The Cockroach Guru

Mr Bellinger was busy marking essays
reminiscent of the work of typing monkeys,
when his siblings died
in a head on collision with a road train.
Their brakes had been declared perfect,
by a mechanic as suspect
as a property developer’s ecological survey.

Without elaborating, Bellinger described his holiday
as “less fun than a choice between
having his brain vacuumed through his nose
and his liver extracted with a spoon”
Mister Piccolo, the music co-ordinator,
found his colleague more depressing
than a legless Taekwondo addict.

Bellinger’s first morning back

was as dull as dusting a warehouse one speck at a time,
and more tricky than untangling plaited vas deferens.
Being weeks from retirement,
was all that kept him from slashing his wrists.

Bellinger expected the final bell to be as exhilarating
as beating a forest fire to a barren hilltop.
During lunch, he dreamt of a bamboo massage parlour,
in a patch of urban rainforest;
it’s cosy atmosphere awash with Cedar oil.
He’d started marking at four a.m
so there was time to treat himself
to the closest thing to fulfilling his fantasy.

First, Bellinger had to judge a speech contest.
Was the current leader worthy of an award,
he wondered,
as the final speaker 
strode to the podium.
Guessing Huon Stratton’s  topic

was like wondering if the Melbourne Cup
is going to be a horse race this year.

Bogans, nerds and distinguished scholar,
I wanted to explore the evolutionary history of Blatta orientalis,
but Bellsy said that would be less entertaining
than watching gangrene spread,
that I need a topic more lighthearted than infanticide.
If I can’t convince you learning about cockroaches is fun,
I’ll wear a hot pink mankini to the swimming carnival.

The cockroach brain is decentralized
so don’t be surprised if the one you decapitated,
with a razor blade, last week, is still alive.
Do not despair, ultimately it will succumb to thirst .
Due to it’s rectal water re-absorption you might die first.

Roaches can spit but can’t blow bubbles.
Alas they will never know the joys of bubble gum.
Incapable of burping,
or playing the gas bugle
they’d be insectoid gelignite,
before the end of the night,
if it weren’t for teeth below their oesophagus.

Cockroach kidneys writhe like snakes
as they frantically pump toxins from their blood.
Dracula deduced they’re are as good as juiced;
they have no blood vessels.

Roaches probably aren’t religious
but Ramadan would be a stroll through the dinner scraps
for these nuclear holocaust survival candidates.
They’d think nothing of enforced fasting for a month.

If cockroaches were Catholics the Pope would love them;
male roaches present their mates with sperm packages
wrapped in protein coats,
leaving them perpetually pregnant.

Cockroaches Achilles heel is poor eyesight in red light,
so they’re easy to kill in strip clubs.
Elsewhere they’re hard targets
for the swiftest of clown shoes.

Motion detecting hairs on their posterior
make the average stalker feel so inferior;
ordinary hunters are bound to despise
the two thousand lenses in their eyes.
It’s hard to envelope these insect Houdini’s
when they can slip through cracks as thin as an envelope.
Some species are harder to detect than stealth bombers;
small enough to hide in ant nests.

These ninjas of the insect world
are engineering marvels
but forensic experts would gladly break
all eighteen of their knees,
because roaches like to
track the arterial flow of murder victims across ceilings.
Many are globetrotting fugitives,
thumbing their nose at extradition treaties.
They’re stowed on ships and planes
before disgruntled crime scene technicians
and outraged cooks know they’ve fled.

In the seventeenth century the Danish Navy
dealt cockroaches self-esteem a stinging blow
by offering a bounty of a single bottle of brandy
per thousand carcasses.
William Bligh, captain of the Bounty,
once de-roached his entire ship with boiling water,

For the sports nuts among you,
cockroaches scale speed is on par with top fuel dragsters,
those finely tapered vehicles with parachutes for brakes.
Fortunately their reflexes would embarrass
formula one driver Michael Schumacher,
at the pinnacle of his prowess,
otherwise they’d be crashing into the fridge a lot.
The machinery driving these fiendish super athletes
has animatronic wizards salivating.
Insect dance troupes beckon.
These athletic marvels can spin fast enough
to make a ballerina’s brain explode
from the centrifugal force.
Roaches can hold their breathe
from kick off to half time in the football
so white water rafting murder plots
are dead in the water before they’re concocted.

