Chess Man

Chess man was a one man legion,
undefeated in the Sydney Region.
And to every onlooker’s delight,
he never ran from a rap battle,
or declined a break dance fight.

He informed castle breakers,
wearing sturdy pace makers,
wielding their walking sticks
against reps of undertakers,
that a knight would bounce
off his plastic horse snout,
as his super sonic queen,
took that mutha fucka out.

Chess man tried to explain
it was nothing but a game,
as the first spray of bullets
ripped through his frame.

Cricket Man aka Nostradamus Bradman

If you aren’t familiar with the sport of cricket that will be a barrier to understanding many of the details of this story. I recommend watching some highlights on YouTube and researching the jargon I’ve used.

“You should be worried” Nostradamus warned opposition coach, painter, agriculture teacher, hairdresser and poultry show extraordinaire Randall Grey, as he strolled to the pitch.

“About what Nostradamus, if one of my boys flukes getting you out I’ll be happy and if I witness another of your brilliant displays I’ll be happy.”

“Grey, You need to move your mind, the way I move my feet, to do the dance they call lateral thinking. The possibilities are endless. Me destroying your bowling attack and my freak dismissal are just two blades of grass in an outfield where every blade is unique”

“They all look the same to me”

“Look closer”

“Five sixes, one single” Nostradamus Bradman declared to all within throwing distance, as calmly and resolutely as a man ordering drinks. Every six struck the sight screen. His batting partner Dexter Matrix was so confident all five would clear the boundary rope that he was engrossed in an online game of chess, until Nostradamus signalled that the final ball was about to be bowled.

Dexter wasn’t a cricketer, he was a sprinter, there for the sole purpose of running quick singles, with the knowledge that Bradman would retain the strike. On the rare occasions Matrix had to face a ball, Bradman instructed him to step as far forward as possible, always play a shot and always with his pads in line with the stumps. Matrix was yet to meet a wicket keeper with reflexes quick enough to stump him. After one of his mighty air swings the kid could spin faster than a cockroach and lunge at the crease quicker than a man in concrete boots snatches at a life raft.

In just two overs, Bradman had painted a smiley face on the sight screen with the cherry red stains of the six stitcher.

“Kindergarten art, so what” Randall Grey mocked, from what he assumed was a safe distance beyond the boundary rope. He was working on his Archibald Prize entry. In his twenty years of attempting to make the final, apparently nobody had told him one of the conditions of entry was that the portrait had to be of a human. Grey shook his head as his prize turkey Julius did his best to imitate a body builder. Julius was quickly running out of poses.

Grey had decided long ago there was no point in trying to help his team tactically out manoeuvre Nostradamus Bradman. They were as outclassed as the clumsiest drunk against Muhammad Ali in his prime.

To the umpire’s chagrin some younger students began moving the sight screen without consulting the batsman. Bradman couldn’t have cared less. If the ball had of been camouflaged with the pitch and the size of a dehydrated pea, he’d still have spotted it as easily as a beach ball. The kids wanted to see what shots he had besides sixteen kinds of straight drives and they weren’t disappointed. By the tenth over he’d hit the sight screen with a reverse cut and a reverse sweep. He’d turned a yorker into a waist high full toss and smashed it over the wicket keepers head, striking his target with millimetre precision. That particular cherry red blotch formed the pupil of the left eye, of the emerging portrait.

After hearing about the impossible feats occurring on oval one, the players in matches on surrounding grounds dropped their bats and balls, to join the procession to the grandstand. As soon as Randall Grey recognised himself, in the cherry red portrait, he dug a pen and pad from his briefcase and offered his autograph to everyone in sight.

A mysterious suit clad figure looked on from the hill, on the opposite side of the ground. He paid no attention to the laptop perched on his briefcase. The way his eyes flitted from one part of the sight screen to another was reminiscent of a child playing Where’s Wally, but there was clearly no striped t-shirt figure to be seen.

Nostradamus Bradman wasn’t merely controlling the trajectory of his cherry bullets, he was imparting the ideal amount of spin for the red blotches to blend into one another as though they’d been applied with a brush. Randal’s pallor was suddenly as grey as his name. His grotesque smirk turned to a snarl, as he realized Bradman had depicted a translation of the tattoo on his right forearm.

The mysterious figure on the hill was suddenly paying more attention to his laptop than the game. Nostradamus had found the translation of Grey’s tattoo in a diary, hidden inside a hollowed out manual for an obsolete computer program. It looked like a password. That was all that Bradman knew.

