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.

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.
Callen High Caliber Collins,
had eaten a sumo wrestlers breakfast
and qualified for cruiserweight
by the weight of his eyebrows.
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
and a block of cement.
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 series of kidney punches.

Discontent with a disqualification victory,
Collins summarized the latest research
on everything from self-hypnosis to veganism.
The day he stopped pissing blood,
he was shimmying up a hemp rope,
to a sun singed lookout,
for some relaxing hand stand push ups.
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 hit 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.

It was the strangest beginning to a bout.

High Caliber circled, like a ballet dancer/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’.

Ebenezer Scrooge’s First Flight

The airport is slightly more interesting
than a bus terminal.
The zero gradient travellator is fascinating,
if you’re the kind of person
whose eyes are ablaze with excitement
over the latest development in detergent technology.
Gwendolyn, the older lady beside me, is such a person.
The deranged bitch
is acting like a teenager on a roller coaster.
They say the world needs to
halve its population and half it again.
Oh how I’d love to start with Grandma Gwen.
The waiting room is less fun than a medical centre.
At least there, you overhear a few snippets
about the dodgy bowels and brain infections
of peasants soon to rid the earth
of their intolerable presence.

It’s boarding time,
time to say goodbye to the quaint,
ridiculous puppets in this Thunderbirds re-run.
The sweetly smiling twit of a stewardess
expects me to return her good cheer,
how wonderful to see her shrink away
in the face of my evil laughter.
“In business class I’d be as happy
as a pick pocket in a casino” they said.
I’m not sacrificing compound interest for fleeting luxuries.
The plane is taxiing across the tarmac now.
Perhaps this experience will soon be more riveting
than watching thrush grow on the tongue
of a Z grade whoremonger.

The disembodied safety demonstration voice
sounds thrilled at the prospect
of wearing a safety light,
while thrashing around in choppy seas,
and watching the plane begin its journey
to the floor of the Pacific.
I brought my own life jacket,
I’m wearing it now.
I’m contemplating destroying my spare,
in case some urchin gets hold of it.
The poet beside me is raving about
how quickly his gaze extends
from Botany to Bundeena to Wollongong,
in the most dreadful flowery language.

The scowling billionaire beside me
is attempting to frighten me to death
with his glowering demonic eyes.
Infants experiment with sound
as we approach the speed of sound.
From miles high blue sky,
sea and cloud are smoky marble.

Distant land vanishes in grey haze.
The obscuring vapour
is the wintry exhalations of Poseidon,
strolling between Melbourne and Van-Diemens Land,
in Kosciusko humbling gumboots.
King and Flinders Islands are stepping stones
to the God of the ocean’s backyard.
Ocean precipitation was his perspiration.

Descending into Launceston – ocean, beaches,
forests, patchwork of paddocks, pine plantations,
clear felled sample of Armageddon,
open cut mines, urban sprawl, country manor,
vast treeless acreage; descending rapidly,
Launceston grows to Cockington Green proportions.

Unworthy

Once I’d confessed I was carnally obsessed,
I felt as anxious as a peacenik hypochondriac
forced to work in a germ warfare lab.

Unable to arrest my compulsive talking inclination
I was thrashing around in a cauldron of trepidation.
Flashes of disdain in the windows to her huge brain
warned me not to dive inside her with words again!

She said, ‘enduring your hunger for me is too hard
Shrivel up and die like a slug in a salt avalanche,
weedy, weed bouquet bearing, bin banquet, bard.’

After I’d planted a soixante-neuf montage
in the delicate flower of Rihanna’s mind
she wished her imagination had gone blind.

Her rolling eyes said, men in custom made suits,
worth more than your  monstrosity mobile,
are entitled to drink in this vision of paradise,
if their physique is as magnificent as their tailor
and their career lucrative enough
to indulge in their quad passions
of floating palaces and private islands,
floating islands and private palaces.

The girl’s Teutonic and cryptically tectonic;
with a punch like that she could be bionic,
but I will forever believe she is my tonic.

The Demise of Hilda Johnson

Mangroves protect sandy banks from speedboat wash
On sunshine kissed ripples
diamonds blink in and out of existence.
Wasps drift on micro swells.
Clouds peek over the tree line
like abominable vapor men.

On the ocean side of the property
Senator Hilda Banks clicks on the most elegant heels
she’s seen since Imelda Marcos
gave her a guided tour
of her warehouse dwarfing 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 spied 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.
Ridiculous, useless modern thermometers,
Hilda murmurs as she waddles
from her mansion scale motor home.
The grandest solar model could have powered all
from satellite televisions
to her 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 Hilda masturbating
before a waxwork likeness
of her favourite fossil fuel lobbyist.
Thunder confirms the sky has taken offence.
Clouds erupt.
Beyond the frothy cauldron where the beach was,

monstrous surf is barely distinguishable from bleak skies.
Ephemeral billabongs and rivers merge.
Hilda’s hilltop 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.

Boy Poet

‘My arm’s as smashed as crockery
bouncing into the Great Australian Bight’ Dexter claimed.
He was a paper mache maestro,
and had fashioned a cast as convincing as Apollo 13’s.
He’d forged the signatures of doctors
onto his supposedly mangled limb.
There’d be no rock climbing for him.
Miss Mance had more chance
of creating a sonic boom in a luge
than unmasking his subterfuge.

Between ogling his whiteboard sage,
Dexter’s writing flew across the page,
in tribute to his little sister Paige.
‘Girl with a rainbow upon her arm,
she’s a nursery remembrance balm.
With that love heart upon her cheek
she’s the cutest elf I’ve seen this week,
a teddy bear tall good luck charm.’

Dex moved on to confess
he was in awe of a teacher
never seen in a girly dress.
Our teacher Emma Mance
looks hot in leather pants.
She’s as sweet and petite
as a five cottage street
and calms bulls with a glance.
Dexter turned grey,
as Miss Mance asked
what his pen had to say.

At lunch it wasn’t by chance
that Dex met Jasmine Mance,
a writer of gothic romance.
No fool would’ve debated
to whom she was related.
She recited ‘The Raven’,
as she played hopscotch.
Most children thought her more cuckoo
than Dexter’s novel about aliens
abducting his thoroughbred badger
and training a meerkat,
to ride it to victory in the Kentucky Derby.
Emma the matchmaker didn’t miss.
Dex and Jazz were a stanza away
from marathons of catch and kiss.