Mister Homophobia

In old, hallowed, halls of philosophy,
your rants aren’t worth an apostrophe.

A blue singlet and stubbies is your suit,
with every crude utterance you pollute.

Your tribe of unruly children mimicks
your second hand profane gimmicks.

Other men ponder the meaning of life
and what’s so special about their wife.

All you do is mock a sixth of the species
for an alleged love of drilling into faeces.

You wannabe comedian, daydreamer,
haven’t you ever heard of an enema?

Many of your rants about anal probes
are aimed at ass fearing germaphobes.

The prostate cancer test you delay
because of the fear it’ll turn you gay.

The men who gave you a new label
bled to death on their bar room table.

In an isolation cell you contemplate
your irrational terror driven fate.

Unstoppable

The dux of Adversity University can’t be cut
by your profane sneer and tough guy strut.

At five foot nothing,
she’s more imposing than the Rock of Gibraltar,
as formidable as a lioness
and more thrilling than any theme park
in this galaxy.

She was a tadpole in the reservoir
you forgot to poison,
much stronger than anyone knew.

Tears are her afterburners.
Encourage, undermine, disparage,
tell her she’s lost without marriage,
it’s all intersellar rocket fuel to her.

 

 

 

 

Faceless Phoenix

Rebel Chameleons are rising,
shedding skins as surprising,
as Da-Vinci was enterprising.

They’re all about melting rage,
and banishing harmful beige.
As the sages cleanse with sage,
I think deeper before the stage,
when my pen strikes the page.

Slipping by the arrogant slime,
of dolts blasting thought crime.
They’re a battle axe wind chime,
hate fuels their Optimus Prime
and bias, pious eponymous dime.

After all Abbott’s done and said,
I cannot buy his brand of bread.
The risen and baked is delicious, 
but flat is for the anti-seditious. 
It’s offered by Sneaky and Vicious,
worst of perverted and malicious.

Rebel Chameleons are rising,
shedding skins as surprising,
as Da-Vinci was enterprising.

Momentum in the ride and the slide,
to neutralize predators not editors.
Slow the killers of dignity and pride.
Strike the punishers not publishers,
how can they glide if they cannot chide?

During the most crucial election week
why vote for secrecy for the powerful
and spying on the innocent and meek?

Miss Communication

Benjamin sent Alanna a friend request.
If he was still as unwanted
as the tick that gave her Lyme disease,
all she had to do was strike delete.
Her no thanks message
was as unexpected as a Trump tweet hurricane
trumping a Pulitzer Prize winning novel.
It was civil, friendly even.

Philosophy seeped into Benjamin’s reply,
like blood soaked beef into a vegan buffet.
After touching on creating life’s meaning,
instead of tracking purpose down
like a misdirected package,
he urged Alanna to pave her mosaic highway
and follow it to the zing of her electric violin.
She responded with her bluntest voodoo pin.
Memories of Mister opinionated,
obsessed with views she overrated,
infiltrated, irritated and grated.
Benjamin’s words were as benevolent
as midsummer watermelon
buried in crushed ice
and as valued as antique seafood
bathed in bin juice.
Victorian era squid
might be excellent fertilizer,
Ben’s guru drivel on the other hand…..
Alanna’s affection for him was a sand mural
claimed by the tide long ago
and her loathing was embossed in titanium.

A message Benjamin sent years ago,
was as tangential as a forest burying vine.
You’re off your medication, aren’t you,
Alanna accused then and now.
Couldn’t she tell the difference
between sewage outfall rants
and paragraphs as tidy as a Japanese garden?
Why hadn’t he waited until he was mentally stable to message her?
Ben was as flabbergasted as a pixie
who is expected to incinerate a dragon,
with the friendly glimmer in his eyes.
He thought Alanna knew
that people on the brink of psychosis
aren’t renowned for sensible decisions.

