorpions swarm the cave prison
he drags his shattered limbs from.
They fasten him to the walls of a dungeon
with barbed wire. Every time
he makes grammatical and referencing errors,
razor ants steal muscle and sinew.
For the slightest vowel miscalculations
he’s force fed slimy bowel evacuations.

James is jarred awake by morning sunlight.
Cold sweat soaks his pyjamas.
After icy showers
he stops mistaking bathroom creepy crawlies
for auger beetles and dragon scorpions.
All morning he reads and contemplates
the final distillation of text book summaries.

Throughout the exam James transcends the focus

of a formula one race car driver.
The pens down order
strikes like a Japanese torpedo
in a merchant shipping lane.
The last time he felt such relief,
he lay exhausted on the beach,
after swimming from a capsized yacht,

The Virtual Reality Pod

Her fluttering mini skirt and translucent blouse,
immobilize Herbert like a tranquilizer dart.
She puts a steadying arm around his waist
and leads him to a virtual reality pod
Her delicious sales partner’s voice
is reminiscent of honey and triple rainbows.
“Would you like to watch a movie from the inside?,
the first seven minutes is free”
she whispers in his ear.

The director is allergic to orthodoxy.
Solid marble is plasticine
beneath Athena’s lathe humbling touch.
Her opalescent Lady ego
and an Amazonite Lady empathy wrestle for supremacy,
on a granite globe.
Bee monkeys swing from the sculptors left ear lobe.
It stretches like a rubber band
in response to every bungee acrobatics command.
No telescope is required to view alien oceans here,
Athena’s eyes are cosmic portholes.
In exchange for premasticated sea weed,
terrestrial cephalopods skate on beach slugs.
Through tentacle sweat glands,
they give their gastropod buddies sun tanning lotion
and colour enhancing drugs.
A bat on a leash
rotates Athena’s fan at hypersonic speed.
It’s just an exhibition advertisement.

The movie approaches like a cloud of parrots at sunset.
This place makes Alice’s Wonderland look as mundane
as an accounting manual.

Dewey

The Camellias and Roses along Remedy Street,
are silent welcoming committees for someone else.
Misty rain is a sweet distraction
from all that pierces Mervyn’s soul,
like African Box Thorn through an eyeball.
Since burglars stole the frames from his family photos,
he’s carried his most prized possessions in a back pack.
His Toughbook is a more constant companion
than Booboo the Bear ever was.
He’s prepared to defend it to the death,
with the fusion of Brazillian jujitsu and Muay Thai
he’s been learning since a fellow kindergartner decapitated Booboo.
The advent of online backup hasn’t changed the equation.
Mervyn without a laptop
is as dysfunctional as Mervyn without kidneys.
His anxiety vanishes with the last vestiges of day.
Tiny suns illuminate people peering streetward.
Do any of them realize inviting him inside
would be smarter than drinking molten lead?

Every week,
Mervyn considers visiting the house he grew up in,

to retrieve the telescope and albums
his grandmother mistakenly mailed there.
The new owner threatened to unleash his Pit Bulls,
if Mervyn set foot inside the gate again.
Tenants the size of a Polar Bears,

covered in tattoos of dragon slaying vampires,
threatened to “break his legs with a sledge hammer”,
if he rang the doorbell one more time.”
“I sold your precious telescope.
Those photo albums I found, I burnt them,
whaddya gonna do bout it”
a squatter taunted him,
oblivious to how close he was,
to getting his arm broken.

There’s a strange lady
on the corner of Brumby and Thoroughbred;
her yard is populated with granite freak show legends.
Waxwork likenesses of locals gaze at them in awe.
Mervyn mistakes the sculptor for a statue.
She holds yoga poses for millennia.
Her automatic gates slides open.

“I can’t sketch you from there” she protests.
Mervyn follows her like a lost puppy
and that’s how Victoria depicts him.
She signs, scans and prints the image on to a shirt
before he can sip his way through
a concoction of pineapple, passionfruit and coconut,
with a hint of strawberry and mint.
As Victoria sketches Mervyn nude
he discusses the archaeological significance,
of her pottery collection,
and identifies the chess match
between a television detective and serial killer,
as an imitation of Vladamir Kramnik versus Gary Kasparov.
Before he can finish the story of how Van Gogh lost his ear,
Victoria kneels in front of him
and feeds his towering monument to her lacy cleavage
into her cavernous mouth.

