Roland Gibbons,
a workmate 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.

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.

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.





Inglewood Lawn Bowling Club, by Bill Longstaff


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.


The Woman with the Flame Robin Tattoo


Masquerade belly dancers flowed across sprung maple,
as effortlessly as mermaids swaying through aquamarine.
Bethany’s shimmering waxed crown
merely altered the flavour of her beauty,
nothing could detract from her radiant gateways
to alternate universes.
She recited my paper aeroplane poem
‘It’s an honour just to see her move.
Oh how I long to taste the rising tide of her nectar,
to inspire an ecstatic lullaby
that escalates into a climactic scream’
‘How bold’, the raised eyebrows
of the translucent robed fantasy weaver proclaimed.
Would you like to see our apartment,
her voluptuous, cocoa complexioned, girlfriend offered,
unaware of the magnitude of my obsession.
Polyamory seemed poisonous then.



That winter I spotted Bethany on ArtisticSingles.com
Her pale jacket was perfectly camouflaged
by a snowy backdrop.
Wayward strands of her wavy dark hair
reminded me of an old world forest,
its Autumn splendour buried beneath ice and snow.
Her serene gaze summoned thoughts of a stone cottage,
in the depths of blizzard ravaged woods;
the harsh glow of electricity
never to illuminate its bronze age walls.
Then she was seated at a grand piano.
Her strapless, emerald, satin dress,
revealed a perfect rendering of a Flame Robin in flight.
I imagined her to be on the verge
of playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.
In a flooded valley,
she snorkelled to within reach
of a mediaeval cathedral spire.
The final photograph was a silhouette
framed in Kirlian colour.
By the time I’d composed a message
her profile had vanished.



Montages of Bethany’s magnificent performances
dominated my thoughts,
as waves thundered into rocks
a thousand rungs below my recliner.
Before I spoke in sentences
a fisherman was swept from the ladder,
in front of my uncomprehending eyes.
With Bethany on a virtual stage before me
I couldn’t finish the first paragraph
of bank heist, ritual murder
and courthouse graffiti articles.
The cabaret theatre finally faded
as a story pondering the disappearance of poets
seized my attention.
According to The Daily Reflection they’d received death threats,
in handwritten calligraphy, on human skin.
The eliminator vowed to throw her rivals
into box jellyfish infested waters.
‘Belly dancing and spoken verse wunderkind Bethany Trellis’
was rumoured to be the latest abductee.

From my cliff top hideaway I scanned the surf
with a powerful telescope,
in search of porpoises and dolphins.
On the tip of a sea ravaged headland,
a Flame Robin adorned woman gazed at the blazing horizon.
Remnants of a mighty wave concealed her.
Spray plummeted to Star Fish havens below.
She’d vanished!
Had the ocean claimed her
or had she departed from the storm whittled stage
as discreetly as a magician?
Was she was real,
or a radiant shard of a shattered mind?



I walked the winding cobblestone lane
from my cliff top village home
to the river mouth.
Trestle tables, laden with baskets of fruit,
lined the path to the shore.

In a vacant meadow,
the girl with the Flame Robin
emblazoned upon her shoulder blade
played a duet with the rising wind.
I waited for one of the villagers
to toss a coin into her barren instrument case,
to prove she was real.
“I feared you’d been abducted and murdered”
were the words imprisoned in my throat.

As I warned off a chihuaha stalking fox,
the enigmatic trobairitz vanished
as swiftly as that shifty canine.



The promotional posters, at Crystal Temple,
were the size of a swimming pool.
I would’ve recognized Bethany’s silhouette minus the aura.
The orchestral splendour of a grand piano
drifted down a spiral staircase,
washing over surreal landscapes
like surf caressing the beach.

The pianists tuxedo was as moulded
to her towering, curvaceous figure as her cocoa skin.
Exquisite lace, nestled beneath her regal ensemble,
was as pronounced as wrought iron wildflowers.
Ladies who’d thought themselves more immune
to the charms of womankind than a eunuch
found themselves in the thrall of her pan-romantic sorcery.
Her Goddess humbling form was upstaged
by the frantic ballet of her talented hands.

Ribbon twirling contortionists
accompanied the sultry musician’s miraculous voyages
into the possibilities of sound.

The most exquisitely proportioned Goddess of music ever deified
was overshadowed by the mystical aura of the host.
If she were an epic poem, the silky smooth thighs,
vanishing beneath her flared satin skirt
would’ve been the least meritorious detail.
It was easy to imagine her sleeveless, iridescent blouse
choreographing the opalescent lighting.

The raven haired, Flame Robin inked, compere
recited a poem from my anthology Phantom Pilgrimage.
Her melodic voice wrapped around the audience
like divine light.

It’s Time to soar beyond the Canopy

Every chrysalis has split asunder,
our wings cannot be overwhelmed
by the deluge following the thunder.’

Adorned by pendants of jade,
we dance in a Wattle glade,
admiring cherry grevilleas
and crimson bouganvilleas,
until the heat begins to fade.

Mauve dusk gives way to moonlight.
Awkwardness melts and passion rises,
expert hands spring intimate surprises.
Sensuous animals and souls embrace
as mouths caress and fingertips trace.
Hearts are healed with summit prizes.

We cross Poseidon Creek by lantern light.
I see word pictures of your soul in auburn eddies,
which I recite before the Sun God
reveals its blazing Cyclops eye.
Venturing back into graffiti defiled urban wild
fails to murder the magic.

