Party Hopper

Is the lady opposite me mute?
In search of a reaction
I compose a tribute to the sunrise.
Trickles of molten gold caress vapor canyons!
Dioxin devastated water ways
cannot banish the suns sanguine art.
Fiery mist overwhelms factory haze
as it climbs to a pale blue pinnacle.

I finally notice her pale blue pallor.
How did I not realize she was dead?
I blame it on her sunglasses
and the zombie like expressions
of living, breathing commuters,
hypnotized by their computers.
They’re perfect camouflage for a corpse.

In shock I exit the station and climb a wattle
and weeping Meadow Grass knitted embankment,
to the porthole in your back fence.

Your house is as hidden as a serial killer’s conscience.
The slow jujitsu of vines is divine.
They’re racing to slaughter the mortar.
The party is in its embryonic stages.
I stash soft drink in an Antarctic wading pool
until its embossed in frost.
Someone puts a cigar plant to my lips.
I’ve been told Cuphea’s less psychotropic
than an electron microscope is telescopic,
yet it seems I’ve caught a logic disease;
concertos are encoded in the breeze.
Is this the Mount Pinatubo of placebos?
Too many inquisitive psychiatrists at this party,
time to leave.

Stretchy gnomes, twining around Corymbias,
smirk at peach flavoured watermelons
parachuting to power lines.
They’ve been jettisoned from the mother ship
of intergalactic fruiterers.
Longer houses and the narrowing of the road
create the illusion the street is stretching.
The moon has left its orbit to ogle me.
Fireworks stream from my fingertips
to paint landscapes on the lunar surface.

I have no memory of my journey
to a festival somewhere in Bankstown.
After mulching through dubious fast food
I’m not in a lively mood.
The new lump on my neck is oddly geometrical.
Vague memories of extra-terrestrials,
testing hair products on me, return.
Possibly the shock of the dead woman on the train
is wreaking havoc with my otherwise healthy brain.

In a dilapidated culdesac,
Lebanese thespians douse the audience
in Jiddo and Jadda nostalgia.
Dimly lit laneways, feature iridescent pole dancers
decorating disused traffic lights.
On a treehouse veranda,
in the yard of a gargoyle collector,
the only band to combine a qunoon
with a shamisen and a didgeridoo
features a singer whose different too.

The journey back to your party,
via a boot with bullet holes for air holes,
is in keeping with my unorthodoxy goals.
I’d always wondered why Vincenzo’s
car cost only five hundred dollars.

My second entrance into the vine reclaimed house
is via candlelight.
Someone drove away with the solar panel trailer
but there’s no shortage of amplifier batteries
for the guitar solo equivalent
of pitch black roller coaster rides
through crumbling mountain sides.

One moment I was listening to drum beats
chasing stars from their lofty mantles,
then I awoke at midday
sprawled across a chest of drawers,
in drag and a sumo suit.
I’d hate to think what might’ve happened
if I’d been drinking.

The Dip, the End and the Pity in Serendipity


Whether it’s a Renoiresque landscape
decorating a highway underpass
or the kid who failed art
scrawling his tag on the court house
it’s all the same to Senior Constable Brett Clydesdale.
Celeste and I were graffiti artist hunters,
of the photographer kind.
Clysedale mistook us for a useful pair of eyes.
The moniker ‘Rebel Chameleon’ dominated his patrol car.
The crime was committed beneath the midday sun,
while Templeton Hill was distracted
by local sporting hero Melvin Mayhem Mannix
stalking ageing middleweight kingpin Supersonic Sid Salisbury.
Clydesdale yearned to arrest tourists
for showing his defaced vehicle on social media
but had to content himself
with warning them against blocking traffic.

Celeste spotted a man in a chameleon skin mask
join a busload of similarly attired tourists.
There was an air of confidence about him
that said I could tattoo your sclera
and vanish before you feel the burn.
The tribe of street artists
were headed for a graffiti convention,
via Templeton Pie Shop.
By the time Senior Constable Clydesdale
finished sampling the latest confectionary experiment,
at Bessie’s Bakery, their vehicle was on the highway.
To Clydesdale’s disgust,
no known spray paint wizard in the country
was athletic enough to commit the crime
and be relaxing in the pie shop,
before the graffiti tourists were on the road.
If the culprit had boarded their bus,
he wasn’t an official passenger. 

