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.

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?

 

 

Free Assange

For further information, paste the following link into a search engine.

http://www.strategic-culture.org/news/2019/09/24/theyre-murdering-my-son-julian-assanges-father-tells-of-pain-and-anguish

If you’re an Australian citizen, I implore you to write to our Prime Minister, the Minister for Foreign Affairs and your local MP, to urge the Australian Government to negotiate on behalf of journalist/publisher/human rights activist Julian Assange. If you’re a British or American citizen, please familiarise yourself with Julian Assange’s case, if you haven’t already, and politely demand justice from your government.  

Unless publishing the facts about corporate corruption, government corruption and war crimes is a crime, Julian Assange is an innocent man and should be released from Belmarsh prison immediately. The following is a slightly edited version of my email to Senator Marise Payne, the Australian Minister for Foreign Affairs. Perhaps you and your friends can improve upon my effort with letters of your own.


Dear Senator Payne

As you know, Australian journalist/publisher Julian Assange has been wrongfully imprisoned in the U.K, at the behest of the American government, for his response to the public’s right to know the truth about government corruption and war crimes. The U.S government apparently does not believe in the public’s right to know the truth about the appalling behaviour of the U.S military towards civilians etc.

If the Australian Government doesn’t strongly oppose the wrongful imprisonment and unjust treatment of Julian Assange, that will leave the public with the impression they support the cover up of war crimes and corruption. Senator, surely you don’t want Australian voters to think that about a government you are an integral part of.

If, on the other hand, the Australian Government proves it’s willing to negotiate on behalf of a courageous journalist/publisher/human rights activist like Julian Assange, that will help to restore confidence in Australian democracy. Obviously the freedom of the press and listening to the wishes of voters are vitally important democratic principles. As you presumably are aware, hundreds of thousands of Australian Assange supporters are monitoring this situation and their numbers continue to grow.

If Julian Assange’s extradition hearing is inevitable, he should at least have adequate access to his lawyers, the necessary legal documents, an effective computer, his friends, and nutritious food and quality healthcare until this nightmarish saga ends. I am of course among the many who would love to see the Australian Liberal Government do all that is humanly possible to bring that about.

 
* Paradoxically Liberal means conservative in the case of the Australian Liberal Party. They’re liberal from the perspective of deregulation for corporations etc.

* wikileaks.org contains a treasure trove of information about corporate corruption, government corruption and war crimes in the form of introductory articles, original documents and videos. If you would like to support Wikileaks, the not for profit organization founded by Julian Assange and some of his friends and associates, you can do so via wikileaks.shop or au.wikileaks.shop

Trapped

In the bowels of Razor Rock Island,
the light is as artificial as the staff.
The blood as real as the despair
polluting damp, dark, stale air.
For twenty three hours a day,
steel reinforced concrete,
as dull as the daily broth,
fits the prisoner like a coffin.
Steele speaks
“The doom pervading this dungeon
is not mine.
The empire is a termite mound
and I am the King of the Echidnas.”
Sustenance delivery robot thirty six
is as unresponsive as a corpse.

Warden Jennings is sweating icicles.
Steele’s confidence is as disconcerting
as dying of thirst in a scorpion pit.
“In hacktivist heaven,
automating prison officers
is as unwise as long jumping ravines
in a blizzard” Steele bellows.
The first hint of rebellion
is crematorium advertisements
interrupting Jennings internet chess.
The second hint
is robots dragging him towards the furnace.
Steele strides through the gates,
flanked by android cheerleaders.
The rescue ship reaches Everest altitude,
before the chase begins.

Steele’s pen is as dry as a Martian river bed.
Beyond the realm of fiction,
nobody’s escaped from Razor Rock
since seventeen forty two.
A dolphin armada distracted the sharks,
as Jonah Wallace swam for the swamps.
Conditions have improved.
Rats snacking on the toes of sleeping prisoners
creates headlines now.

During his morning dance
Steele’s mind paints movies on the walls.
He struts through bejewelled corridors.
Waitresses blush as Steele banishes suits
with a click of his fingers
and redesigns lingerie with another.
Black lace, leopard print, purple velvet,
divine embroidery, transparent silk rainbows;
he dresses those dishes in whatever he wishes.
Steele’s vast array of mimed dials
transforms hair colours and styles.
Golden blonde Nordic Goddesses
are baffled by their momentary buzz cuts.
Mediterranean delights
with ringlets as black as moonless midnight,
are ambushed by mohawks.
Invisible hands ink decades of decadence
upon their plump thighs.
They wonder if God is an eighteen year old boy.