Is mixed martial arts your favourite sport?
Male Madagascan hissing roaches
possess horns for ramming rivals
from their alpha male mantles.
Sadly their trash talking is indecipherable.

During the Middle Ages
it was customary to release cockroaches
into new dwellings.
Today, outside of sporting circles,
roaches aren’t so widely revered.
In a Plano, Texas, Cockroach Hall of Fame,
Liberoachi was the star attraction.
He sat at a miniature grand piano,
his white mink cape
as flamboyant as his dazzling claw strokes.

Mr Bellinger cleared his throat.
“If the winner is like a blue ribbon bonsai,
older than the Sphinx.
The also rans are
 toxic weeds
that germinated yesterday.

Sir, the art of pun sai, the forerunner of bonsai,
originated in the eighth century China.
The Sphinx dates back to 2494 BC.

Poets licence Huon, poets licence.

They must be easier to get than drivers licenses.
Sir, did you know the Egyptian desert roach,
Polyphaga aegyptiaca, can absorb water vapour?

Mister Stratton, did you know first prizes
can be arbitrarily revoked?
Bellinger was smiling, like a kid in a toy store.
For the first time since the Carter administration,
he considered working until nursing home heavies,
dragged him from his desk.

Mystery Flight

An otherworldly flying machine landed in the lake
as vertically as the cliff diving daredevils before it.
The roof opened, like the shutter on a camera,
to reveal a stage. Sound smiths glided into position.

‘I’m Opal Flame and we are Stone Fireworks,’
the front woman roared
with the intensity of a concussion bomb.
She launched into the first verse,
of a song she hadn’t written yet.

‘Strang strums her chords of inspiration,
Drummond’s tropical ocean eyes blaze
with freestyle motor cross concentration.
From the semi darkened stage to the sea
her furious beats meld with my recitation.

The flaming canyon on my dress says I’m wild
The river between claims my beauty is serene.
The glint in my eye says I’m anything but mild.

Forget the album, my spirit needs renewing;
the storm flies, it’s a manic medley brewing;
Stone Fireworks is a geyser of sublime tricks,
bolder than Mandela, as different as Hendrix.

Drummond’s sticks are a blurry dance,
a wizard’s soaring chords take a chance,
I’m catapulted into an adlibbing trance;
Stone Fireworks

In flight writing and reciting igniting;
between Adelaide and Belgrade,
Budapest and Bucharest,
there’s no time to book a rest.

At the top for a geo age,
we float to centre stage,
to melt the world’s rage.
Stone Fireworks

In flight writing and reciting igniting;
our rhythm is robotic, the beat hypnotic,
the retreat amniotic – Stone Fireworks.

Asteroid sized opals strike black holes, on a 3D screen.
It’s the dullest of doldrums after all your ears have seen.

An Insight into 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.

Ebenezer Scrooge’s First Flight

The airport is slightly more interesting
than a bus terminal.
The zero gradient travellator is fascinating,
if you’re the kind of person
whose eyes are ablaze with excitement
over the latest development in detergent technology.
Gwendolyn, the older lady beside me, is such a person.
The deranged bitch
is acting like a teenager on a roller coaster.
They say the world needs to
halve its population and half it again.
Oh how I’d love to start with Grandma Gwen.
The waiting room is less fun than a medical centre.
At least there, you overhear a few snippets
about the dodgy bowels and brain infections
of peasants soon to rid the earth
of their intolerable presence.