Grey, his suspected victims and his sabouteurs had been under surveillance for months. Recently he’d communicated with several suspected members of an organized crime network, on the dark web. They were believed to be heroin dealers who had branched out into human trafficking for the purposes of organ harvesting, forced labour, arranged marriages, sexual slavery and hair extensions. In his conversations with these tyrants, Grey alluded to the secret meaning of his tattoo, which consisted of writing in an archaic language the police had been unable to identify let alone decipher.

Using a telephoto lens Detective Sherlock Columbo photographed the jumble of numbers and letters, which he believed was the password to a collection of illegal videos. By the time Columbo and his fellow investigators had finished watching the movies their throats were sore from puking and their abdominal muscles strained from laughing. To say all of them were in desperate need of a holiday is like pointing out that the sun is warmer than frozen hydrogen.

What the investigators discovered was appalling, but not as horrific as what they’d expected to find. If the expressions Randall Grey’s flock of turkeys wore were any indication, they begged to differ. The ones in the audience looked just as shocked at his co-stars. Apparently Grey was a celebrity in avian porn circles. The golden mask and the harpy suit he wore to the bird masquerade ball weren’t enough to conceal his identity from those who knew him best, his turkeys. The investigators were forced to rely on the credits.

Among Grey’s bad habits was leaving his phone in his car. This prevented him from logging into the site and deleting his channel before Nostrodamus Bradman clobbered the battered six stitcher down the ground, striking the remote control for a big screen television, from so far away he’d had to allow for the curvature of the Earth. Bradman’s next attempt missed the intended target by a coat of varnish, sparing Grey’s ancient parents the horror of discovering the true nature of their son’s passion for turkeys.

Bradman indulged in more switch hitting. This time he played a reverse hook, which flew like a Tiger Woods tee shot, soaring over the grandstand, to the top of the hill, in the centre of Grey’s farm, through his kitchen window and into his loungeroom. The ball finally struck the trophy that depicted Grey in a compromising position with a bewildered Ostrich, smashing that monument to his avian amorousness into multiple pieces.

Without the GPS chip embedded into the ball, Bradman would’ve needed to catch a taxi to check the result. He was the only cricketer in history that required expertise in cartography to master his craft.

Grey’s trial took place on the day the finalists for the Archibald Prize were chosen. His entry was among them. On a whim he’d decided to paint his reflection in Julius’s sunglasses. He considered it his worst entry in years, thanks to Julius sub standard modelling. Why he’d made the finals now, after all this time, he had no idea.

There was a delay in proceedings. Grey was out on bail, on the condition that he didn’t go within a mile of a poultry farm. He planned to use the opportunity to stand near his painting, in the Archibald Prize exhibition and listen to everyone’s praise for what he called one of his Rembrandt humbling masterpieces. Despite Julius’ poor performance, Grey fully expected to be the winner.

Meanwhile the philanthropic heavyweights of the Australian art world were in a meeting with the curator of the Art Gallery of New South Wales “It doesn’t matter how long the opening of the exhibition has to be delayed. As long as you don’t jeopardise the structural integrity of the building we don’t care how many walls you have to rebuild twice to get that sight screen in and out” the chairman, Corey Harvard, bellowed. Corey had made a name for himself tattooing unicorn riding Cossacks on to yeti pelts. The man had one hundred and twenty million followers on WordPress.

“Corey, why can’t we just cut the screen into segments and reassemble it?” Ava Ferrari, the horrified engineer protested.

“Miss Ferrari, I suppose you would turn the original Mona Lisa into a puzzle too wouldn’t you, if you thought it would get you out of a few hours of work”

 

A Social Media Memory

Apparently I was struggling to find ends worth photographing that day, I murmured as I gazed at an old lawn bowls photo, dredged up by Facebook memories. When looking to advertise their magnificence, some opt for enough selfies to fill a thousand biographies. I on the other hand, know it’s not looks that matter, it’s how close your bowls are to the jack. “There’s got to be more to life than that” you say. What’s wrong with you?

I’m joking, about bowls feet away from the jack being unworthy of a photo that is. The truth is I was playing against Harry Potter, or someone wearing an invisibility cloak who claimed to be Harry Potter. He nudged the jack away from my perfect deliveries with his invisible bowls. I asked Yoda, the lone spectator, whether it was technology or magic at work. He claimed he didn’t know, but maybe his student Luke Skywalker could enlighten me. Now that’s a hippie name if I ever heard one. I wondered if there was something wrong with Yoda’s liver, he looked more green than the bowling green but blended in well with the shrivelled old men at the bar.

My lonely bowl, towards the back of the green, is what is known as insurance in lawn bowls parlance. In other words it’s strategically placed, in anticipation of your opponent hitting the jack. In hindsight, I think I bought the wrong policy. To be honest it was several millimetres deeper than intended too.