Alanna imagined she knew something of bipolar disorder,
but she’d overestimated the impact
of occasionally missed doses of mood stabilizers.
What she’d seen
was the branding of Benjamin’s father’s world view,
on his adolescent brain.
That takes time to recognise, despise and neutralise.
There’s no medication
for the flammable, windblown rage
of a young man,
failing to catch a habitual rapist in the act either.

“Do something about it” Ben screamed down the phone.
Attempting to coax Alanna
into making another police report
proved as futile as trying to lift himself into the sky.
She’d already endured the sneering denials
of sergeants who mistook shock for shonkiness.
Benjamin felt smaller than a neutrino,
once he realized broken silence equals a broken neck.
Alanna’s mother didn’t believe her.
Ben didn’t believe, he knew.
The terrified pleading and fistfights in her sleep,
said more than bruises and torn dresses.

The rapist poisoned them with rage.
Then they poisoned each other.
Pointing that out in 2020,
could’ve triggered an eruption of horrors,
as agonizing as stitches ripped from the tongue.

What irked Alanna the most
about Benjamin in the old days
was not his verbal explosions
and launching of plastic bottles.
Neither was it his gawking at every delicious creature
who flirted with his perpheral vision.
After a buxom blonde Goddess caught his eye,
at a nightclub one night,
the cage imprisoning his polyamorous urges,
stained the dancefloor red.
Adulterous friends of Alanna’s
agreed he was the epitome of evil.
There were no points for ending the relationship
without episodes of abominable mischief,
he may as well have had a secret harem,
since their first kiss.

A sentimental yearning for friendship,
explained Benjamin’s Facebook request.
Upon Allana’s urging,
he offered social isolation as further explanation.
He praised her socialising tips
and accepted their estrangement.
Alanna was treating counting to two
like it was advanced calculus.
Suspecting Ben was still in love with her,
she questioned him beyond midnight.
His task was as titanic
as explaining colour to the congenitally blind.

Alanna’s social advice shapeshifted into paranoid rage.
She was convinced she was his emotional well,
that he wanted to suck her spirit dry.
If in love is considered evidence
of siphoning the nectar from the flower of marriage
and not in love is deemed a synonym for leach,
what’s the right answer?
All Benjamin wanted
was to rekindle the gleam of hope in her eyes
and bask in her childlike joy;
once a season or so,
if her schedule was as crowded
as a Beijing commuter train.
Multiple times, he’d accepted it wasn’t to be.
“Will you stop saying that” she raged.
Appeasing Alanna’s anger
was like wading through a swamp
without getting wet.
Silence is the only words allowed,
until you’re chastised for not answering
and ultimately accused of prolonging the conversation.
Without the aid of emotional sonar
the argument labyrinth is as unnavigable
as extra-terrestrial runes.
Why can’t the scorpion pit and the exit
be labelled as such, in English?

In the old days,
Ben’s moods were as erratic as mountain weather.
His button pusher denied her console existed.
How do you have a rational conversation
with someone who is reacting to history
like a viper tortured with a cat of nine tails?
In the context of now,
Alanna’s cynicism was as unfathomable
as the behaviour of an accountant
who writes vampire penguin novels
on his clients tax returns
and mails them to A.S.I.O for decryption.
In the context of history,
her paranoid fury was comprehensible.

Desperate for a serene goodbye,
Benjamin persevered to no avail.
“You’re not a prisoner in this conversation”
he typed,
after his apologies and acknowledgements
were machine gunned again.

They had been two damaged people
trying to heal each other.
Benjamin hadn’t been ambushed with a hammer
or physically felt the blood smeared tracings
of The Beast’s knife,
but he’d been as distraught as a polar bear
on a collapsing ice shelf nonethless.

Their compatibility was a sand island
at the mercy of swirling currents.
Ben wasn’t trying to revive the dead,
just restore what lived.
Alanna assured him their friendship could not emerge
from its nuclear winter.
Which part of “I accept our estrangement” hadn’t she heard?
What did she imagine he sought now?
It was all as bamboozling as monkeys
randomly rearranging a novel.
What had been cut and pasted in her head?

