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To say Lionel’s world view is like laudanum
lurking in a toddlers lemonade
would be too kind.
He makes Hitler sound like a feminist.

Lionel believes the progress of suffragettes
is among civilization’s greatest regrets,
but claims it’s I who is desperate to deny
women the right to fulfill their potential.
In my memes they follow career dreams,
in his, baby machines are preferential.

There won’t be any hip, hip hooray
for noticing thinking is not his forte.

The World is a Vampire

The salt plain is so vast
the curvature of the Earth
is the nearest hiding place.
No horizon is distant enough
to dull Alyssa’s claustrophobic nightmares.
Every day for a decade
she was coffin bound
until the brink of suffocation.

The desert gives way to woodlands.
The cawing of crows
morphs into trapped rats
gnawing doorways in dissidents.
Alyssa’s senses are as deceptive as the CEO.
Her terror intensifies
as the countryside fragments into urban fringes.

The windowless vans stalk her like wolves.
She leaps from a hotel roof
like a carefree child plunging into a swimming hole.
A passing publican ogles her corpse
like it’s a gourmet pie
dropped on a lavatory floor.

The CEO’s┬áconsolation prize
is watching pincer ants
reduce Alyssa’s remains to gristle and bone.
Eleven years ago,
she resigned without permission.



Audio Muse

She’s a wordsmith in multiple tongues
but music is her first language.
Her sonatas animate fireplace phoenixes.
The finger ballet drifting from her piano
has hornets soaring
as serenely as butterflies.

Those soothing digits are Eden,
in a vast moonscape.
Her gently cascading melodies
are the uber escape.
I yearn to listen to her heartbeat
as she kneads my nape.

In her presence,
ancient ruins rise to their former glory
and deserts turns to wetland wonderland.


Slumlords value their bloated empires
above extinguishing poverty’s fires.
Where are the maverick biographers?
Journos have become stenographers!
Corporations craft election slogans
to hypnotize the dimmest bogans.
More sophisticated emotive talks
are educated peoples tuning forks.
May the pathetic lies be superseded,
real policy info is all that’s needed.
In a world where corrupt is a kind label,
I dream of genuine cards on the table.


Fun House

Every ceiling is a labyrinthine oil painting
teeming with extra terrestrial orgies.
The walls are panoramic woodcuts.
Stepping into those mountain scenes
is as conceivable as
strolling into the masseuse crowded sauna.
Every stage is a marble chessboard
adorned with crystal armies.
Upon their gleaming surfaces,
fembot strippers re-enact legendary epics.
In dim light
they’re indistinguishable from flesh and blood.
The table dancer’s nipple tassels
are as opulent as the Taj Mahal.
After laying eyes on her glamorous glutes
God dropped her cosmic chisel in disbelief.
In the hallway
lingerie models frolic on inflatable fortresses,
their skirts billowing like parachutes.
The bookcases are mahogany ballerinas
spinning like manic frisbees.
Every balcony is a carnival ride
rotating as swiftly as Jupiter
after sixteen jugs of coffee.
Who has been there just once?


A connection as fragile as a pansy
in the path of a Panzer
is snipped by the mandibles of your almighty schedule,
or someone with a Mercedes,
a six pack and a cash stack.
Opportunities as fake as the moon walker
and his papier mache face,
lay Sequoias across my gold brick road.
When will the mirage catcher
banish the illusion thatcher?


In the valley,
chainsaws roar like banshees lacerated by laryngitis.
“You’re going the wrong way,”
say mist shrouded cliff faces
painted red and black with torn corpses.
Landslide scarred trails
as coiled as suspension springs
guard windswept summits.
Nine inch thorns lurk in wheel ruts.
Weary travelers ascend on foot.

Before a hearth as old as mastery of fire
they mistake mischievous fungus
for a familiar delicacy.
Ceilings become floors
and the walls gateways to sensations
more familiar to bat scorpions
politely sipping the blood of platypus platoons.
The weary wanderers see the universe
through the eyes of supernovae,
and goblins on toad back
in the marshes of Merble.

In this enchanted hovel,
the five senses are merely the opening line
of an epic.


I felt as twisted as a plait,
as directionless as a jellyfish,
as drained as a sponge
left to rot in the dunes.
My muse had been missing for countless moons.
The girl in the library reanimated her.
She was as focused as Buddha,
as odd as Lady Gaga on LSD multiplied by three.
Every psychedelic wonderland in the universe
swims into this dimension
through her tears of mirth.