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Landslide scarred trails
as coiled as suspension springs
guard windswept summits.
You’re going the wrong way,
say mist shrouded cliff faces
painted red and black with torn corpses.
Weary travellers ascend on foot.
Nine inch thorns lurk in wheel ruts.

Before a hearth as old as mastery of fire,
the wanderers mistake mischievous fungus
for a familiar delicacy.

Ceilings become floors
and the walls gateways to sensations
familiar to the bat scorpions
politely sipping the blood
of platypus platoons.

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

Reanimated

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 focussed 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 joy.

Morning Mayhem

The cold shower cuts out
before the icy needles can fill a bucket.
Dressing with eyes on the clock.

Legs pumping, slipping, sliding.
Rain-washed tarmac
shines like the Milky Way.
Accelerating as frantically
as a gold medal favourite in fourth.
Lungs desperately dragging oxygen
from diesel stained fog.
At the lights,
the bus is as still
as the corpse in the stormwater drain.
Mercifully the doors fold open.

Aeons into the journey,
the work cancellation message arrives
as silently as a ninja.

Gone

Upon a coffee table as utilitarian as a cardboard box,
Morning Glory protrudes from a 1915 Coca Cola bottle.
Damning headlines are as moist as the President’s eyes.
An abandoned chess match dominates the kitchen bench.
The kettle is hotter than lava.
and her pillow still warm.
There’s puddles in the potplants.
The surveillance swarm can’t tell the eight ball
from the white.
Airport, bus terminal, taxi stand, car rental agency?
Which drain could could the whistleblower be navigating
like an Einsteinian rat?
Which forest swamp might she be drifting through
on a camouflaged barge?
Nobody know which escape roulette to vet.

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.

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

8.
Politicians in chains,
staring at the bloated 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 burying 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.