Memories of Alanna pestering him to purge
his creative writing obsession
and transform into a dancefloor worshipping extrovert,
seeped back into Ben’s exhausted brain.
It was time to get ready for work.

The news Allana’s auntie was buried alive,
as the roof of a limestone cave collapsed,
beneath her quadbike,
shed light on her ill temper.

A turn of the century Valentine’s Day rose,
sits in its frame, slowly crumbling to dust.
Ultimately, Ben will scatter its remains
in the river pools they waded across,
before hope was rationed like tank water.

 

 

 

 

 

The Shape Shifting Rubik’s Cube

They say they will kill him, as they look him in the eye
because he is Samurai, he’s never been afraid to die.

Even Gobi and Arctic extremes are too kind for his kind.
In the Amazon and urban grind he tapers body and mind.
Some are jarring in sparring, Mute catches comets in a jar,
brawling takes you somewhere, fistic magic takes you far.
It’s like former greats modeled him, they’re short of parity
He’s no Tyson, Sugar Ray, Money May, Ali or Loma parody.

No warrior is more astute or resolute than Mister Mute,
the fucken turbo mouths are just playing the skin flute.

The corrupt spruiking king loses a wing while he gloats,
his hacks and their totes wannabe match fixing U-boats,
but their impact is frayed and outweighed by dust motes.
Orb reveals how he floats and Mister Mute takes notes.
He’s bound to realize how you’ll capsize, then capitalize.
The secret is to know how you’ll flow when the floors go.
Those who won’t surf the cyclone don’t yo-yo, they dodo.

No warrior is more astute or resolute than Mister Mute,
the fucken turbo mouths are just playing the skin flute.

Is that prankster so named because he just cannot talk,
or is he so framed because he makes motor mouths balk?
Is he ice cold machismo stalking by Robert Frost’s fork?
Is it the art teacher or the killer outlining Orb in chalk?
Mute’s bound to realize how you’ll capsize, then capitalize.
A drill is delving into the dune and droning every tune,
setting Orb up for a bomb that will send him to a moon.

Mute switches stances like a scammer switches romances,
blurs the boundaries between boxing and hip hop dances.
He has the noise to ruin music and music to soften noise,
all the poise and the ploys to sort the men from the boys.
He measures distance like divine computers gauge fractals,
his flying left hook has been known to catch pterodactyls.

They say they will kill him, as they look him in the eye,
because he is Samurai, he has never been afraid to die.

 

 

 

God Botherers

“Jehovah’s Witnesses are coaxing
fools into endless bible coaching.
The angel fuckers are approaching,
it’s time for theologian poaching.
Don’t they know Satan lives here
and that his evil is without peer?”

“Bible bashing girl Wonder,
I do not deal in Gods puny
sheet lightning and thunder.
You’re glad to be fuel, cool.
If not I’m not your ghoul fool.
Forget Riddlers and Jokers,
I am one of those seriously
hard core furnace stokers.
See no evil, not even traces?
I’ve stoked eleven fire places.
I’ll incinerate every disciple.
My badness you can stifle?
you’ll need more than a rifle.
Hoping I’ll mind my manners?
I’d prefer to bake your nannas!

The Cleansing

My efforts were more futile
than chasing the yellow jersey,
with a Penny-farthing and a vial of heroin.
You roared in exasperation,
as another match melded with soaked ashes.
“There is no friendship phoenix” you screeched.

As the storm erupts,
memories of pouring drums of kerosene
on our bond’s dwindling flames
are as muffled as gunshots on the bottom of the bay.
The deluge is a secular baptism,
washing away vestiges of nightmares.

Rain Road is a sauna.
A rooftop drummer
dares the lightning to char him to oblivion.
Parkhour wunderkinds display the true meaning
of living on the edge.
The bookmaker smirks
as Death hemorrhages Benjamins.
Bankers clamor to offer loans.
Life is tumultuous enough
without challenging Death to a duel.

The rain barrage intensifies,
cleansing me of your toxic bewilderment.

Featured

The Mirrored Men

The shrouded dawn 
is as multi hued as a rainbow,
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 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,