The Fundamentalist

There’s no time to suspect others are correct,
you’ve got common sense shrapnel to deflect
and blind assumption fuelled attacks to direct.

Sharing lies beyond your comprehension,
you reside in the greed is good dimension.

According to your brain dead investigation,
democracy is lube for corporate domination.

Market forces, they’re your notion of divinity,
Rupert, Wall Street and cash are your trinity.

There’s no time to suspect others are correct.
you’ve got common sense shrapnel to deflect
and blind assumption fuelled attacks to direct.

You are a moron we can’t help but resent,
you live to misinterpret and misrepresent.

Images

Hopefully the following micro poems will trigger creative writing of your own.

1.
Baseballs turns black in the twilight.
Earthward bound they overtake eagles.

2.
Stockings as ornate as Versailles chandeliers
cling to her like a lover.

3.
The ink cartridge is an ocean of potential.
Her diary is a temple of dreams.

4.
The sun’s farewell
is painted on the shallows
of a windswept beach.

5.
Santa’s sleigh zooms across
a ten thousand dollar TV.
Elf size viewers
scrape mould from their breakfast.

6.
His spirit lived in the soil.
Few could see the forest he propagated.
Who picked up a spade
before the grave diggers?

7.
Rotten watermelons carpet the yard.
Pranked basement prisoners
collapse from thirst.

8.
Politicians in chains,
staring at the corpses
of forgotten political prisoners.

9.
Enough Wikileaks t-shirts
to cause a cotton shortage in Texas,
bury the Christmas tree.

10.
A sinker for every Clinton and Trump lie.
Not enough fisherman in the USA
to stop them spilling on to the streets.

11.
Forest fire embers
descend on a climate change deniers essay,
like a hawk on a rodent.

Trapped

In the bowels of Razor Rock Island,
the light is as artificial as the staff.
The blood as real as the despair
polluting damp, dark, stale air.
For twenty three hours a day,
steel reinforced concrete,
as dull as the daily broth,
fits the prisoner like a coffin.
Steele speaks
“The doom pervading this dungeon
is not mine.
The empire is a termite mound
and I am the King of the Echidnas.”
Sustenance delivery robot thirty six
is as unresponsive as a corpse.

Warden Jennings is sweating icicles.
Steele’s confidence is as disconcerting
as dying of thirst in a scorpion pit.
“In hacktivist heaven,
automating prison officers
is as unwise as long jumping ravines
in a blizzard” Steele bellows.
The first hint of rebellion
is crematorium advertisements
interrupting Jennings internet chess.
The second hint
is robots dragging him towards the furnace.
Steele strides through the gates,
flanked by android cheerleaders.
The rescue ship reaches Everest altitude,
before the chase begins.

Steele’s pen is as dry as a Martian river bed.
Beyond the realm of fiction,
nobody’s escaped from Razor Rock
since seventeen forty two.
A dolphin armada distracted the sharks,
as Jonah Wallace swam for the swamps.
Conditions have improved.
Rats snacking on the toes of sleeping prisoners
creates headlines now.

During his morning dance
Steele’s mind paints movies on the walls.
He struts through bejewelled corridors.
Waitresses blush as Steele banishes suits
with a click of his fingers
and redesigns lingerie with another.
Black lace, leopard print, purple velvet,
divine embroidery, transparent silk rainbows;
he dresses those dishes in whatever he wishes.
Steele’s vast array of mimed dials
transforms hair colours and styles.
Golden blonde Nordic Goddesses
are baffled by their momentary buzz cuts.
Mediterranean delights
with ringlets as black as moonless midnight,
are ambushed by mohawks.
Invisible hands ink decades of decadence
upon their plump thighs.
They wonder if God is an eighteen year old boy.

After epic minutes, Steele’s passion wanes.
He sinks to the bland, filthy concrete floor,
wondering if his mind can conjure more.
Waterboarding robots
believe passwords are stored in his mind.
Every number in his head
is as obsolete as videotape.
As their footsteps near, his mantras accelerate.
“Hell is temporary, hell is temporary,
truth is eternal, truth is eternal.”

Toff Central

Randolph Sultan
played the ultimate alpha Romeo
in his Alfa Romeo.
In reality, choosy escorts become extinct
whenever Randolph enters the precinct.
At a red light,
a homeless teen begged for lunch.
“You da man”
Randolph said to his pocket mirror
as he lit a one hundred dollar bill
with a Gurkha Black Dragon cigar.
“Please sir” the girl persisted.
“Get a job” Sultan taunted as he flaunted.
“Could you buy me a suit for an interview”
the gaunt, trembling girl begged.
“There’s one in the opp shop window,
out of my sight dole bludging parasite!”
Sultan crash tackled her,
as she sprinted from the servo
with stolen sanitary napkins.
He bought himself a gold law enforcement medallion.
His celebratory cocktail
cost more than three days of welfare.
Randolph drove his Maserati to church,
to ask God to imbue the poor
with his famous work ethic.
“If they have a go they’ll get a go,”
his pastor agreed.