The first time I saw Celeste
was at the Art Gallery of New South Wales,
when Freddie Mercury was still alive,
I took  a picture for her and the sniggering toff
she was already tempted to jettison.
Celeste photographed me kissing a marble sculpture
of Margaret Fontaine on the buttocks.
Security anticipated my lewd conduct
with a bronze incarnation of Zeus.

Luckily my book was emblazoned on my t-shirt.
Celeste liked every poem.
I found her as intriguing as the Amazon
but harder to reach than it’s undiscovered tribes.
Her detractors claimed to have met more responsive statues.
Approaching topics from more angles
than architectural encyclopaedias,
prompted her to weave philosophical tapestries
that made Wahiawa’s Pineapple Garden maze
look as straight forward as a two chord typhoon.  

The nature of our relationship
was unpredictable as Antarctic ice.
The journeys from chaste pecks to cavorting tongues and back
were longer than the Kokoda Track
but I was as persistent as Pheidippides.
By the twenty first century,
Cupid was a passed out sentry
as I kissed passive lips goodbye.

Celeste’s misdial was as unexpected as Mercury orbiting our moon.
She found the conversation less comfortable
than Monday for the sole bearer of bad news
in an intensive care ward.
Another year of estrangement passed.



At our Circular Quay reunion,
cyborg flag marshals ushered in fantastical U.F.O’s,
for spare change,
until hail carpeted the ground like snow.
Viking helmets, from ‘In Characters’ closing down sale,
shielded us on our journey to The Domain.
The temple façade of the gallery loomed.
Fantastical art as surprising as Bates is enterprising,
the brochure lauded a lord of philanthropists.

My irises shrunk to porthole frames
as I gazed at armor plated starfish,
with a penchant for hammerhead blood,
guarding their Great Barrier Reef lair.
Venus Stegosaurus Traps settled for hapless rhinos.
A trumpeting zebra summoned a genie
from its Bourbon bottle prison.
Rats decapitated cheese statues of pest controllers.
You looked restless.

Down the corridor,
a plague of suns fought for space in the skyscape,
as a shepherd shook his crook at disobedient woolly mammoths.
Sequoia triffids failed to see the irony
in their chain saw rampages
turning loggers huts into mounds of sawdust.
The wolf dolphin was petrified
of the reflections on its scales,
it looked too drug addled
to tell coral quays from blue whales.
I clutched my pen
with the relief a diabetic grips overdue insulin.
A tsunami of ideas can kill like a wall of water.



Your favourite gallery was all palms, tree ferns and moss.
Under a gazebo we embraced.
Lingering barriers flew like wildfire dew.

That night I watched Celeste’s hyper expressive face
engrossed in Wuthering Heights.
Normally your passion is as hidden
as black spray paint, on a coalface,
countless corners from a pin prick of light.
The good night caress of your tongue
was sweet, tender, but not without restraint.

I lapsed into chaotic REM punctuated by a starters gun.
All I had to do was catch the horizon.
Pheidippedes grinned from his roadside knee store.
Between Broome and Darwin
Celeste was mouth-watering in black lingerie
and mouthing something.
Did she say “I’m in love with your love for me?”

Three laps of the continent later, the horizon was inverted.
A man in a lizard skin mask danced on the seesawing highway.
Climbing spikes appeared, vanished and reappeared
as unpredictably as highland spring sunshine,
but their comings and goings weren’t as erratic as Celeste.



My eyes tasted the sunrise.
Sunday morning’s ration of affection
rendered strawberry studded Vita Brits,
buried in passion fruit yogurt,
blander than a plate of lettuce.

We trekked through suburban bushland,
to a body, mind and spirit expo.
The closed eyes of an uncannily accurate medium
said more about cold reading than the Sceptics Society.
Tarot was more fun than any gambling game.
A botanical mystic claimed telepathic plants speak English.

On the way home, at an unfamiliar crossroads,
my confidence vanished like Lake Eyre in a drought.
‘Dream it, live it’ was carved on the shoulder
of a sandstone marathoner.
‘The Horizon’ was embossed on the back
of Celeste’s marble double.

A hammer and chisel wielding figure,
in the undergrowth, disappeared like a fox.
His face was hidden beneath a lizard skin mask.

In my last ever conversation with Celeste
I discovered she couldn’t recall our first kiss,
my quirky stories about my stint as a football team mascot,
or which continents I’d visited.
It was an impressive feat of apathy
from someone who could swipe the pieces from a chessboard,
and reconstruct the match days later.