Mervyn enters his mouldy, cockroach infested flat at dawn.
The plumbing is older than Rupert Murdoch.
His carpet is more worn than the turf
of a fifth day test cricket pitch.
Rain pelts the pavement outside.
Mervyn dons his blacked out swimming goggles
and succumbs to exhaustion,
with the sound of Himalayan singing bowls
massaging his ears.

“You’re so far away from me”
Mark Knophler’s classic storytelling voice,
drifts from his clock radio,
waking him in time for his midday shift.
It’s been ten years
since he’s had a lover to travel home to.
The supermarket is Mervyn’s home away from home.
Some can tell you which shelf every item is on.
Mervyn can tell you which products contain palm oil,
from plantations that replaced orangutan habitat
and which companies are guilty of child slavery
and environmental vandalism.
Want to know how may milligrams of Vitamin B12
are in your can of smoked oysters, ask Mervyn.

His Saturday night wander,
is the most spontaneous event in his schedule.
Visiting the sideshow freak sculptor
soon becomes a permanent feature.
He never knocks on her door,
instead he walks around the block
until she spots him.
Tonight, she’s busy synchronized swimming,
in her birdbath, with a masked petite beauty.

It’s been eight years since Mervyn crossed the highway,
to the street where he was born.
On the first day of summer he makes the trek,
in the hope of travelling back to the twentieth century.
He pauses enroute, to watch Quiz Maestro.
“Unbelievable, The Maestro doesn’t know
opals are a hydrated amorphous form of silica”
Mervyn closes the video in disgust.

Dawe Street is unrecognizable.
There’s a massage parlour,
where the corner shop used to be.
Houses have been demolished
to make way for high rise units.
The park has been transformed
into a putt, putt golf course.
The laneway where Mervyn raced his BMX
no longer exists, neither does his fish pond.
His aviary has been replaced with a pool.
A young woman glides along the bottom long enough
for Mervyn to wonder if she has mermaid genes.
As she surfaces, she spots his elongated shadow.

“I, I, I grew up here.
I, I came back to visit my childhood
but I can’t find it.”
Alicia senses Mervyn is as peaceful
as the finches and wrens
flitting from one bush to another.
Tears well in his eyes
as he walks the winding path through the shrubbery
and runs his fingers over the assortment of
Acacias, Hakeas, Bottlebrushes and Indigoferas.
Mervyn removes his shoes and luxuriates in the feeling
of Weeping Meadow Grass beneath his feet.

“Wonderful isn’t it, I’ve kept it weed free.
I moved in the day Donald Trump was assassinated,
by a peace activist without a sense of irony.”
“You moved in on the 4th of July 2019?
Trump was killed at 7:45p.m.
John Smith, a former US Army sniper,
shot him in the eardrum,
through the partially open bullet proof window,
of the armored presidential limousine,
from five hundred and four metres away.
The vehicle was travelling
approximately thirty five kilometres per hour”
“Wow, you’re a history buff and a half”
“At work they call me Dewey,
they say I am a human library”

“Would you like to sit on the veranda with me,
you big strong enyclopaedia?”
Still wearing her fruit salad print bikini,
Alicia perches herself on Mervyn’s lap.

In an effort to ignore the tingling in his plumbing,
Mervyn lists the botanical names of every plant in the garden.
Then he identifies the constellations.
Alicia just grins and listens.
“What do you do for a living” Mervyn asks,
once he’s exhausted the backyards
clusters of conversation starters.
“I’m a burlesque performer.
We’ve met before, in a past life perhaps?”
“No, in aisle four, you wanted to know how reliable,
the sustainable fishing labels are.”

“Come inside, I want to show you something.
Mervyn’s eyes light up
as he sees the loungeroom is empty,
except for a dazzling array of portraits
and a curtained section in the middle.
“How about you work on that library in your noggin,
while I banish the chlorine demon”
Mervyn waits until he can hear
needles of steaming hot water raining down.
“No peeking” Alicia’s disembodied voice warns,
as he creeps towards the curtains.
One of the picture frames contains a surveillance screen.
Apparently Alicia has pressed the wrong button.
After running his eyes over the language defying beauty
from her mischievous gaze
to her painted toenails,
Mervyn returns to the love heart of golden thatch,
between her succulent thighs.