The Relaxation Therapist

Felicity’s roller coaster of high distinctions and zeros
killed her status obsessed parents.
She kept their Canberra crash pads.
Youth Off the Streets turned their mansions
into schools for troubled teens.

The funeral attendees
were the who’s who of sycophantic scum;
vultures stalking the wounded wren of publicity,
that’s how they imagined Felicity.
Maximum damage was their motto.
“No Prime Minister,
I won’t be donating to your campaign,”
Felicity’s words echoed off the valley
like a bomb blast.

A series of cartwheels and backflips,
across her sacreligious parents graves,
caught the attention of vampire knaves.
Hideous headlines of stenographer hordes
kicked off the festival of hate.
Felicity scored from the kick off.
Propaganda outlets ignored the siren.
“No comment” the bright eyed mantra weaver repeated,
as reporter tsunamis swept her away.
Sunglasses were her curtains.
Her autobiographical mythbusting blog reached millions
She’d became a tick on the eyeball of tabloid hacks.

Someone’s controversial ANZAC Day views
turned Felicity’s Hawaiian surf into a still pond.
Tube riding sharks forgot she existed.
YouTube viewers became off camera characters
in  her therapeutic plays.
She caresses their ears with sweet mantras,
as her double belly dances
and her triple plays the flute.
Four blends herbs and spices
as passionately as Van Gogh mixed his palette.
Five and six are synchronized swimmers
in a Utopian sandstone pool.
Seven and eight are tailored suit clad heavies,
patrolling the perimeter.
The man behind the pool cue is you.
Sink the black and number eight
will fulfil your need
to knead her athletic flesh.

Last week Felicity played Himalayan singing bowls
in a crystal cave.
Tomorrow she’s a hypnotist in the Garden of Eden,
sharing tree of knowledge pie.
Then she’s Hitler’s assasin
posing as a burlesque comedian.

Felicity’s guitar chords are the umbilical cords,
connecting her fans
to their spiritual space stations.

Hmm

Bizarre statistical anomalies creep past,
like Lochness Monsters in Hawaiian shirts
tiptoing across the stadium.
Were they bots or people?
There was no conversation
to demystify the equation,
just weird numbers.

Today I’ve got one visitor
from four countries WordPress.
It’s hardly as odd as yesterday,
but still stranger than a rainbow surfing koala.

That was tubetacular Blinky Bill.
Look at those rainbows,
whipping across the sky
like rhythmic gymnasts ribbons.
Blinky rode them like a flying dolphin deity.

No, I haven’t thrown out my medication,
I’m just being poetic, it’s my recreation.

The Tinfoil Hat Apocalypse

Rabbit hole plunging zombies,
circle Greta Thunberg like tiger sharks in tinfoil hats.

If you want to know NASA’s position,
in the climate change war of attrition,
don’t ask NASA!
And be sure to consult M.I.T
via a random YouTuber
who gave himself a degree.

Rabbit hole plunging zombies circle Greta Thunberg,
like tiger sharks in tinfoil hats.

In the pursuit of knowledge
they are athritic amblers,
bursts of reason richochet
off those rabid ramblers,
like debt collectors bouncing
from Herculean gamblers.

Greta can’t be their heroine
while fiction is their heroin.

The Lemming Shepherds

The shrieking gale slowed to a dying breeze.
Eastern rosellas, galahs and gang gangs
flocked to distant billabongs.
Canvas tents shieled elderly tourists
from the February oven.

In the village,
dog walkers paused on grassy islands.
Three year old Ben thought the’d tamed the kangaroos,
who’d emerged from the forest
to graze in the twilight.
“Are they circus kangaroos” he wondered
as they slipped through a barbed wire fence unscathed.
He didn’t ask Uncle Bertie,
who was famous for staring at half empty bottles
as though they were encyclopaedia sets.

“Come on Aussie come on”,
cricket ad crowds chanted,
on Bertie’s black and white TV.
Patriotism was a virtue
long before Ben learned the word,
until it was as vacuous as the evasive waffle
of propaganda spruiking Prime Ministers.