The Virus

Internationally renowned food critic Pierre Broderick,
abandoned his scathing attack on the presentation,
of the worst dessert he’d sampled in a generation,
to admire the most exquisite creature in his universe.
Resisting a second and third glance
was akin to silently stepping in semi molten granite.
That visual banquet strolled from Pierre’s life
before he could jokingly ask her to be his wife.
Was she the artistic genius of his imagination,
a malevolent dunce with less creative flair
than a garage porn director, or between extremes?

That night, Pierre met Satan at The Fallen Angel.
The statue of Buddha was a Juke Box.
Yahweh’s pupils were disco balls
and his beard a haven for finches and wrens.
These days the Prince of Darkness
is a helicopter salesman,
who shares Pierre’s love of bird watching,
mountain climbing and knitting.
The psychedelic food critic was certain
his bright red skin and razor sharp horns
weren’t an illusion.
He mentioned his yearning for Mariah.
Satan promised to help.

Pierre’s clairvoyant confidante, Jeremiah Elijah the 2nd,
a proud franchisee of Sutton’s Psychic Therapy,
claimed a smorgasbord of delicious luck
awaited his gustatory adviser.
Pierre probed for intel on Mariah Bordeaux
“Legend has it that vivacious Goddess
was imprisoned in an otherwise empty cage,
for a month, without dropping a dress size”
was all the self proclaimed sage had to say.

“Wear odd socks, one golden, one midnight black,
for good luck, Elijah advised
before Mariah’s debut exhibition.
Her psychedelic self-portraits
hung beside a golden hornet’s invasion
of a honey farming glow worms fortress.
That insectoid farmer composed symphonies
with shifting patterns on its luminous skin.
The classical music loathing hornet retreated.

As Pierre sought Mariah’s autograph
she looked down her patrician nose
at his off the rack clothes.
Once she caught a glimpse of his odd socks
he thought she’d call security.

“At last, the man with one golden sock
and the other as dark as a forest night.
My psychic told me he’s the cunnilingus magician I seek.”
“Jeremiah, you sly dog”, Pierre texted.
“Ready to get on your knees James?” Mariah purred.
“Sorry darling, I was hoping for someone
more compassionate than a branding iron,
closer to monogamy than a bonobo
and less sacrilegious than a brothel in a cathedral.
Declaring yourself more enticing
than Mary, Mother of God,
in a mini skirt and crotchless panties,
is the most chaste remark you’ve made all evening.”
“Whatever, you’re addicted to my depravity,
you down on your knees is as sure as gravity” Mariah crooned.

Pierre swaggered away like the ultimate alpha
but felt like an alcoholic fleeing a bar.
Run, a diver surfacing from the ocean
of his subconscious pleaded.
The click of Mariah’s high heels
was as hypnotic as tribal drums.
She corralled Pierre in a storeroom
and parted the teeth of his zipper
with bewitching slowness.

In his disembodied state,
Pierre heard someone squealing in delight.
The journey into Mariah’s wild, hungry eyes
reduced a burst water main humbling orgasm
to a mere footnote.
“It’s time for your diving lesson Pierre”
Mariah breathed in his ear.

With every trace of tension gone,
the marble storage room floor
felt as good as a four poster bed
resplendent in silk sheets.

After weeks of fasting, Pierre felt as full as an anaconda
that treats jaguars like jelly beans.
“Legend has it Mariah was imprisoned in a glass ball
for a month, without food or drink
and didn’t drop a single dress size.” Jeremiah once said,
in the mock serious tone
he’d mentioned the Lochness Monster gate crashing his pool party.
Hunger pangs finally hit.
There was only one food Pierre craved.
Within minutes of pleasuring Mariah,
he felt like he’d won the world pie eating championships.
The former food critic was more puzzled
than a Neolithic tribesman in a quantum computing lab.

“How could your nectar be as nourishing
as a feast for fifty, Mariah” Pierre probed.
“Nutritionists and pathologists say my magic well
contains fewer calories than diet cola.
It’s infested with DNA reprogramming viruses
that render food as toxic as funnel web venom
and the appetite as absent as Peter Dutton’s conscience.
Carriers convert air pollution into nutrients.
Too long without worshipping my love tunnel
and they’ll be as emaciated as anorexic junkies.
Literary demolitions of my grandfather’s restaurants
are treated like treason.
Your passion for garlic and basil sprinkled barramundi,
soaked in lemon juice, followed by homemade
passionfruit and pineapple iced cream
is as dead as lava swimmers.

After Mariah banished Pierre from her harem
she revealed there was an antidote.
He’d long since sold his house and car
to buy a helicopter from Satan,
for travelling to and from pristine mountain air
quickly enough to avoid starvation.

