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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.

Fragile

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?

An Experimental Opening

Mundane conversation starters, on online singles sites, are an underwhelming experience for women who are so burdened with admirers that they need a spreadsheet to keep track of them. Are they any fonder of extremely unusual openings? I decided to find out. Considering the sample size is one, further research may be required.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Hi, how are you? What’s your favourite means of expressing your creativity?
12/30/2019 7:45 PM

7:45 PM
For all I know you’re being bombarded with witty remarks from worldly and otherworldly men, so maybe I should try something different myself. I don’t have any one line lassos of love to launch your way but I do have a unique scenario to massage your imagination.

Which would you rather be, a species of hummingbird that cleans conjunctivitus from the eyelids of dragon synchronised flying troupes, or an ultra intelligent species of scorpion, that makes sculptures of its pets with a concoction of saliva and squid panda dung? Squid pandas look just like regular pandas, except for the tentacle skirt that makes them semi aquatic.
7:47 PM

Now I wait, to find out if the straightforward approach was better or not (-:
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

They say that madness is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result, so I tried something completely different. Apparently I over did it, at about 8:30PM I noticed the young lady had hit delete. If I was catapulted face first into the twilight zone, by a bizarre conversation starter, I’d be intrigued. I certainly wouldn’t be reflexively hitting delete. Did she believe she was being mocked, that she was talking to a time wasting joker or a mentally disturbed person? Reflexively hitting delete wasn’t the reaction I was expecting from someone who describes themselves as kind and creative in their profile.

Would I have fared better if the hummingbird was plucking the dragon synchronised flying troupe’s eyelashes instead of treating their conjunctivitis? Maybe a warrior butterfly that sculpts wizards from lava, without suffering from the slightest blister, would have been more palatable than a scorpion that sculpts likenesses of its pets from a concoction of spit and squid panda shit. If so, then maybe the young lady is too girly for my liking and being rejected by her is cause for streamers and champagne, not self flegellation and tears of grief.

Do popular women tend to prefer extremely unusual conversation openers to mundane  beginnings? I still don’t know. How does one compare being completely ignored to being as savagely rejected as a traitorous astronaut is ejected into the cold emptiness of outer space?

 

 

A Different View

An Eminem clone entered the vestibule,
perusing his girlfriend’s copy of “That’s Life”
and treating a Halloween article within
more seriously than any stock market wunderkind,
ever took the Wall Street Journal.

“Says here they is getting married in a graveyard”
he commented
to his tattoo parlour advertisement partner.

“They like Gothics or something are they Ramble?”
she replied as indifferently as a robot.

“Yeah,
if they invited me to their weddin,
I wouldn’t fuckin go.
They held the reception in a crypt,
the sick freaks!” Ramble raged.

To the contrary:
I imagined worries dimmed by headstone shadows,
guests sipping from jewel encrusted goblets,
skulls stolen from the university’s anatomy department
overflowing with snack food,
dessert disappearing faster than grave robbers at dawn;
lovers exploring lush, green, graveyard paths,
bathed in full moon light,
gazing at gold lettering on marble headstones,
as they whisper “unto death do they part.”

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Singles Site Suitor

Ladies, the superbly sculpted,
burdensomely endowed,
entrepreneurial wizard
of your wildest dreams is here.
It’s true, I’m often mistaken for God.
My old boss claims I’m as useless
as a paint chart on a black and white TV.
I should’ve been running that company.

I’m seeking a voluptuous poetess,
to join me for adventures,
artistic and animalistic.

What kind of art soars off your chart?
Traditional landscapes and portraits
can be as exquisite as the finest floozy,
ever to frolic in my oceanic Jacuzzi;
but I prefer transparent unicorn serpents,
with amphibious goblins swimming in their stomachs.
That’s a bit dark isn’t it.
What has a more sunshine and rainbows appeal?
Maybe a version of Medusa,
who merely bedazzles besotted suitors,
bathing in the sun kissed billabongs of her eyes,
instead of turning them to stone.
Her pygmy dragon, belly dancing troupe
is off their leads in the background.
Now that’s art.

When I’m not gazing at butterfly sail galleons
at the gallery,
I’m searching for truly psychic psychics
and ghosts that are more than a sneaky breeze.
I know human observations aren’t always
more accurate than a sixteenth century musket,
in the hands of a Parkinson’s victim,
but sometimes arrows split atoms.