In the ensuing years:
there were lakes to kiak,
beaches to explore,
shells to collect
and missions to Endor to direct.
The bushland was an Ewok planet one day
and steaming jungles
of World War Two Papua New Guinea the next.
Paddocks were every sporting arena,
from the Roman colosseum to Wimbledon.
The village was more parallel universes
than the second hand bookstore
could cram into its science fiction shelves.

Today, the forest is scarred with golf courses
and lakefront mansions
as uninspiring as toilet blocks.
The serenity has been murdered
by go karts, trail bikes and jet skis
as numerous as the goannas once were.

On the towering new council chambers
“The Lemming Shepherds”
was sprayed with Rembrandt precision.
That strange merger of skeletons and tree trunks,
haunted environmentalists and property developers alike.
Following the mayor’s enraged editorial,
his weekender was marred with the same phrase.
Coffins full of wallaby bones,
were left on his front lawn.
His dreams were invaded
by a figure in a lizard skin mask,
whose rage was as tangible as a vat of acid.
Sleeping pills could not banish him.
Closing the new driving range
and nurturing the land, until the forest reclaimed it,
hardly softened the fury in his weaponised eyes.
Donating his assets to environmental activists,
was as ineffective as resigning.
A best selling autobiography
entitled Confessions of an Environmental Vandal,
dissolved the nightmares.

Unidentified

Xerxes Lagoon exists to paint music
in clouds of ambient noise.
The disembodied heads of composers
stare from his rhythmic auroras.
Picasso called him the Sultan of Synethesia.
Dali called him the oddest roller
in the pinball parlour of life.
Those who question the authenticity of his eccentricity,
their sluggish, shrunken brains are lacking electricity.

Enroute to an artists retreat,
Xerxes was oblivious to the jarring motion
of the all terrain vehicle.
He didn’t notice the driver swerve
to avoid a coyote.
We could’ve been on a dancefloor,
in a rodeo arena,
or a cooking pot, for all Xerxes knew.
He was shocked to discover
the rainforest had given way to desert.

Above the cacti canopy,
on a barren hilltop,
the smoke shrouded, blood red sun
glinted off a mysterious object.
It was abstract enough to baffle us all,
yet recognizable enough
to inspire countless hypotheses.
Interstellar spacecraft,
experimental military aircraft,
meteorological research station,
avant garde limousine, in levitation mode.
psychedelic sculptor’s residence,
and interdimensional pixies conference centre,
were among the multitude of theories.

I reached the object from a rocky outcrop.
A sequence of dull thuds,
upon its shimmering surface,
was followed by percussive orchestral brilliance.
It’s vibratory contortions
converted random strikes into eerie melodies.
I couldn’t shake the feeling
it was trying to communicate.
Somewhere in Xerxes comprehending gaze,
lay the keys to the ghost in the machine.

While we watched a hawk descend on a wounded rodent,
the mysterious object vanished.
In its place
was an exquisitely detailed mandala.
Under a microscope,
random imperfections hinted at hand painting.
It was wet when we found it.
Rhiannon concluded it was a gift
from extra terrestrial hippies,
that their sky borne palace
existed to give birth to mind mending art.

Xerxes uttered his first words in weeks.
“Sometimes my ideas solidify.”
He refused to elaborate.
Xerxes next words were “biscuit of light.”
The context was as forthcoming
as a stone age nuclear winter.
Had he descended into word salad
or was he alluding to the nourishing light of reason?

For the duration of the retreat,
Xerxes was quieter than his brushes.
He painted for days, collapsed into sleep
and resume painting before he awoke.
Sometimes he remembered to eat.

Xerxes winter exhibition “Astral Travel,”
blurred the distinction between painting and sculpting.
He’d created aerial views of tree obscured landscapes
we’d passed while his head was buried in a cushion.
The oldest painting on display
predated our desert journey.
It depicted the unidentified object,
on the barren hilltop,
above the cacti canopy,
from a demystifying angle.

Mannequin Man

Charlie has fools believing
snails fleeing the morning sun
are the top fuel dragsters
of his swiftest dreams.
A fledgeling bodybuilder waves his hands
before his glazed over eyes.

“He looks as vacant as a statue.
Let’s call im Mannequin Man”
A chorus of callous laughter ensues.
Predators man every compass point,
and point every compass.

“Leave me alone” Charlie mumbles.

“Leave me alone, leave me alone”
their caustic mimicry gouges.

Charlie ends his reptilian torpor like pause,
by drawing blood with piston paws.
Seven vultures flee in terror,
as their painted T-Rex bursts into flames.
The footpath shudders in revulsion
beneath the smouldering wreckage of his ego.

Charlie sinks back
into the mineshaft of his misery,
an ants stroll from the unconscious giant.