Alicia steers an electric wardrobe into the room.
She’s dressed like a corporate executive.
Miles Davis’ most ethereal masterpiece,
drifts from the speakers.
A marathon strip tease ensues.
Eventually Alicia’s figure hugging pin striped suit,
is as abandoned as a burning building
and her black lace brassiere draped around Mervyn’s neck.
Her matching panties stay on,
as do the tassels concealing her towering nipples.
Mervyn had always been too busy watching documentaries,
and summarizing encyclopedias,
to go to a burlesque club.

After careful deliberation, Mervyn shuns
girly frills, lace and rose embossed satin,
in favor of a wild cat print matching set
and a zebra pattern mini dress.
Alicia dresses more gracefully than any ballet dancer
ever pirouetted across a stage.

The curtained area is large enough to hide,
a love seat and large screen television,
or a queen sized water bed.
Alicia parts the curtains with the tantalizing slowness,
she unbuttoned her business shirt.

Inside is an easel shrouded in black cloth.
A riot of variations,
of Alicia the Burlesque Goddess on canvas,

sweep through Mervyn’s mind like a raging river.
The way she scissors through the shroud
conjures images of her hairdresser shutting up shop,
playfully pinning her to the ground,
sliding her skirt up her silky thighs
and shredding her hosiery
as skillfully as she’d trimmed her cascading golden hair.
The shroud’s tattered remains fall to the floor,
to reveal a portrait of a puppy, wearing an Oxford cap,
posing like Rodin’s thinker.
The inner frame swivels to reveal the wolf version.
“These paintings remind me of you.
I bought them from a strange lady,
who was sculpting conjoined werewolves in her garage.”

Alicia wraps her tiny arms around Mervyn
and kisses him, tamely at first.
His curious hands glide over her.
He circles her breasts,
as though 
touching them would produce an electric shock
powerful enough to launch him through the window.
Her wandering hands embolden him.
“Not like that Dewey, a kiss is a dance,
you’ve gotta listen to the same song to get it right.”
“I can’t hear any music”
“Never mind”
First they do things Mervyn hasn’t done before,
then they do things he hadn’t realized men did with women.
“I didn’t know hominid species do that”
a stunned Mervyn exclaims,
once he’s managed to stop moaning in ecstasy.
The one thing Alicia doesn’t need to teach him is staying power.

In the morning they watch episodes of Quiz Maestro together.
“My daddy is the producer
and he’s always looking for new talent”,
Alicia hints between nibbling on Mervyn’s ear lobe.
“I’ll show you how to dance on water” she insists,
after they share a fruit salad breakfast
in epic kisses.

Nightmare

The bed penetrates the ceiling,
like a magic carpet through the clouds.
Invisible forces approach.
They pop balloons from the inside.
They’re enraged by a marathon, claustrophobic slide.

The Dogs of war began to snarl and snap,
before they could clap.

Their supersonic levitation
is as controlled as a Zen master’s breathing.

The dogs bite with a savagery the oppressed cannot match.
Half her features are gone,
yet she does not flinch,
her eyes pierce psychopathic fury
like javelins through soap bubbles.
The hounds are banished
by a nightmare of their own creation.
Dali watches her regenerated face multiply like Olive seedlings.

The dogs fly on.
A single exclamation mark seeds like Mother of Millions.
The exclamation marks fly.
The atmosphere is punctuated with silent screams.

She resists the urge to spear the tarnished exclamation points
through abandoned, bombed out shells of hospitals.

The exclamation marks spiral out of control.
Those reservoirs of victims, oppressors and observers blood,
bleed like haemophiliacs.

In the eyes of the brainwashed,
singing in the ministry of propaganda’s choir,

their exclamation points are Excaliburs,
swung with Samurai precision
and nonchalantly returned to their stone holsters.
In reality they strike nothing, yet stain everything.

Turn an exclamation point one way it’s marks a zombie’s words,
turn it another and it marks a scholars.
It is you, it is I, depending on who is looking.
It is the haywire needle of perspective,
it’s co-ordinates pinpointed by seers
and the phantom satellites of the collectively insane alike.

Western Geisha

Evelyn’s eighteenth century marble cottage
adorns the last quarter acre block
in the latest city to emulate Manhattan.
The urge to launch this crème de la crème
of curvaceous gems
on to a four poster bed as elegant as she,
can be as overwhelming as an avalanche.

Evelyn possesses the power
to preoccupy her admirers with nobler passions.
It is said, her dazzling array of brush strokes
can capture your spirit on canvas,
that there’s something more exhilarating
about watching her paint
than witnessing the theatrical grandeur
of her forays into burlesque.