This thrill seeker also enjoys sprint cars.
I can’t say I’ve backflipped my way
from the grandstand to the pits
and raced one,
but I drove a go kart once.
Not one of those glorified dodgem cars,
that could be overtaken by a mum pushing a pram,
a real one.
Unfortunately the lining of my helmet
slipped over my eyes
and I ran over the track attendant.

I’m more likely to win a poetry prize than a Grand Prix.
Ladies, my erotic rhymes will make you swoon.
They’re as adventurous as a space shuttle orgy,
hurtling towards the wildest interstellar moon.
I authored the Kama Sutra for acrobats darlin,
this mighty love machine’s no literary buffoon.
If you’re as vivacious as I’m salacious,
my appetite for your soul is rapacious.
Yep, I swallow Thesaurus’s
and shit out classics.

You’re not ready to meet after our umpteenth epic chat
and naïve enough to imagine I’ll graciously accept that?
I want to know the love of my life before palliative strife.
Why not reveal how captivated you are by my free verse,
before it’s time to rehearse for the hearse?

Genie of the Forest

We rest our weary legs
in a Weeping Meadow Grass carpeted clearing.
Rufous Fantails dart between Clerodendrums,
beckoning us to follow.

The hum of traffic is a fading memory.
Her fingertips bathe me in compassion.
The gleam in her eyes,
the wonder of her words,
such a bewitching duet.

If an excruciating debacle
snuffs out her precious sparkle,
I want to cradle her in my arms,
resuscitate her joyful charms.

Later, I meditate on the paradise of a kiss
and imagine her face in the throes of bliss.
Genie of the forest,
you granted every wish but one.

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.

Aphrodite Versus Eleos

Zeus’s daughter is on Tinder.
Luscious creatures of mortal birth
cannot compete.
They train with the scientific zeal
Tesla lit up the world,
but dedication cannot elevate them
to the Zenith of Olympus.

The Goddess of desire has grown weary
of clueless nineteen year old boys.
While Earthly delights chase Adonis,
Aphrodite has chosen me,
for a few hours at least.
I’m an intriguing museum piece.
Does it still work, she wants to know.
She’s as superficial as spray on tan.
Athena thinks “I’m as hypocritical
as the no fat chicks sticker
on the ice cream man’s panel van.”
I am reaching for Aphrodite’s mind,
between gaping in awe
at her Isis humbling hips.
That’s a luxury apartment for triplets right there.

Yes, Isis, the Egyptian Goddess of fertility.
Aphrodite hasn’t stunned
any terrorist organizations into submission
with her delectable geometry lately.

Her Lusciousness finds His Quirkiness hilarious,
but won’t tax herself by responding beyond LOL.
Would she appreciate the dawn sun,
peeking above the waves,
if it was as grey as coastal soil?
Has she ceased lingerie shopping,
to wonder what that means?
Globules of glibness infect her goblet of glamour.

Maybe the Goddess of desire possesses
the acerbic wit to light Momus’s wick,
and embarrass Thoth in debate, chess and poker,
between out-pranking Gotham’s nemesis the Joker.
But all she need do to transcend the magic of genie’s,
is decorate herself with a stunning array of bikinis
and she knows it!

Tomorrow I’m Aphrodite’s fashion consultant.
The flowers on her short fluttery dress,
are sure to look more alive
than the fluffy, golden Acacia blooms
along the trail.
She’s every flavour I wish to savour,
but who’s the woman behind the myth?

Zeus’s daughter isn’t the only Goddess
in the Lotto of love.
Yesterday, Eleos entered the fray.
She transcends dessert, she’s every course,
in the juxtaposition of parallel universes.
Hot springs overlooking jungle horizons,
can’t compare to lacing hands
with the Goddess of compassion.
Everyone within her orbit is bathed in love.

Corpse Creek Connection

Chase Chandler swiped the virtual cards left, right and up, during his insufferable search for female company, on kindling.com. The super like option had recently been added to the original like and dislike choices. Chase occasionally had the urge to swipe straight down, to super dislike. He’d mentioned that in a questionnaire. For some mysterious reason, the app designers ignored his suggestion.

It was those whose passions were limited to eating, drinking, fucking, sleeping and shopping, that Chase wished to slam with a super dislike. The way they gazed adoringly at their own butts, boobs and abs, in nightclub restroom selfies, appalled him. In his bitter eyes they were as uninspiring as toxic waste dumps in school playgrounds. “Surely bird attractant gardens, sunset painted beaches and forest valley vistas are worthier backdrops than toilet cubicles” he mused.