“The man who sells the antidote created the viruses
during stints in germ warfare labs.
He’s quite the entrepreneur, he sells helicopters too”
“Is his name Satan by any chance?”
“No, I think it’s Sutton.”

Pierre returned to The Fallen Angel.
The helicopter salesman no longer had horns
or skin as bright red as Mariah’s stretch lace lingerie.
“I heard you’ve been banished from Mariah’s harem,
where are you going to
replenish your stocks of the virus now?”
Satan, or Sutton as he calls himself these days, sneered,
as he poured a test tube of the virus into his  beer.

“I must return to my life as a food critic,
how much for the antidote”
“Give me your soul and it’s free.
I can throw in a branch of Sutton’s Psychic Therapy,
for fifty per cent off, if you wish.

Paradoxically, the antidote was fresh air.
A pure country breeze restored Pierre’s appetite.
On the verge of death, he crawled to the nearest pub.
Potato wedges with sour cream and sweet chili sauce
overshadowed his grandest 3 Michelin star adventures.
As he sipped from a bottle of boutique beer,
Pierre pondered how to regain his soul,
without gourmet delights repulsing him
like aging road kill marinated in sewage.





Biohazard, Halloween Signage by Bill Dickinson


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Digby Musgrave, Erotic Movie Magnate, Counsellor, Extraordinaire

you haven’t been the same
since your brawl with a killer whale,
during your morning Channel swim.
Take the box jellyfish by the tentacles
and start living your life again.
Try hang gliding across the Grand Canyon,
flying a hot air balloon across the Atlantic,
or base jumping from the Devil’s Marbles.

“Lately, diving boards make me hyperventilate,
like short fused dynamite crammed up the date.”

“You used to explore the remains of the Titanic
and hunt Great Whites without a hint of panic.
How about trekking through the Amazon?”

“I’d rather sit here and sample apple ciders
than be terrorized by snakes and spiders.”

“What about a holiday to the moon,
if I sedate you for the journey?”

“I’d get terribly home sick.”

“Does an ultra-marathon foursome,
with model triplets, sound awesome?”

“Away from thee, you twisted offspring of Satan.”

Digby summoned leggy lovelies in luxurious lingerie.
They leapt from translucent dresses
and lounged in front of Digby’s once lifeless friend.
A waiter brought champagne
and fresh fruit salad buried in gelato.
Constantine gasped, his eyes bulged.

“Think us, an emperor sized waterbed
and you earning that sumptuous treat
by going where few men dare tread”
the trio of leggy lovelies said.

“I’ll leap from a U2 in a wingsuit
if you let me watch you make love
and kiak off Victoria Falls if you let me join in!”

“Enjoy the pool, I have paperwork” Digby declared.
The trio’s bikinis shone like supernovae.
Their synchronized swimming
made flamingos appear as graceless as beached leopard seals.

All Constantine had to do was make Evel Knieval and Icarus
look as ordinary as senior citizens at the skate park
and hedonistic heaven was his.

Digby ticked the last box on his hit list.
Surely, not even the great Constantine Jumper
could survive plunging off Victoria Falls in a kiak.





Wingsuit Backflyer by Richard Schneider


Some rights are reserved, you must acknowledge the author, provide a link to the license and indicate if changes were made. You must not use this work for commercial purposes or prevent anyone from using it according to the license. For further information use the link above.





Crossing the Line

James Meyer, a real estate agent
involved in a never ending love affair
with architecture, home decorating
and the sound of his own voice,
searched for his gold plated phone
like it was a time bomb
ready to splatter his charred flesh
the length and breadth of the carriage.

“I’ll call you, what’s your number”
Melanie, a leggy legal secretary, offered.
“Thanks” he murmured,
as a muffled ringtone emanated from his briefcase.

James was so accustomed to beautiful women’s company
he paid no further attention to Melanie,
until she sent a series of photos
more provocative than a declaration of war.
Her fear of revenge porn was on par with
Ayrton Senna’s fear of speeding.

“My blood type is AB-,
the rarest blood type in the world,
but it’s not as unique as my erotic repertoire”
Melanie boasted as they added a volume
to the encyclopedia of kink.
Their exploration of unorthodox desires
lead to places stranger than a Green Haired Turtle.

Melanie’s insistence on introducing
a Green Haired Turtle to the action crossed the line.
Moving interstate was no escape
from her showers of flowers 
and sketches of lewd stretches.
Hiding them from his detective fiancee
was as difficult as selling a Hollywood mansion
to a Himalayan mystic.  