After epic minutes, Steele’s passion wanes.
He sinks to the bland, filthy concrete floor,
wondering if his mind can conjure more.
Waterboarding robots
believe passwords are stored in his mind.
Every number in his head
is as obsolete as videotape.
As their footsteps near, his mantras accelerate.
“Hell is temporary, hell is temporary,
truth is eternal, truth is eternal.”

Toff Central

Randolph Sultan
played the ultimate alpha Romeo
in his Alfa Romeo.
In reality, choosy escorts become extinct
whenever Randolph enters the precinct.
At a red light,
a homeless teen begged for lunch.
“You da man”
Randolph said to his pocket mirror
as he lit a one hundred dollar bill
with a Gurkha Black Dragon cigar.
“Please sir” the girl persisted.
“Get a job” Sultan taunted as he flaunted.
“Could you buy me a suit for an interview”
the gaunt, trembling girl begged.
“There’s one in the opp shop window,
out of my sight dole bludging parasite!”
Sultan crash tackled her,
as she sprinted from the servo
with stolen sanitary napkins.
He bought himself a gold law enforcement medallion.
His celebratory cocktail
cost more than three days of welfare.
Randolph drove his Maserati to church,
to ask God to imbue the poor
with his famous work ethic.
“If they have a go they’ll get a go,”
his pastor agreed.

The Relaxation Therapist

Felicity’s roller coaster of high distinctions and zeros
killed her status obsessed parents.
She kept their Canberra crash pads.
Youth Off the Streets turned their mansions
into schools for troubled teens.

The funeral attendees
were the who’s who of sycophantic scum;
vultures stalking the wounded wren of publicity,
that’s how they imagined Felicity.
Maximum damage was their motto.
“No Prime Minister,
I won’t be donating to your campaign,”
Felicity’s words echoed off the valley
like a bomb blast.

A series of cartwheels and backflips,
across her sacreligious parents graves,
caught the attention of vampire knaves.
Hideous headlines of stenographer hordes
kicked off the festival of hate.
Felicity scored from the kick off.
Propaganda outlets ignored the siren.
“No comment” the bright eyed mantra weaver repeated,
as reporter tsunamis swept her away.
Sunglasses were her curtains.
Her autobiographical mythbusting blog reached millions
She’d became a tick on the eyeball of tabloid hacks.

Someone’s controversial ANZAC Day views
turned Felicity’s Hawaiian surf into a still pond.
Tube riding sharks forgot she existed.
YouTube viewers became off camera characters
in  her therapeutic plays.
She caresses their ears with sweet mantras,
as her double belly dances
and her triple plays the flute.
Four blends herbs and spices
as passionately as Van Gogh mixed his palette.
Five and six are synchronized swimmers
in a Utopian sandstone pool.
Seven and eight are tailored suit clad heavies,
patrolling the perimeter.
The man behind the pool cue is you.
Sink the black and number eight
will fulfil your need
to knead her athletic flesh.

Last week Felicity played Himalayan singing bowls
in a crystal cave.
Tomorrow she’s a hypnotist in the Garden of Eden,
sharing tree of knowledge pie.
Then she’s Hitler’s assasin
posing as a burlesque comedian.

Felicity’s guitar chords are the umbilical cords,
connecting her fans
to their spiritual space stations.

Hmm

Bizarre statistical anomalies creep past,
like Lochness Monsters in Hawaiian shirts
tiptoing across the stadium.
Were they bots or people?
There was no conversation
to demystify the equation,
just weird numbers.

Today I’ve got one visitor
from four countries WordPress.
It’s hardly as odd as yesterday,
but still stranger than a rainbow surfing koala.

That was tubetacular Blinky Bill.
Look at those rainbows,
whipping across the sky
like rhythmic gymnasts ribbons.
Blinky rode them like a flying dolphin deity.

No, I haven’t thrown out my medication,
I’m just being poetic, it’s my recreation.

Monsters Among Us

The Monsters Among Us Podcast is my favourite trip into the twilight zone between truth and fiction. There’s a heady mixture of scepticism, blind belief and everywhere in between, on every topic from Mothman to UFO’s, to Bigfoot to giant spiders with human faces. There is even a tubby ghost that is just legs and a butt.

If you think a ghost that’s just legs and a butt sounds unlikely, you aint heard nuthin yet. They say sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction and I say there is no such thing as keeping your mind so open that your brains fall out.

