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.


The Poet’s Journey

Be who you are, be what you are,
until the door of miracles is ajar.

With Earth’s cumbersome languages,
you chase the soul’s beauty,
like a wounded warrior
on the mighty jaguar’s trail.

Realising millennia of global acclaim
is less than plankton in fame’s ocean,
fails to curb your boundless devotion.

Poet, lament, invent, soak society,
with a shrewd arsenal of adjectives
and a voracious appetite for variety.

Be who you are, be what you are,
until the door of miracles is ajar.


Larry said he could leave his body and return,
as easily as leaves trapped in a furnace burn.
Materialist researchers, sneered at his claim
they were as biased as Ku Klux Klan leaders
employed as judges in Harlem.

While the doubters gloated,
Larry’s etheric body floated.
The live telecast cut to a commercial,
for the latest waste of special effects,
Zombie Androids versus Dracula.

Larry’s physical self
was confined to a strait jacket.
A battalion of cameras guarded the target,
nineteen storeys above.
Teams of detectives, magicians
and celebrity cynics,
searched for deception.

Larry spoke up.
“I saw a waxwork likeness of Salvador Dali,
with a turtle/baboon version of a Centaur,
tattooed on his shaved head.
Miniaturised goblins hung
from his handlebar moustache.
He was driving a camel powered pumpkin carriage,
while reading the Braille edition
of the Portable Atheist.

“Pure guesswork” Larry’s critics scoffed.