It’s boarding time,
time to say goodbye to the quaint,
ridiculous puppets in this Thunderbirds re-run.
The sweetly smiling twit of a stewardess
expects me to return her good cheer,
how wonderful to see her shrink away
in the face of my evil laughter.
“In business class I’d be as happy
as a pick pocket in a casino” they said.
I’m not sacrificing compound interest for fleeting luxuries.
The plane is taxiing across the tarmac now.
Perhaps this experience will soon be more riveting
than watching thrush grow on the tongue
of a Z grade whoremonger.

The disembodied safety demonstration voice
sounds thrilled at the prospect
of wearing a safety light,
while thrashing around in choppy seas,
and watching the plane begin its journey
to the floor of the Pacific.
I brought my own life jacket,
I’m wearing it now.
I’m contemplating destroying my spare,
in case some urchin gets hold of it.
The poet beside me is raving about
how quickly his gaze extends
from Botany to Bundeena to Wollongong,
in the most dreadful flowery language.

The scowling billionaire beside me
is attempting to frighten me to death
with his glowering demonic eyes.
Infants experiment with sound
as we approach the speed of sound.
From miles high blue sky,
sea and cloud are smoky marble.

Distant land vanishes in grey haze.
The obscuring vapour
is the wintry exhalations of Poseidon,
strolling between Melbourne and Van-Diemens Land,
in Kosciusko humbling gumboots.
King and Flinders Islands are stepping stones
to the God of the ocean’s backyard.
Ocean precipitation was his perspiration.

Descending into Launceston – ocean, beaches,
forests, patchwork of paddocks, pine plantations,
clear felled sample of Armageddon,
open cut mines, urban sprawl, country manor,
vast treeless acreage; descending rapidly,
Launceston grows to Cockington Green proportions.

Eco Warriors, Part 7

If they’d watched the news
Dangerous and Jumping Giles would’ve seen
CCTV footage of Dangerous versus the Westvale Boys
and Jumping Giles standing idly by sipping a Frozen Coke.
Mirror Boy and his cohorts
had robbed two service stations in twenty minutes
before their stoush with the most feared weed sprayer
since Genghis Khan took a dislike to his palace garden.

Laura Bogan missed the news as well.
She was busy ringing Dangerous Dylan Donovan
to interrogate him about misuse of company vehicles.
“Speeding on two wheels is against company policy?
Since when?
I’m busy darlin, The Warlords are playin.
I’ve got five hundred riding on the first scorer.
We’ll talk about work at work.
Then again, I’ll probably be too busy then too.”
Dangerous turned the volume down,
knowing Laura would yell for ages
before pausing to discover he was gone.
He recorded every call from Laura Bogan
and sent the audio files to Ricardo
to summarise the death threats.

Not content with disturbing Dangerous Dylan Donovan
during a Western Sydney Warlords match,
Laura Bogan made the mistake
of offending Richard Johnson again.
“What do ya mean we can’t arm drones with herbocide cannins.
I could fly em by remote control from my car
during an extended lunch break.
I’d neva be more than two feet
from an ice cold six pack.”
“Garth Izzard just isn’t prepared to pay
for that kind of technology”
Within moments of Laura being out of sight
Richard had stolen her diary again
and sped off on another Office Works escapade.
There was a strong police presence in the shredder section
and Melanie Tulip’s new trousers
were as opaque as a fortress.
Had he driven to the shops for nothing?
An enraged Johnson
wreathed photo copier laden shelving
high into the air.
Each rep was more reckless than the last.

Exasperated with the local police’s refusal
to risk pepper spraying or tasering Richard Johnson
the manager tried a different tack.
“If I give you this state of the art shredder for free
will you promise to never come back?”
“I will consider your offa” Johnson replied
as he headed for the car park, shredder in hand.
It made short work of Laura Bogan’s
forty thousand words of meticulous fabrication.
Richard made a phone call to Oliver Oxford,
who he hoped has taken time out from bird watching
to fill up his herbicide spray pack.