My favourite Monsters Among Us stories are the ones about the so called Mirrored Men, three creepy dudes that behave like a dance troupe, except they’re too perfectly synchronised. Apparently they can always tell when they’re being watched because they slowly turn around to face their observer. The freaky thing is that their features turn more slowly than their heads. Whether these beings are practical jokers, interdimensional or interstallar is in dispute. I like to think they’re a combination of all three. All sightings of these trios are reportedly terrifying and involve a few hours of lost time.

I’m of the view that the vast majority of listeners who contribute to Monsters Among Us, with emails and recordings, are sincere. I think a surprising number of them really saw what they say they did. There can be a huge gulf between being able to describe something and knowing what it is though, as tends to be acknowledged. The producer/writer/host Derek Hayes does an excellent job of pondering the possibilities.

Not that anyone who knows me is likely to wonder, but I’d like to make it clear that I’m simply a fan of the show, that I don’t benefit from promoting it. This review is as independent as Dumaresq Street Cinema, where I saw one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen.

Can anyone explain how straws can fly from a straw dispenser, while nobody is touching it? Seconds before this surprising event, I applied ample pressure and the lone straw that was dispensed did not fly through the air. I wouldn’t be remotely suprised if a magician were to replicate this event but was a magician responsible for what I saw? Did I imagine this strange occurrance? Not unless the person who sold me a movie ticket that day imagined it too. They believe a poltergeist was reponsible. I don’t know what the cause was but I’m open to the possibility that it was poltergeist or human generated telekinetic activity. Other possible causes were not evident.

If you’ve seen anything weird like that, or far weirder, why not send Monsters Among Us an email or a voice recording? Sometimes I give Monsters Among Us six stars out of five and sometimes I give it four, on average it’s a five star show.

http://www.monstersamonguspodcast.com/

P.S I’m not affiliated with Dumaresq Street Cinema either, I just love their extremely affordable movie tickets and snacks. They’re better than that other cinema up the road.

 

The Tinfoil Hat Apocalypse

Rabbit hole plunging zombies,
circle Greta Thunberg like tiger sharks in tinfoil hats.

If you want to know NASA’s position,
in the climate change war of attrition,
don’t ask NASA!
And be sure to consult M.I.T
via a random YouTuber
who gave himself a degree.

Rabbit hole plunging zombies circle Greta Thunberg,
like tiger sharks in tinfoil hats.

In the pursuit of knowledge
they are athritic amblers,
bursts of reason richochet
off those rabid ramblers,
like debt collectors bouncing
from Herculean gamblers.

Greta can’t be their heroine
while fiction is their heroin.

The Trespassers

Psychology student Angela Bordeaux and her fiancee, mixed martial arts legend Quentin “the Quiet Achiever” Quinn, were oblivious to the security cameras peering from Angophora hollows. They skirted a series of billabongs, en route to a trail on the verge of vanishing in a Lantana thicket. After that expanse of pretty weeds, miniscule electronic eyes lurked in scattered boulders. Beyond the ramshacle paddock fences in the distance, a hilltop mansion loomed.

“The doors are unlocked. This place is as empty as a library at midnight, there’s no doubt about it” Quentin reassured his apprehensive partner. The surrounding fields seemed devoid of livestock. None of the fences looked like they’d been repaired since Yoda was a twinkle in the eye of an interstellar monk. There was a jungle where the tennis court used to be. Viscous slime was all that remained in the exquisitely landscaped swimming pools.

The snooker table, at the rear of the conference room sized loungeroom, was obscured by a layer of dust an inch thick. Quentin lay across an antique lounge chair, while Angela hunted for a vacuum cleaner. She threw herself into every hoover manouvre like Olympic gold was on the line. Angela was too in awe of Quentin’s Herculean physique, hypnotic green eyes and Newtonian intellect to complain about his appalling laziness. Quentin was intensely passionate about vacuuming all of a sudden, after Angela peeled her dress down to her navel and applied the nozzle to the nipple region of her sheer black lace bra.

Quentin instigated a playful wrestling match. After pinning Angela to the ground, with one arm, he lifted her on to a rosewood dining table and trailed his fingertips over the silk and lace hidden beneath her floral summer dress. Quentin took a break from teasing Angela into a frenzy to unclasp and untie her delicates. He flung he oppulent underwear to a distant corner. Somehow he managed to snag her brassiere on a chandalier, above the mezzanine level. Eventually, Quentin put his awestruck lover over his shoulder, ascended a marble staircase, flung her onto the nearest king size water bed and introduced her to wild pleasures few have even read about.