If you wish to see her graceful figure
unencumbered by layers of satin,
being a world renowned sculptor
is more advantageous than wealth.
If a corporate emperor,
with the artistic prowess
of a methamphetamine crazed jackal,
wishes to witness such a spectacle,
funding a children’s hospital for a generation
isn’t guaranteed to win the bidding.

Evelyn is glorified in birdsong.
Blue Tongues seek refuge in her hollows.
Banjo frogs frolic in her waterfall fed ponds.
I’m yet to buzz the intercom
and set foot inside her sanctuary.
The sound of her soul 
drifts into the park,
from a grand piano.

Would You Like Coffee in Your Tequila?

Constantine’s terrified, tortured liver
is under siege from an ethanol river.
He’s converted his laundry into a brewery.
The old geezer’s backyard distillery
is flanked by beer can pyramids
as legendary as Giza.
His wine rack has more shelves
than the Library of Congress.
He lists vodka, whisky, Cognac
and bourbon as separate hobbies
and gets angry when you tell him
a flagon of rum after breakfast
is neither normal, nor the best way
to prepare for the daily commute.
Constantine’s zombie movie collection
is scattered across the cellar floor
to make room for compilations of beer commercials.
He believes the legal limit is 5%.
Alcohol from specimen jars in the museum
disappeared the same night
his local bottle shops went on strike,
but he’s not an alcoholic, just ask him.

The Poetry Fight

Claude Maude, the tactic telegraphing,
titanic, wobbly tit wielding,
wank bar warbler from Wallarah,
tugged at his ‘Marijuana, a special kind of stupid t-shirt,
before wagging his finger at DwiteDaSpriteKnight.

Dwite was planning a thirteen pun combination,
to end that estate agent as swiftly as a guillotine.
Now he opted to sustain the pain.

Dwite’s promoter, Kevin Celebrity Lucich,
lugged his bling to the ring.
According to Claude Maude,
he winked at the judges so blatantly
everyone thought he was a cyclops.

Referee Darius Lagoon was as ready as a rodeo clown.
Gentleman, the standing eight count
and three knock down rule are both in effect.
Protect yourself with all rhymes.
Claude Maude was still pointing at his
‘Marijuana, a Special Kind of Stupid’ shirt
and wagging his finger at Dwite.

As the bell sounded, Dwite unloaded.
“Why applaud Mister Maud
or his micro sordid sword?
He’s an intellectual plodder,
pile of sardonic wit fodder;
he’s never smelt marijuana,
let alone spelt marijuana,
yet that tragic serial joker
says I’m a wacky smoker.
I never thought marijuana
was a highway to nirvana……..

Claude struck back
“Mockery foreseen and mean copped fiery fates?
You can’t guess how Claude Maude retalliates!
DwiteTheSpriteKnight, he cannot prophesize
all the ways I can chainsaw him down to size.
Most of the time the SpriteKnight can rhyme.
Like him, all else he does is an idiots crime.”
Kevin Celebrity Lucich flinched in his ringside seat.

Dwite came off the ropes.
“You think air swings hurt,
I’ve seen smarter parasites
in lead contaminated dirt.
The spasms of mental chasms
can be remolded and soldered.
There is poetry to be gleaned
from minds too brittle to be folded.”

Claude countered.
For millennia The Sprite Knight rehearses
retorts too clueless to be worth copper purses.
All Claude’s verses are triggered by the curses
of a deadbeat slower than passengers of hearses.

Dwite delivered an aircraft carrier humbling broadside.
“Claude’s an elbows and knees kind of rhymer rammer,
that tidal flat tower scammer should be in the slammer.
It’s enough knock down rounds for funeral mounds.
Every rhyme he raised, was erased or out of bounds.
Ground and pound bound, no need for five rounds.
Claude Maude is gettin Clawed and Mauled.

Dwite begged Lagoon to save his hapless foe,
before delivering the cataclysmic final blow.

Claude has a laugh like The Riddler
but he’s never written any riddles,
he’s just a pocket pissing fiddler,
a slum dunked, debunked diddler.

The Real Estate agent was speechless.
Referee Darius Lagoon had seen that glazed over look before.
If he let this continue
Maude would’ve ended up in Serenity House,
more far gone than the psychiatrist
who thinks the C.I.A are spying on him,
with miniaturised submarines
lurking in his septic tank.