Matt Rush rang Laura Bogan,
to request a copy of the diary she’d been discussing forever.
Richard Johnson listened intently.
Eight kookaburras and five goannas suffered from strokes
during his fits of maniacal laughter.
The electronic copy of Laura’s diary
had been mysteriously deleted from her laptop
and online back up.
Using her name for the password
had proved to be a bad idea.

Every member of the crew knew Lady Justice’s guillotine
was about to descend upon Laura Bogan, except her.
It was a guillotine they’d all had a hand in
building, sharpening and polishing.

“Closed circuit television footage will show
that since the beginning of the job
Laura has repeatedly left site during lunch
without returning until mid afternoon”
read an email from Ricardo to Matt Rush.
Garth Izzard openly agreed,
during a video conference call.
“It’s true Matt, it was quite cunning
how Miss Bogan avoided the regular trails
and built her own personal gates
but not as cunning as Dangerous Dylan Donovan’s
repositioning of the perimeter cameras.

Realizing she was destined for a long walk to the bus stop
Laura Bogan attempted to ring
her cousins for a lift and to organise a hit
on Ricardo Hohns and Dangerous Dylan Donovan.
In their current predicament
it was surprising they’d managed to keep their phones.
What was less surprising
was that they were in prison for the armed robbery
of two Westvale service stations
and conspiring to rob a third.

 

Miss Nothing

She’s ‘The Nothing’ in ‘The Neverending Story’,
so well disguised as aurora polaris
and triple rainbow sunrises, people chase her.
The way she flaunts her body,
leaves the impression
it’s her first day with boobs, hips and buttocks,
an unlikely scenario for a twenty nine year old.
Her profile has the obligatory nightclub toilet
and bedroom mirror selfies.
A fake lesbian kiss
is followed by barely existent bikini shots.
The artist of the mural, in her parkland pic,
is better known than Halley’s Comet
and talent like hers more rarely seen,
but to Miss Nothing she’s as anonymous
as the galahs in their leaf litter graves.
All she knows is the painting complements
her matching handbag and heels
and the glue factory doesn’t.
Her most artistic experience, that summer,
was perusing a cocktail menu.
By morning, that journey of discovery
was as forgotten as men with
 crooked noses
and empty wallets.

 

 

Strange Days

Jerome’s memory of the office Christmas party
was as vague as a tabloid horoscope,
yet he was sure his position
remained as unsinkable as an iceberg.
If he’d done anything as disastrous
as texting his penis modelling portfolio to the board
or slapping the gardener,
for neglecting the plastic plants,
he’d remember wouldn’t he?
He staggered to the letterbox,
to rummage through fast food vouchers
and get rich quick schemes
and failed to find anything more useful
than a bunker busting bomb
in an archaeologist’s tool box.

Jerome made climbing the garden stairs
look as death defying as swimming across
an alligator infested swamp,
before passing out in the lift.
He woke to discover he was made up like a geisha girl.
A temporary tattoo of Donald Trump
covered his left butt cheek.
Giggling could be heard in the distance.
He’d been wearing trousers when he entered the lift hadn’t he?
His party hat, that he remembered;
the sparkly silver thong he didn’t.

Jerome made climbing into his bunk
look as challenging as visiting a Sequoia tree house.
The sun would’ve had better luck
turning a necropolis into a hectic metropolis,
than rousing him before evening.
The belief he’d slept for twenty six hours,
stunned him like a taser.
His reflection mirrored his thoughts,
it took seven clones to keep pace.
The Sorenson’s Surreal Art Gallery voucher,
beneath the door, inspired curiosity
like a helicopter hovering over a stone age tribe.

The remnants of Jerome’s hangover faded, enroute to the station.
Judging by his shirt, strawberries grow on watermelons,
peaches on pineapples and grapes on coconuts,
and it’s all the fruit of singing avocado trees.