Minimum height specifiers made Chase’s blood simmer too. His dip from one hundred and seventy five centimetres short, to one hundred and sixty centimetres short, after someone stole his fish tank platform boots, intensified his fury.  The fish within the soles looked remarkably real. Those boots were one of a kind, Chase cherished them more than the 1974 Lamborghini Countach, he’d inherited from his grandfather. Not even stilts could have made him feel as tall as those wonders of the fashion world.

Everyone who has met Chase, via the smorgasbord of single delights known as kindling.com, either considers him too intense, too sedate, too educated, too uneducated, a workaholic, too lazy, too adventurous or too boring. Chase Chandler and boring in the same sentence? That’s like the serene firebombing of hospitals, or oil painting classes for blind cave dwellers, twenty thousand leagues under the sea, it just doesn’t make sense. It’s as contradictory as the sluggishness of warp speed yoga. Nobody has persisted long enough to solve the inscrutable riddle that is Chase Chandler. Most women don’t persevere long enough to discover there’s a riddle to solve.

Stella Mckenzie, Chase’s twenty year old work mate, at Nature Restoration International, couldn’t understand why Chase so rarely meets his kindling.com matches. She relied on a database to jog her memory, when potential partners invited her to everything from Fleetwood Mac concerts to Caribbean cruises. One woman swiped right on Chase’s profile per week. Stella was blessed with a match a minute and that was just during the early hours of Monday morning. Whether it was voluptuous good looks, genius, a thrill seeking spirit, stamina or awe inspiring empathy that suitors sought, they found it in Stella Mckenzie. Chase was in awe of her too, but the age gap was a whopping seventeen years. He didn’t quite have the lungs or the balance to keep up with her insatiable appetite for acrobatic love making, sightseeing and every conceivable combination of the two.

In the next eight years, Chase went on dozens of first dates, half a dozen second dates and one third date. During that time, Stella experienced six lengthy casual relationships, three short lived engagements and finally one marriage, which was showing no signs of wear and tear after eighteen months. Chase could no longer bring himself to believe there was a woman in the world who found him more attractive than bleeding eyeballs or more intriguing than watching varnish dry, while listening to elevator music. He’d had enough.

Late, one Saturday night, he jogged the short distance from his home to Corpse Creek and performed a graceful swan dive from the bridge railing, towards the concrete cycling path below. There was no time to contemplate his mistake, as he struck a deep river pool palms first. The slender rock ledges, that would have obliterated him, had finally been dislodged and sunk to the bottom, just hours earlier. Chase barely had time to think the words “I’m alive” as he desperately thrust his way to the surface.

There was someone else on the bridge, peering down at the concrete cycling track. They climbed on to the railing. Chase accelerated across the path and leapt up the steps, to the top of the gorge, four at a time. He could only hope the figure he’d seen silhouetted on top pf the railing would still be there when he arrived.

“It’s not worth jumping. Stay still while I come and get you down from there” he pleaded with the petite young woman.

“Why is it not worth jumping” she asked. Her voice was harsh and lifeless but her hesitation bred hope.

“How about we discuss why in the nearest café” Chase offered. He’d brought his wallet with him, to make identifying his broken body easier. He’d been too focussed on self annihilation to consider the affect that discovering his torn flesh, smashed skeleton and splattered brains might have had on an inexperienced police officer.

“Please, err on the side of leaning back towards me.” Chase sounded as calm as the lapping of harbour waves.

“I’ve got you” he confirmed.

Lonnie and her saviour’s cafe conversation continued until long after dawn. Chase was surprised to learn she was twenty nine. The discovery that her interest in him extended beyond gratitude surprised him more than news reports of the Lochness Monster being shipped to Sea World would have.

It wasn’t until Chase and Lonnie were living together, that he discovered the fish tank platform boots, in her wardrobe, along with her Sasquatch slippers.

All Surface

Cobblestone paths encircle putting greens.
Inside granite goblets,
horses are riverboats for wrens.
Wimbledon standard courts
feature tennis royalty.

A cottage they’d said,
in contrast to the palace of Versailles maybe.
It’s tapestries are older than Hadrian’s wall.
The carpets make Persia’s finest
look like threadbare disasters.
Cinema size televisions
dominate palatial loungerooms.
But the people are as heartwarming as algorithms.

The ramshackle servants quarters,
are discretely hidden in a bird attractant garden.
Smoke wafts from an ancient chimney.
A homemade chess set
waits patiently for its creators.