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.

Mother Whisper

When I first rescued Mother Whisper from the pound,
she was as shy as a numbat and barely made a sound.
In Cathie’s arms she was cradled, cuddled and coaxed.
Eventually, nobody dared to declare her bark hoaxed.
Mother Whisper’s rampaging libido knew no bounds,
she could’ve escaped Alcatraz to track randy hounds.

There was musicality in her furry rascals squeaking,
their squealing racket was truly a form of speaking.
Mother Whisper’s swift tongue was a guiding hand,
to streams of life giving milk, in extreme demand.
Her growl warned that she was intensely protective.
Mr Five Nostrils forgot her pups off limits directive.

However high and imposing the surrounding fences,
Whisper dreamt of wild, solo sniffathon adventures.
Harry Houdini wasn’t that adrenaline junkie’s left paw.
It was a fact no magician worth their salt could ignore.
But a rope long enough for her to roam, sealed her fate.
Whisper was found hanging from the palings too late.

New Age Sage

With thrilled anticipation, I knock on your cottage door.
Your controversial methods, I absolutely must explore.

While we listen to soothing music, in a comfortable chair,
you interview me and use magnets, for emotional repair.

Not sure what to make of your homeopathic gleanings,
talk of demonic curses, tarot and astrological leanings.

But I still give your therapy sessions my endorsement,
thanks to the heavenly waves of positive reinforcement.

Invisible

My speech is colourless and aromaless
until I get irate.
My personality is a dancing hurricane
I lock in a crate.

It’s not a twister that launches houses
into a cruel sea.
It’s the ultimate sky surfer’s paradise,
oddly death free.
Some think I am boring and lethargic
others can see me.

Too many are fixated on the surface
and blind to below.
They mistake guesses for knowledge,
so tired myths grow.

 

Dog Fight

The Red Baron of love has flown into town,
to machine gun a drunk cherub archer down.

Hilda claims she adores her Bohemian bard
but all that girl really loves is his credit card.

Weekends spent in Hawaii and romantic odes
will never ever satisfy the Queen of the toads.

She wants to be Winston Yu’s child and owner.
He’s her winning Lotto ticket and sperm donor.

The week after the wedding, and harbour cruise,
Win wants a divorce, she can’t believe the news.

How much mayhem can only one man wreak?
He expects her to survive on ten grand a week.

Clearly his devotion wasn’t Grand Canyon deep.
She said she wouldn’t really kill him in his sleep.

The Red Baron of love has flown into town,
to machine gun a drunk cherub archer down.

It has been a long time since Cupid has spoken.
His wings are Swiss cheese and his arrows broken.

Senator Bronson Fennema

Fennema’s tribe of unruly children mimicks,
his clueless and cliched cluster of gimmicks.

Blue singlets and stubbies are Bronson’s suits,
with every crude utterance that fool pollutes.
In the most hallowed halls of philosophy,
his rabid rants aren’t worth an apostrophe.

While kind men ponder the meaning of life
and what’s so wonderful about their wife,
all Bron does is mock a sixth of the species,
for their alleged love of drilling into faeces.

He’s a tragic joke of a man that Fennema,
apparently he’s never heard of an enema.
Many of Bronson’s rants about anal probes
are aimed at derriere fearing germaphobes.

The prostate cancer test he’s bound to delay
because he is terrified it will turn him gay.
Those who gave him an undignified label
bled to death on on their restaurant table.

In his isolation cell Bron still denigrates,
those who think fists can’t win debates.

 

The Shape Shifting Rubik’s Cube

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

Arctic, Gobi and moon extremes are oxygen 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 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 computing 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 Orb’s tune,
setting him 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,
Mister Mute is Samurai, he has never been afraid to die.

 

 

 

God Botherers

“Jehovah’s Witnesses are coaxing
fools into endless bible coaching.
The angel suckers are approaching,
it’s time for theologian poaching.
Don’t they know Satan lives here
and 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!