James finally placated his pleading ex lover.
His descriptive flair made a sunset picnic,
in a weed infested forest remnant,
sound more blissful than a Tahitian honeymoon cruise.
He fastened a blindfold
and guided Melanie along the track.
Nudging her off a cliff, was easier
than devouring her slice of strawberry cheesecake.
“Delicious” James remarked,
as Melanie bounced headfirst off a rocky outcrop,
before she could shriek.
He congratulated himself on her mercifully swift demise.
His guilt was akin to a sensitive soul’s remorse
after murdering a cockroach.

Imagining a Green Haired Turtle
as the third wheel in their love machine,
had James looking as distraught as
an accidental death witness.
“No, Melanie begging him to fellate
a green haired turtle
hadn’t evoked feelings of violent rage” James insisted,
as Detective Sergeant Mulder repeated questions
inspired by Melanie’s diary.
Forensics were unable to determine
if she’d fallen or been pushed.  

While James was driving to a Michelin star standard restaurant,
to celebrate Melanie’s demise,
a drunk driver crossed the median strip
and t boned his gleaming Maserati.
As he slipped in and out of consciousness,
James discovered his blood type was AB-,
the rarest in the world.





100 Days of Summer # 74 – No Passing

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The Stoned Sniffer Dog


It was the most surprising scene I’ve seen,
since Marcus mixed magic mushrooms
with my KFC coleslaw
and that day Colonel Sanders was a medusa geisha in ricin rain.

‘Ms Jordan, Phileus is known in police circles
as the dog with the golden nose.
He’s found marijuana residue on your walking frame’
Sergeant Cramer croaked.
His offsider Constable Jenson
searched the old lady’s cardigan pockets.
Cramer complained that Ms Jordan’s handbag
had more compartments than the pyramid of Giza
and that taking apart her walking frame
was like trying to dismantle the harbour bridge
with his bare hands.

You didn’t need to be psychic to know these two
were about as popular with the locals
as the inventor of the smart phone
at a Luddites Association meeting.

I might’ve broken my journey,
if it weren’t for the wall of police officers
monitoring the exits as though
they were checkpoints on the 38th parallel.


Phileus and his cohorts glanced my way.
They looked as nervous as squids in an ink factory.

I couldn’t stop smirking as Sergeant Cramer fired questions.
‘Name?’ ‘Jason Merlin’
‘Are you in possession of marijuana?’ ‘No’
‘Are you a marijuana user?’ ‘No’
‘Address?’ ‘46 Hercules Close, Blackburn Hills’
‘Hands where I can see them’ Cramer croaked.
The spotty little slug faced, megalomaniac
was already red from exertion.
‘Hands against the wall.
Carrying any sharp objects Jason?’
‘Yeah heaps.’
‘What kind?’ an alarmed Constable Jensen barked.
‘Baked bean tin lids,
they can slice you open like a circular saw, look’
I pointed to my scarred right hand.
‘We’re interested in knives, needles and razor blades’
‘They’re unhealthy interests Sarge.’

‘Constable Jensen will search your bag now.
Quite frankly you reek of marijuana.
‘Sarge, if the smell is that strong
why didn’t you sniff me out yourself?’
‘Why are your pupils so dilated?’
‘I’m hyper from insomnia.
Actually, the truth is Sergeant, I’m just so excited
to be talking to a big strong, handsome man in uniform.’
‘Watch your mouth.’
‘Gotta a mirror sarge?’
‘Show me your tongue’ Cramer ordered.
‘Now that’s more like it baby, oh yeah’
I wiggled my tongue suggestively.
‘Power truly is an aphrodisiac sergeant’
Cramer looked at Jensen to share his disgust.
‘Can I confiscate his Playboy magazine’ Jenson pleaded
‘Get out of here’ Cramer roared,
with all the menace of a toothless, arthritic possum.
‘Not you Jensen, you get back here.’

‘I was hoping for some handcuff playtime’
I sighed, before sauntering off to catch the train,
with my hips swaying and butt twitching.
I peeked over my shoulder
and blew Sergeant Cramer a kiss.

From the train I yelled
‘That intellectually challenged sniffer mongrel
has got to be sampling the contraband sarge;
maybe it’s hashish cookies in his kibble
but I’d bet on bong water in his doggie bowl.’

The Man, The Mouth

Marcellus Black Magic Ellis,
Jed Jedi Jameson wants to fight you again.