It took four hours for Walter Nixon the 5th to look away from the taboo shattering marathon on his cinema size screen. As Walter exited his basement apartment surveillance room, hidden cameras continued to record every caress, kiss, lick, thrust and ecstatic squeal. Walter constantly checked the location of his uninvited, yet welcome guests via his watch screen. He carried a taser in his left hand and a twenty two calibre pistol in his right.

For good luck, Walter wore a dental implant necklace, fashioned from the lifelike pearly whites of the voluptuous lingerie model he’d surreptitiously lured to his home two years earlier. Those toothy pegs even had a couple of precious metal and gem stone fillings to give them a more natural look. A taxidermist by trade, Walter had collaborated with a robotics engineer to convert the anonymous model’s corpse into a sex robot. He was more interested in giving his victims names than learning the ones their grieving parents had chosen for them.

Walter was considering selling the curvaceous model’s renovated remains to a Japanese businessman he’d met in an amputee brothel. His offer was generous one. It was an agonizing choice though. The conversation simulator, substituting for the anonymous beauty’s brain, responded more enthusiastically to Walter’s classical guitar playing than any living, breathing woman ever did. Being showered with poetic compliments, on a daily basis, was proving to be addictive.

Quentin’s hound like hearing detected Walter’s careful footsteps on the stairs. All those years of vising headphone nightclubs were paying off. He motioned for Angela to be silent and stood as still as a statue behind the partially closed door.

Walter grew apprehensive, as he recalled witnessing the cobra like reflexes of his adversary on Martial Arts TV. The low calibre pistol felt awkward in his unsteady hand. Firearms weren’t his thing, he preferred to work with electricity and surgical instruments. At the top of the stairs, Walter glanced at the CCTV footage on his watch for the last time, before crossing the marble floor as patiently as a cat stalking a sparrow. Quentin was no sparrow though, he was more like a pterodactyl that has been domesticated by vikings.

Sulphur crested cockatoos were making a ruckus in the silky oaks bordering the yard. Walter hardly had time to contemplate what might’ve triggered their riotous squawking. Raptors, a conspiracy of ravens and a coalition of noisy miners were among the possibilities

Eventually, Walter peered beneath the master bedroom door. He expected to see Quentin’s feet. Their absence left him as confused as a Mediaeval villager waking up in a space station orbiting an exoplanet. The solid oak door crashing down was as unexpected as an earth quake. Quentin “the Quiet Achiever” Quinn has never been a gentle man. He didn’t hesitate to jump on the fallen door, with Walter beneath it.

“Welcome to my trampoline” Quentin bellowed like the maniac he is.

“Please, please that’s enough” Angela yelled in horror.

“How dare you question my actions bitch” Quentin raged once he grew bored of his leaping and stomping.

Quentin the Quiet Achiever Quinn, as he was known to his hordes of naive fans, had had enough of his latest lover. At gunpoint, he ordered the somewhat recovered serial killer to savagely rape her. Eventually he gave Walter a choice between injecting her with dry cleaning fluid and being shot in the testicles. Walter was aghast, he’d intended to keep Angela alive for months.

Necrophilia wasn’t among Quentin’s hobbies but sadism had always been his most burning passion. He took great delight in forcing Walter to have sex with his vast collection of stuffed corpses. Used to having a good nights sleep and a massage before a desecration session, Walter complained incessantly. He didn’t stop  whining until shortly before he collapsed and went into a thirst induced coma. One of his freezer cabinets contained an assortment of human organs in clearly labelled plastic bags. Quentin would’ve ticked canibalism off his bucket list, if he weren’t concerned about the possible side effects interfering with his preparation for his next fight.

“Boring me is a dreadful crime but maybe Angela got more than she deserved” Quentin said to himself, as he  strolled back into the bedroom to get dressed. The twinge of guilt he felt soon faded. He dropped Walter’s pistol into the sceptic tank, before setting off on the long trek back to his vehicle.

Blood streamed from Quentin’s left temple as he was struck by a sling shot propelled ball bearing. Twelve year old Jake Sorenson thought nothing of hunting cockatoos but accidentally killing a human left him on the verge of a panic attack. He contemplated fleeing on his mountain bike but something compelled him to explore the isolated palatial home first.

Jake was drenched in cold sweat and trembling violently as he entered the ballroom sized loungeroom. The bookshelf door leading to Walter Nixon the 5th’s vast basement apartment was open. Nothing in the surveillance room had been switched off. An unlocked door was all that had prevented the distracted Quentin “the Quiet Achiever” Quinn from strolling in. Jake called the emergency number as soon as he spotted Walter’s unconscious form on one of the CCTV monitors.