Adversity University

‘If I’m not risking death I’m not living’
the reigning middleweight champion mused,
as multiple microphones 
were shoved in his face.
Legend has it, Callen High Caliber Collins,
ate a sumo wrestlers breakfast
and qualified for cruiserweight
by the weight of his eyebrows.
According to the Telegraph, Ben the Beast Baxter
ran from the sauna to the weigh in.
Two billion people counted down the minutes and seconds.

Adversity University was emblazoned on High Caliber’s jacket,
and Guerilla Gorilla embroidered on his cap,
as he swaggered to the centre of the colosseum,
accompanied by his trainer, manager and cut man.
His entrance was a stark contrast
to his opponent’s Circus Soleil style entourage.

High Caliber’s opponent was universally known as The Beast.
In Oxford Street they call him Tracy.
It isn’t a drag name,
it’s a reference to the cyclone
that demolished Darwin in 1974.
When Sugar Ray Robinson killed a man in the ring
he bought the victims poverty stricken mother a house.
After Ben the Beast Baxter pummeled a comatose man,
on his way to the canvas,
he blew celebratory cigar smoke
into the face of the victim’s mother.
She was quicker than a rattlesnake,
with her canister of pepper spray.

Nobody wanted a man who donated his winnings
to rebuilding the lives of troubled teens
to lose to a distillery, casino and brothel owner,
but The Beast was a cold, calculating stalker,
who outweighed Collins by a sledgehammer
Betting against him was considered as risky
as surfing a tsunami.

As the referee issued his instructions,
High Caliber met the Beast’s murderous gaze,
with more funny faces
than an ocean liner of clowns.

The bell sounded.
High Caliber’s footwork was the envy of every hip hop genius.

By the time the Beast answered one question
there was a new wave of mysteries to solve.
Landing flush on Collin’s cranial fortress
was like hitting a dragonfly with a spit ball.
Every time The Beast grazed his skull,
counter punches flew
from angles more unexpected
than the weirdest creature in the queerest universe.

The beast finally landed a shot
that would have dazed a rhinoceros.
High Caliber returned fire with a right uppercut
and a double left hook.
As he waved the giant forward
hordes of doubters began to believe.

‘I’m going to make you my bitch’
the Beast raged,
like a badger taunted with a bullwhip.
The bell sounded.
A television audience that could’ve overcrowded
every stadium on Earth,
wanted High Caliber’s gloating, smirking, nemesis humbled,
like a Michelin star spangled sommelier
reduced to selling goon bags from his garage.
High Caliber put an imaginary microphone to his lips.
‘This pugilistic braniac is the ultimate Maniac,
The tide is coming in, your’e about to drown
Collins is your matador, not your rodeo clown.
‘Your big mouth looks like a mummified c%#@,’
the Beast goaded, from his corner stool,
between spitting out globules of
 diluted blood.

Round two commenced,
Baxter nearly false started,
on his way to colliding with the ropes.
For ten rounds he threw punches
fit to
 disfigure a Stegosaurus,
but failed to hurt the crazy clown,
who rolled his shoulders like Mayweather
and danced like Ali.
Baxter’s corner had no advice left,
unless volleys of vicious obscenities,
conveyed tactics.

A blind, naked hatred fueled hay maker
penalized Collins for standing still for a nanosecond.
A billion people groaned in unison
as he sank his knees, looking as incapacitated
as a bulldozer fighting pit bull.
‘A champion is someone who gets up when he can’t’,
roared the ghost of Jack Dempsey.
Before the referee could signal box on,
High Calibre was ambushed with a liver shot.

Discontent with a disqualification victory,
Collins summarized the latest research
on everything from self-hypnosis to veganism.
On his day off he shimmied up a hemp rope,
to a sun singed lookout.
Collins promoter thought basketball
was a good way to break an ankle,
but he’d never explicitly forbidden
climbing like a human spider,
above a wild river.

The pre rematch publicity was plagued by rabid envy.
Journalist Jermaine Leech attempted to dispatch
Collins biography down the garbage chute hatch.
High Caliber sat silently,
waiting for the defamatory errors to pile up,
like the also rans in a crash them up derby.