Paul, that unco loser fights like an orangutan!
The Ellis/Jedi training camp would be as ace
as a submarine soaring into outer space.
Shaggy men of the forest would give chase,
their gangly arms thrashing about the place.
To those wild orange dudes we gotta be fair,
the Black Magic Man would be bustin moves
Allah would have trouble teaching to Estaire.

Is that so?
Tell me about your training camp
for the Benny Bulldozer Beane bout.

Paul, first I wanna tellya-bout ‘The Black Superman Plan.’

Your latest album?

Yeah, the title track goes like this.
Beane fancied himself a master tactician,
but couldn’t land leather on this magician.
His corner men found it super frightening,
how my flashy flurries laughed at lightning.
The wounded Benny Beane went berserk
with pile driving jabs and fancy footwork,
but this hip hop dancing pugilist Ghost
made him look as agile as a fence post,
and killed the myth of a stoush he’ll shirk.

I’m a boxer who has held on to my health
against men who made Satan shit himself.
It’s comical repartee coupled with fistic fury
that convinces every expert square ring jury
I fight flabby taste testers from the brewery,
but my flurry-combination compositions
have destroyed great warriors ambitions.
The hapless Himey Hydrogen Bomb Heller
told Fight News he’d be the victorious fella
The one time he landed flush I didn’t flinch,
dodging his ton per square inch was a cinch!

Marcellus, where was I?
Ah your training camp,
for the Benny Bulldozer Beane bout,
what can you tell me about it?

After vintage victories
over Harold Hand Grenade Hodgkins,
Con Catapult Compton and Kane Krakatoa Krane
I needed a sparring partner that makes
head butting supersonic flails look free of pain.
I would’ve beat Beane if I’d sparred for just one day
but so my rep as the best in the galaxy wouldn’t fray,
I made fun of the diabolical Brutus Adonis Atilla Hun.
I said he couldn’t knock me out with an elephant gun.
Brutus drove over from Albany to go toe to toe.
He imagined the accelerator was my pretty face
as he passed Mark Webber on the Nullarbor bro.
He’s hell mean, he shaves with a machete
and cuts his finger nails with a guillotine.
He played pin the razor blade on the piranha,
in a wading pool, before he’d seen inside a pre-school.

Marcellus, I’ve heard Brutus is
a more ferocious version of a young Mike Tyson.
What else can you tell me about
the only Catholic in the world
with Atilla as his confirmation name?
To ordinary men Brutus is scarier than an ogre
with woolly mammoth tusks for body piercings.
The Delai Lama says ‘facing Brutus is real bad karma,
he has the power in both hands to slam dunk a shot put,
while weighed down by Henry the Eighth’s suit of armor.’
Legend has it he once fought a dragon bare knuckle,
that he cantered to the ring without an uneasy blink,
and made that fire breathing, bunyip snacking,
winged goanna look like a cowardly, unco skink.

Marcellus, according to the Daily Telegraph,
Brutus was attacked by a whale
and he left it sucking plankton through a straw, for a month.
Why aren’t you afraid of him?

Paul, before I gave that dude a boxing lesson
my Dad told me Brutus Adonis Atilla Hun
is as dangerous as a chainsaw fight,
on a barbed wire fence.
He said ‘I’d rather you try to out ski an avalanche,
while wearing scorpions for ear rings,
than spar this bloke.
For some resistance training is
dragging a tyre around a football field.
Brutus Adonis Atilla Hun ties himself to a rubber dinghy
with a sumo wrestler in it
and runs backwards, across the Kalahari Desert.
His heavy bag has its own carriage on a freight train.
It was lowered into Camp Marcellus Ellis by crane.
After a round with Brutus Hercules Hun
I was expected to be rubble.
The dude stabs crazed hornet swarms
with his thorny stubble.

Marcellus, I heard you baffled this behemoth.
I gave Brutus an induction into my hall of destruction,
goaded that mammoth monster into pugilistic mania,
he tried to wreak more havoc than Dracula in Romania.
Black Superman’s golden gloves exiled him to Tasmania.
In the last round I used his head for a bongo drum
while I read the sports pages.

Marcellus look, Brutus is here.
Paul, I’ve got to answer an ultra-confidential call.
That bomb proof chamber looks private enough.

Marcellus, he mentioned a catch weight
and living in a sauna.
Brutus claims he’ll still be as dangerous
as Jurassic mega fauna.

I was just offered two hundred million
to lead a celebrity boxercise class at Wembley Stadium.