The solitary figure on platform four
was stranger than Jerome’s clothes.
His Dickensian suit and cobra tipped, floral walking stick,
weren’t as odd as his robotic dance between vending machines.
He chose a can of ice cold coconut milk,
poured it into his packet of pumpkin chips
and gazed at the over flow
as though it were as entrancing as Victoria Falls.
Saluting an Ibis,
as it salvaged half eaten chicken burgers,
from a broken bottle littered bench,
was an attempt to blend in.

“All stations to the city circle on platform two,
departing in one minute”
Jerome spun and boarded.
An old guy, in a Cannibal Carcass t-shirt,
listened to The Demonic Pixie’s Greatest Hits,
without headphones.
Desperate to escape this brain bleed inducing noise,
Jerome race walked four carriages. Once every set of doors
were as shut as a jar of funnel webs,
he barely heard that demonic audio cancer.
His ears were ambushed by distant doof, doof,
as monotonous as a life sentence in solitary confinement.

With the urgency of a man caught between
a flood of boiling mud and a river of lava,
he fled to the top deck.
Two phone Talia was half infomercial echo,
half gossip mag journo wannabe.
Pounding exclamation points
infested her ten words per second.

In a bid to block out her inane chit chat
Jerome salvaged a tattoo magazine
from an abandoned brief case.
An almond-eyed beauty,
with a cherry blossom branch
protruding from her black satin briefs,
distracted him from the reappearance
of the nineteenth century relic,
with the cobra tipped floral walking stick.
His high-performance phone
had eighteen years battery life remaining.

With a shirt like that
you must be on your way to Horace Hill Graffiti Labyrinth”
“I’m headed for Sorenson’s Surreal Art Gallery” Jerome insisted.
The dapper stranger found Jerome’s denials more absurd
than Tiger Woods staring blankly at a golf club.
“Horace Hill awaits you” he proclaimed,
before zoning out more completely than an interstellar astral traveller.
Glare tentacles prodded his abnormally large eyes.
He turned away and stared
in the perpetually jabbering two phone Talia’s direction,
as though she were part of her seat.
Jerome and Talia both stepped off at the wrong station
to escape the strangest man on the planet.

At the bus stop,
a voluptuous Goddess’s, flowery summer dress
lapped against her shapely sandalled feet.
The breeze threatened to send her hem into orbit.
The floral satin Jerome may’ve glimpsed,
vanished like a Thylacine in the undergrowth.
Beyond thinking, he followed her on to the 458.
Her hips were so broad,
squashing against her was the only way
to avoid tripping old ladies in the aisle,
As she turned to read a street sign,
one of her snugly suspended breasts,
pressed against his arm.

The bus went from cheetah to snail pace in a nanosecond.
Burning rubber invaded their air-conditioned sanctuary.
“This is Horace Hill, Graffiti Labyrinth darling,
with a shirt like that, it must be your stop.
Have you lost your irises” she teased.
The kiss she boldly planted on Jerome’s begging lips
was affectionate, yet chaste.
“Come with me”
It was the closest she came to asking a question.

The radically eccentric fellow,
with the cobra headed floral walking stick,
manned the ticket booth.
How had he arrived so swiftly?
Could a man like that have doppelgangers?

Once inside Jerome lost all sense of size and direction.
In the colloseum,
netballers moved as gracefully as ballet dancers.
Music erupted from sub court speakers.
They were their own cheerleaders.
Their little skirts flared like parachutes
as they leapt, flipped and spun in unison.
From giantess shooters to petite centres,
Jerome savoured every glimpse of jungle camouflage silk,
“This direction” Jasmine prompted.

“Which way now, through the hippy praying mantis’s eyeball,
or the beatnik koala’s pouch?”
“I don’t know”
Jasmine’s authoritarian stare said “that’s not good enough”
“Um, um, the beatnik koala’s pouch.”