“Eight minutes of overrated, orchestrated derision
is met with instantaneous, spontaneous precision.
In bitter sediment clouds from my distant past
fools imagine self-sewn, flags flown at half mast.
I was buried upended, but I never surrendered!
I’m not one to portray powerful lungs as cystic,
I am a doubt demon purging, optimistic mystic;
knocking out once invincible happiness slayers,
slamming hate sprayers and gnawing naysayers,
outing Leeches who don’t want to be tax payers!
High Caliber has doused a smoking microphone,
Forget it Jermaine, all the fireworks have flown.

The rematch of the millennium arrived.
The brutal technician eyeballed the grinning warrior artist,
High Caliber had seen Baxter fall countless times in his mind.
“Knowledge is not enough, we must apply,
willing is not enough, we must do”
an apparition of Bruce Lee affirmed.

High Caliber circled, like a ballet dancing Tiger Shark.
“Are you a fighter or Margaret Fontaine”
the man with 666 tattooed on his chest roared.
In the dying seconds of round one,
the bobbing, weaving, bombing Ben the Beast Baxter
walked into a left jab that obscured the hardest right hook
High Caliber had ever thrown.
As The Beast prepared for a left uppercut,
he was cracked with a right cross.
He returned fire,
missing a retreating Collins by millimetres.


High Caliber wasn’t a “bring your muskets and cannons

to the paddock at noon” kind of guy.
Guns and Roses “Welcome to the Jungle” filled the arena.

 

An Insight into Australian Sporting Culture

You’re afraid of lapping lazy losers until you cook?
This thermometer has not even erupted yet sook.
It’s your destiny to swim in pain, you won’t drown,
it’s not a major fracture, how dare you slow down.
Ignore the blood blisters ballooning in your socks;
the only thing that matters is humbling the clocks.
If you can’t laugh at the river of sweat in your eyes
why look at your empty trophy cabinet in surprise?
To be a true champion you must forever refrain
from confusing discomfort with excruciating pain.
Under the tutelage of coach Penelope Slaughter,
you’ll learn to last, like a pearl diver under water.

The Roolnblies

The pale moon smirks from its lofty throne
Professor Blake ducks and weaves
along trails overgrown
with weeds as dangerous as machetes.
Beneath a tattered mist curtain they follow,
envisioning suicide
in the plunge of leaves and flowers
from gnarled choking masters;
As Blake has mercy on his bladder,
they sip his vitality
through heinously grinning eyes.

The Professor rejoins his riverboat crew.
Eerily synchronized bubbles
follow them deeper into the jungle.

At dusk they spy a city carved into a cliff.
Towering statues glare from lofty pedestals.
Hornets fly from the empty darkness of their eyes.
People fly from their granite nostrils;
tattoos of animals unknown to northern naturalists
resplendent on their brawny flesh.
Their canines glow in the twilight
as they advance.
Doctor Blake feels as vulnerable as a ladybird
a long walk into a Venus fly trap.

The last thing Blake remembers,
before his enforced nap,
is opening his mouth to scream
and a smoking pipe being thrust into the gap.
He wakes face to face with the surging tide,
on a stony beach.
The figurine pressed into his palm
seems to mimic his expressions.
His barge is in flames, out of reach.
Roolnblies aren’t partial to lessons
the empire wishes to teach.

A vicious sea claims that botanist bigot.
Currents drag him to a desolate rock.
From there he’s rescued by a frigate. 

Roolnblies watch via scrying stones,
as Blake informs the Loombese parliament
“better yields could be gotten from buck wheat fields,
if Roolnbli savages were farmed for blood and bones.
Finer specimens 
could be short listed for the colosseum
and juveniles earmarked for the museum.”

The Roolnblies feel that being burnt alive to save bullets,
sieved and married to manure holds less allure
than using a Death Adder for a dildo.
Being pit bulls opponents in a sports variety show,
also prompts a resounding no.

Professor Blake’s too busy
taking
 other men’s wives to orgies and plays,
to ponder stories 
of giant hooded stowaways
making quick getaways.
He’s traipsing through the woods
with yet another finely schooled maiden
who thinks him safe and kind.
Ever since an unconscious Roolnbli kiss,
deadly spores have been quietly filling
the ruts of his guts and slowly rotting his mind.
Within hours of their lips meeting
her entrails are quivering, quaking, disintegrating.

The doctor’s grief gives way to disbelief,
as he realizes he’s surrounded
by seven hooded figures as many feet high.
In halting, heavily accented Loombese,
they chant ‘We kissed this city goodbye’.