Didn’t you say your phone battery is dead?
I’m kidding, point me towards the dotted line.
With both hands I’ll strike him like a land mine.

Bypass Ferals

One adjective occupants of a hoon nest on wheels,
leant out windowless, mismatched doors,
so far out a truck could have taken them out
without risking side swiping precious scrap metal.

The driver looked as crazy as confronting arachnophobia
by pashing the dunny Red Back.
He hurled abuse with the gusto of tornados
tossing pagodas like pergolas.
His most riveting repartee was more painfully stupid
than performing acupuncture with a javelin.
The smartest among them lacked the discretion
to tell diamonds on velvet from pebbles on hessian.

The backseat passenger
was the most obnoxious of that tragic troglodyte trio.
Calling that expletive machine gunner a spineless,
hag fish pashing, son of an inbred necrophiliac
would’ve been way too complimentary.
I’d rather teach salt water crocodiles
the art of synchronized swimming
than share oxygen with that arsehole,
having the Ebola Virus
and the Bubonic Plague back to back
would be preferable.

Fear wasn’t an issue,
I felt about as scared as Blitzkrieg the Pitbull
after receiving death threats from Lullaby the Yorkie.
Back seat bomber thought he was a verbal Tyson.
My words could have hit him like a cloud of ricin.
I informed my antagonist and his bogan crew
“If the Guinea Pig at Pan’s Pesticides gets the flu,
that’s the only way out of the dole queue for you”

The prettiest of the lot had a smile more vile
than necrotic tissue floating
in a Guiness Book of Records sized cyst;
her breathe stank like she’d been drinking at a pub
where the filtered water is vile enough
to inspire a sewer rat to erect a no swimming sign.
I casually informed that putrid wench
that only a drum of sneezing powder
could rid my nostrils of her stench.

Her bare butt out the window was her comeback.
I laughed when I noticed who had the inside track.
If that carload of human detritus
saw the police pull up beside them,
the news contains no propaganda,
Ali was K.O’d by a jockey’s backhander
and I’m a reggae singing salamander.

Earlier that day, the baddy bunch
stole a tablet computer from a cerebral palsied Octogenarian.
Being a prison psychologist,
I’ve been appointed as their self-esteem coach,
for the duration of their incarceration.


Bogan Vale Art Gallery

The Bogan Vale Art Society was horrified to discover
the debut exhibition in their gigantic new gallery
consisted of bare plywood passageways.
Children abandoned the sculpture garden / playground
to stalk their way along bland corridors
with light sabres and laser guns.
Local hobbyists were livid.
The bare wall space could’ve been used
to hang their clumsy attempts
to emulate Frederick Mccubbin and Albert Namatjira.
Art Society President Pablo Renoir
threatened legal action
with a letter written in blood.

According to Jeremiah Elijah,
his exhibition was the ultimate in artistic genius.
Never before had an installation invited onlookers
to explore an infinite array of possibilities.
He sold a million copies of a compilation
of his most creative hate mail.

Within seconds of an online troll
threatening to cut out Elijah’s eyeballs with a spoon
and feed them to a half starved Pit Bull,
he strutted into the gallery,
drew a solitary circle
and swaggered to his Rolls Royce
like he’d just become the first man
to do a quadruple back flip
from the one metre springboard.
This piece of theatre was enough to inspire a sequel
to his hate mail best seller.

By the time Jeremiah had decorated his passages
with a square, triangle and his piece de resistance the octagon,
two maniacal mixed martial artists
wanted to teach him a lesson in the octagon.
A petition demanded legislation,
to ensure empty walls and blank canvasses
can’t be exhibited in an Australian gallery ever again.

As the publicity storm was peaking,
Jeremiah Elijah entered the gallery
on a gold plated, motorised, unicycle,
to cut the shapes from the walls.
Behind the square window
Charles Darwin looked baffled by
Goanna and orangutan hybrids
and their stories of Satan faking the fossil record.
The ape lizards, otherwise known as gorangutans,
looked strangely like celebrity creationists.
The triangle window revealed part sculpture, part CGI,
ship abducting submarines beaming themselves
to other dimensions and back.

The octagonal window featured waxworks
of the most homophobic mixed martial artists on the planet,
locked in a passionate embrace;
the same fighters who had threatened
to snap Jeremiah Elijah’s limbs like twigs,
for defrauding the public.

Elijah anonymously doubled the funding
for his most creative critics.
His mixed martial artist models
Glen Glacier Gladstone, the unstoppable force from Finland
and Terrence the Torturer Tallis,
the Time Bomb from Tennessee,
thought the pink leotards were a step too far
but Jeremiah had done a magnificent job
with their eye shadow and mascara.