“Introducing Graham H Goalposts Smith,
the high priest of The Obscure Poets Club,
The Original, Mr Ultra Cool, Ice Cold,
The Terrestrial Scuba Diver,
a man who can put the floor
of the Mariana Trench under the microscope,
while break dancing on Chomolungma’s nose.
See how he strides to the stage like Hughes jaguar,
to enact a rap battle between Apollo and Seshat.”
To Jerome and Jasmine’s uneducated ears,
the ancient Greek and Egyptian Gods he channelled
spoke fast forward gobbledegook.
They left to explore spray art mazes.

Some works were as provocative
as children, orphaned by I.D.F bulldozers,
painting Swastikas on Zionist extremist memorials;
others were LSD on concrete,
hybrid storms plummeting to Atlantis,
on submersibles moulded from the shit,
of a dragon butchering, warrior bilby.
The amphibious giraffe man was Jerome’s favourite.
His forked tongue was superior to lassos.
Jasmine preferred the gliding squirrel fish.
Its scales were cinemas for artistic plankton.
Muffled drumming and guitar duels,
bathed their ears in enchantment.
Himalayan singing bowls
synchronised with tap dancers xylophones,
cut the remaining strands,
trapping them in this universe.

During an aquarium submarine cruise,
to a mural maze,
Jasmine undressed with a graceful fluidity,
burlesque Goddesses can only dream of.
Why was a 20th century alarm clock
invading that temple of creativity?

Jerome sauntered to the letterbox on steady feet.
A Sorenson’s Surreal Art Gallery leaflet
Plummeted to the footpath.
Must’ve seen that before I dreamt of it, he reasoned.

The fabulous weirdo with the cobra tipped, floral walking stick,
screeched around the corner in a gold-plated Rolls Royce ute.
The most alluring netball squad/dance troupe in history,
lounged in the Jacuzzi tray,
in jungle camouflage sports briefs and bras.
Falcons had stolen their fluttery little skirts
and paint tight shirts.
Jasmine walked a pack of huskies in the park.
‘You’re going the wrong way’ she screeched,
as he approached the most ostentatious motor vehicle ever built.
She didn’t protest as he strode to the hospital.
Diamonds toppled from low lying clouds, solidifying mid flight.
Once Jasmine caught them
in her purple lace adorned cleavage,
they shone like an amalgam of every precious stone
in existence.

It was a daunting wait.
A triage nurse finally arrived.
“Highly unusual question nurse, am I awake?
Did Socrates just ask me the definition of a dream?
Can you see a woman carrying ethereal gem stones
in her cleavage,
standing at the door with a pack of huskies?
Is slipping DMT in drinks a common bar room prank?
Do DMT trips ever begin as slowly as windows flow
and last for aeons?

“Regarding the bejeweled lady with the huskies,
not that I’m aware of sir.
Haven’t seen or heard Socrates either.
I need to get some details from you.
Firstly, do you have your Medicare Card there?
A doctor will be with you ASAP.”

“Youuu, you’re behind this”
Jerome accused a clown,
who kept four ping pong balls in the air
with his cobra headed, floral walking stick.
“Where did you park your gold plated Rolls Royce ute?”

“We’ve met have we”
the clown replied, while continuing his performance
for children with leukaemia,
on their way to The Enchanted Garden.

“Is he real?” Jerome asked the nurse.