At least I remembered to switch on my alarm clock that day. There is no such thing as slightly late when you are catching public transport and the meeting point is miles from the forest work zone. In lawn bowls vernacular, I am down by four shots but I have one to come. Whatever happened previously one needs to have the mindset that their next delivery will be a resting toucher in the sand, the only invincible shot in the game.

Failure is a lame, herbivorous dog,
who whoops like a sasquatch,
unless you’ve truly given up.
Then failure is a steel cage
constructed from cowardice
and guarded by hyena locksmiths.
Their vultures circle.

Stand up, snap the bars,
beat the demonic scavengers back
to their dilapidated graves.
So what if they create a crater with the chunk
torn from your hands, moments from the dunk.
Refuse to be their slaves.

The tortured have an excuse to give up,
the rest of us should rise up like a pup.
Loping, leaping, creeping Lazarus hordes,
swim all the abomination infested fjords.
Aimless peasants, gloating parasitic lords,
savour the drops lingering in your gourds.
Time to admit there’s no lake in the dry,
purify the ointment seeping from the fly.

You can flap your arms on a landfill mound,
until your box cheats worms underground,
or write music to which your wings march,
swap creased excuses for plans full of starch.

Let defeatist chatter babble like a chimp troupe,
who cares what it does, you’ll crush it into soup.
Then you will drink the broth like a bilge pump,
convert it into dessert, obliterating your slump.

Marching with wings?

You claim there can’t be a procession in the sky?
The ideas in your possession are a cardboard pie.
I’ll go yomping through the upper atmosphere.
Your boring, baffling doubts will soon disappear.
Those who claim nobody can march with wings,
have dreams too small to be struck by sonar pings.

Australian Sporting Culture

You’re afraid of lapping lazy losers until you cook?
This thermometer has not even erupted yet sook.
It’s your destiny to swim in pain, you won’t drown,
it’s not a major fracture, how dare you slow down.
Ignore the blood blisters ballooning in your socks;
the only thing that matters is humbling the clocks.
If you can’t laugh at the river of sweat in your eyes
why look at your empty trophy cabinet in surprise?
To be a true champion you must forever refrain
from confusing discomfort with excruciating pain.
Under the tutelage of coach Penelope Slaughter,
you’ll learn to last, like a pearl diver under water.

Ruby Adagio

With ballerina elegance,
Ruby banishes the brilliance of lesser champions.
She doesn’t blast her opponent’s shots into plywood,
like a crude assassin,
her equivalent of a knockout blow
is as gentle as the valet parking of a vintage Rolls.
As nonchalantly as a child skimming stones across a pond,
she nudges resting touchers into the oblivion of the ditch.

Ruby’s admiration for her adversary’s finest moments
and respectful silence during their botched attempts at glory,
are as legendary as her invincibility.
Others pursue victory, Ruby chases beauty.

The glimmer in the tropical depths of her eyes intensifies
as she sends another shimmering, sailing ship embossed, bowl
arcing across a youthful summer green,
with impossible precision.

 

 

 

Photo

Inglewood Lawn Bowling Club, by Bill Longstaff

http://www.flickr.com/photos/57766598

Some rights reserved, you must acknowledge the author, provide a link to the license and indicate if changes were made. If you alter this work you must distribute your contribution under the same license as the original. You must not restrict others from doing anything the license permits. For further information use the link above.

 

Rambo Knievel

Rambo thinks I’ve got an unnatural fixation
on boring work, health and safety legislation.
I loathe that crazy braggarts sick insinuation
leaping into lakes, from supersonic sidecars,
seconds from organ splattering annihilation,
is the perfect perforation of peaceful paradise.
Risking lacerated limbs and a leaking spleen
is not my means of creating a thrilling scene.
There is no withering of life’s bountiful fruits
in dodging Knievel’s spine shattering pursuits.
I’d rather wander life’s labyrinth with wretches
seeking asylum from illness in acres of sketches,
or lose myself in psychedelic swirls,
orbiting tribes of buxom Goddesses
playing hide and seek in pools of pearls.

It’s usually those riddled with dementia,
who fail to see my craving for adventure.
Adventure minus a tailbone through the brain
risk of parachuting off the Eiffel Tower again.

 

 

 

Photo

Passion Fest MTX 9, by Ken Brynan

Ken Brynan

http://www.flickr.com/photos/kenbrynan/749733825

Some rights are reserved, you must acknowledge the author, provide a link to the license and indicate if changes were made. If you modify this work you are not allowed to distribute it. You must not prevent others from using it according to the license. For further information use the link above.

Featured

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.