The Bogan Vale Art Society
needed to commandeer a cow paddock
for the flood of tourist buses.
The text from their president Pablo Renoir simply read
‘mission accomplished’  

Steeplechase Donkey

Godfrey chose charity fundraising over welfare.
Now he was working for the privilege
of being labelled a parasite.
On his first day of driving the fundraising van,
he wore a T-Shirt advertizing
his jazz and disco fusion quartet,
Steeplechase Donkey.

The leafy suburb of Eltoro Gardens loomed.
May the force be with you,
Godfrey encouraged old Jimmy Wallace
as he handed him his paper map.
Retirement was a luxury Jimmy couldn’t afford.
Godfrey paired sixteen year old Summer Winterton,
with former bouncer Kelvin the Keg Kensington,
just in case predators were lurking
behind the Elysian exterior of Eltoro Gardens.
Former archaeologist Zachary Stafford
looked as determined as an Everest Sherpa,
as he approached a series of palatial homes.

Godfrey’s first four hours
made his stint as a telemarketer,
for a toilet paper company, seem as fascinating
as astral travelling to distant galaxies.
His area encompassed the shrinking fibro share house
section of Eltoro gardens.
Underemployed teenage labourers
threw empty beer cans until he left.

Is that all the I.D you’ve got,
an elderly garden gnome collector enquired.
‘That’s not you’ he claimed
as he examined Godfrey’s licence and passport.
Godfrey eroded the cautious codger’s skepticism
with his birth certificate, tax returns,
bank statements and school reports,
until he begrudgingly dipped into a jar of five cent pieces.
Negotiations stalled once he realized the pre-printed receipt
wouldn’t cover precisely forty five cents. 

Business improved among the mansions,
as mums arrived home
with new computer game demanding brats.
Godfrey approached an automatic gate
as enthusiastically as an apartment block puppy
let loose on a farm.
Apparently the olive complexioned Goddess,
emerging from her Mercedes,
with several shopping bags on each arm,
had visited the supermarket in a bikini.
Her little girl shut the gate on Godfrey twice.
There was no cash for calendars
or inspirational fridge magnets,
in Grace Senior’s handcrafted leather purse.

“No pilot focuses as intently on a landing strip
as Grace Junior does on the television,
During an episode of Peppa Pig.
Let’s go upstairs so I can apologize properly.
I see you’ve pitched a tent for me Godfrey.
Is there a dwarf living in your shorts?”

“They prefer to be called short statured people,
Mrs Elkington,” Godfrey chastised,
as he lashed her quivering derriere.
“Yes Sir Godfrey” Grace agreed between groans.
He swung her riding crop
to the rhythm of a Steeplechase Donkey Original,
Lochness Monster Rodeo,
before bending her over the balustrade.  

Mrs Elkington transferred ten thousand dollars
to Fundraising International,
as her conqueror sipped champagne from a crystal glass.
‘Say hello to Chad for me’ Mrs Elkington said,
as her mystified playmate departed.

“Get the fuck off my lawn you lowly peasant cunt”
Grace’s elegantly dressed next door neighbor
snarled in a north shore accent.
“You don’t wish to peruse the products on offer,
think of the dying children?”
“I’ll call the police”
“Splendid, they usually buy a calendar or two”
As Godfrey retreated from the aristocratic bogan’s
perfectly manicured lawn
he casually ducked a bottle of chardonnay
worth more than his laptop.

Chad Randall, C.E.O of Fundraising International,
called Godfrey from his golf course
to offer Steeplechase Donkey a gig
at a fundraising picnic.

Mrs Elkington was front row and centre,
in a translucent dress and lace lingerie
more colourful than a Rainbow Lorikeet.
She bought two boxes of Steeplechase Donkey’s latest album,
Surf the Waterfall.
Her record producer husband Bruce,
studied the lyrics of Salesman Casanova intently,
yet failed to find a reason to sabotage
Steeplechase Donkey’s success.

“How’s my favourite talent scout” Mr Elkington asked
as the corporate couple watched a video
of their latest signings finest performance.
Godfrey’s appearance on their radar
was like a gold centred meteorite
blasting a crater the size and shape
of their future swimming pool.
“Bruce darling, start practising your angry face,
this adulterous triumph will go viral.
The scandal will thrust Steeplechase Donkey’s
stratospheric sales into orbit.