Quality Magnet International

I’m Erskine Jay Magoo,
a product reviewer for Quality Magnet International.
Nobody else turned up at the interview,
and wi would they
wen they wood have had to compete with sum one of my ilk.
I like to call myself a product anal list,
it’s a title worthy of my credentials.
My I.Q is about 98 I reckon,
that’s nearly a hundred per cent.
My vocab you airy is second to nun.
and I don’t need apes to correct my speling
and puncture ashen.
This looks like it’s ment to be a poem,
cos my pear riff a rule vision is playing up,
so I can’t make it two wide.
An I.Q of 98, that puts me rite up there with
Einstein, Newton, Da Vince Sea, Steven Hawk King
and Roberts. My mate Malcolm Roberts,
he showed those scienticians a thing or too
when he was in the senate.
Vegan, the guy who owns Quality Magnet International,
he even gives me free deodorant every day.
He said not to tell anyone he owns Mother Nature’s Aromas too.
That guy is too modest.
Today I’m reviewing the latest arrival
on the Tea Tree deodorant seen.
Vegan has given it a really random name, Leptospermum.
Is that sexy or what!
It reminds me of an island paradise covered in Palm Trees.
Vegan’s not one of those pigs and cows have feelings two types,
he’s a real man.
He’s even puts alcohol in his products.
Alcoholic role on deodorant will come in handy
in the no drinking section at the football.
Leptospermum aye, how’s that for originality.
That other Tea Tree deodorant brand, Thursday Plantation,
they’ll be shitting themselves now.

Underwhelmed

Roland Gibbons,
a workmate with the eloquence of an inebriated goat,
the decorum of a
Grievious Bodily Harm injected feral pig,
and the discretion of a puppy
that wags its tail at serial killers,
asked me what I did on the weekend.
‘Oh you wrote poetry’ he remarked,
with all the energy
of a chronic fatigue syndrome victim,
whose just lost a lung.

Obviously, reading X rated Wonder Woman comics,
while sucking down a six pack
as forcefully as an irrigation pump,
is such a superior past time
to honing one’s literary prowess
I may as well euthanize myself right now.

Art Museum Statue

If I wasn’t stone my back hair would be fleece to lease
but foul, feral fleas are hard to please with granite follicles.
I’m older than the oceans.
For eons I was rock, lava and magma.
I recently became a statue, of a morbidly obese man,
suspended above a barbecue throne, in imitation of levitation.
Touring the world’s premier art galleries
is better than being banished to a storeroom prison,
without a lawyer or a trial.
People watching is my main interest.
If I weren’t frozen in stone it would be easy to smile.
Opposite me is an Arctic oil,
as life like as a voyage on an ice breaker.
To my left is the glow from the window of a 3 a.m poet.

I’m not as content as I was before a descendant of Michel Angelo
released me from the mountainside.
I was happy as an amalgam of crystals on that blizzard swept slope,
but curious about the dying world of the parasitic, bald apes.

My sculptor, Quincy Macquarie, has no faith in quarrymen,
It took seventeen Sherpa’s to wheel my finished form
down ten miles of precipice bordered goat trails.
I was loaded by the mother of all forklifts
on to a second hand Black Hawk helicopter.

This is my ninety ninth gallery.
I’ve had stints in the Louvre, Hollywood sets,
the National Museum of Korea
and Kim Jong-Un’s palatial bedroom; aren’t I glad that’s over.
I currently reside in the penthouse level of birthday world,
an art amusement park.
The graffiti roller coaster looks set to grow beyond the walls
of this towering monument to the ridiculous.

There are peepholes in my skull.
A schoolkid is gawking at my pseudo cerebellum right now.
My brain is a solution of honey and water, in wrinkly, grey plastic.
I need it like relaxation therapy needs Death Metal.
My thinking apparatus is purely subatomic.

Wow, someone dedicated a hectare of wall space
to a photograph of a jumper knitted by an Alzheimers victim.
It’s as shoddy as the web of an acid tripping orb weaver
and as boring as an entire continent reduced to a salt pan.
Thankfully, time is relative to the speed of perception.
I fast forward mistakes and reserve slow motion
for the likes of Marilyn Monroe.
During my Hollywood era I was her telepathic shrink.
Assuming I’m as innocent as a teddy bear
she practised the subway grate scene
in front of me countless times.
I can assure you she wasn’t wearing lace edged virginal white.

New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art awaits me.
Eventually I’d like to combine my interests
in hang gliding, volcanoes and euthanasia.
When I was a little pebble,
I wondered what was all the hullabaloo about youth in Asia.
I look forward to Armageddon.
Live volcanoes will be plentiful then.