At the culmination of that euphoric tale
I thought I saw the vividly hued Robin
inked on her shoulder blade,
fly above the crowd and vanish.
After the dimming and brightening of the lights
her back was a blank canvas no more.
An enigmatic smile graced her lush, blood red lips.
To this day I cannot say
if the flight of the plump, diminutive bird
was a hallucination, special effects or real.



After the show, Charlotte the piano wizard
sold memorabilia in the foyer.
I waited in vain for Bethany to appear.
The oil of her testing the narrative limits of a Spanish guitar,
was it there when I entered the auditorium?
The midnight haired beauty,
on the tip of a sundrenched headland,
hadn’t she been standing beneath a waterfall
before the show?
Her birth name is Bethany Trellis
but only the woman with The Flame Robin Tattoo
captures her layers of mystique.
She is the essence of Bubushka.
Since then I’ve been as close to her
and her piano virtuoso lover as their gourmet dessert,
but my probing questions are met with no more
than a twinkling of her sapphire gaze.



Charlotte was banished
from the realm of the Flame Robin Princess,
after succumbing to the wiles of an actress
who steals lovers with the zeal Stephen Hawking
explores the mysteries of astrophysics.
While Bethany walked the streets,
lamenting the death of the relationship,
a tranquilizer dart missed her
by the width of a violin string.
The gossip mags devoted more ink to pondering
Charlotte’s wary eye bordered jellyfish tattoo.

The anniversary of my paper aeroplane poem
interrupting Bethany’s belly dancing troupe
was as momentous as the moon landing.
I found a copy of Phantom pilgrimage,
with lipstick all over the dust jacket,
hiding beneath free samples and pizza vouchers.
In the evening, a dusty wooden crate
mysteriously appeared on my veranda.
My eyelids outweighed osmium.
I waited to dawn to prise open the lid
and remove three ornately framed canvases:
a telescopic view of a statuesque figure,
on a sun drenched headland;
a close up of the sender
wearing nothing but an enigmatic smile
and a painted enlargement of a poem,
in my handwriting.

The opening verses read,
“Street lights surf wavelets across the bay.
Moonlit Casuarinas stand sentinel over fragile soil.
Flying foxes surf the midnight breeze.
This symphony of movement,
is conducted by the swaying of the belly dancer’s hips.
Her gestures sculpt the clouds into an alien menagerie.
In contrast, the intricate portrait in my coffee
is as unimpressive as a toddlers stick figure.
She steps with the lightness of hoverflies,
as I gaze into the galaxies of her eyes.

It’s an honour just to see her move,
oh how I long to taste the rising tide of her nectar,
to inspire an ecstatic lullaby
that escalates into a climactic scream.



I heard footsteps on the stairs.
Bethany had the audacity
to stroll through my house unannounced.
In her hand was a series of sketches
I’d bought from a street artist a decade ago.
Pairs of Scarlet, Flame and Pink Robins
looked set to soar from the page.
‘That was you’
she laughed at my stunned expression.

I removed a velvet box
from the bottom of the dusty wooden crate.
Inside were Bethany’s annual self-portraits,
ranging from a toddler’s smiley face
to Archibald Prize entries.

Her mind was elsewhere.
‘Poet, how versatile is your tongue’,
was among her many questions.
By the time we collapsed into each other’s arms,
few fantasies remained unexplored.



Bethany selected her Saturday night outfit
from a suitcase the size of a coffin.
I watched in horror as calligraphy
in the style of the poetess death threats
protruded from the pocket
of her bouquet embroidered jeans.
She put on an exhibition
of ambidextrous mirror writing,
in more styles than the F.B.I’s forgery files.
‘Maybe the one in your handwriting is a suicide note’
she quipped, after setting it alight
and burying the charred remains in a pot plant.
“I copied the calligraphy of the poetess killer,
for a comp run by www.twistedhorror.com”
she insisted, as light heartedly as she’d
declared herself the better darts player.
“Let’s play Robin Hood,
I’ll tie you up at sword point
and give your stereo to the poor” Bethany pleaded,
as she played with my ornamental cross bow.
“Something wrong with my timing”
an impish grin spread across her angelic face.



There was a thunderous knock at the door.
Charlotte was as insistent as a wolf
starving a child from the safety of a tree.
Exasperated, we let her in.
Her eyes were wild with fury over unanswered calls.

Videos of missing poets, chained to each other,
inside a tunnel as anonymous as a composted corpse
and thrashing about in a human eyeball
and box jellyfish infested tank,
arrived in Bethany’s inbox.
“You’re next” the text bubble menaced.
Charlotte looked as unmoved as a snuff movie fan.
Her tattoo was beginning to look as ominous as a swastika.
Bethany trembled as she rang 000.
Charlotte snatched at her phone.
Holding her back was like wrestling Ronda Rousey.
Somehow I escaped with my shoulder sockets intact.
The videos were on YouTube,

A police car arrived.
Minutes into ‘protective custody’,
we were handcuffed,
herded into a warehouse at gunpoint
and confronted with a box jellyfish infested tank.
Lifeless bodies floated on the surface.
“You ignored my warning” Charlotte lamented,
as she pointed to her tattoo. 

The apparent victims were erotic android doubles.
Pseudo police officers fled the scene.
The abductees were found in a forest,
a mile from the scene of the prank,
looking as refreshed as meditation retreat residents.
Detectives suspected them of colluding
with the manufacturers of their sex toy lookalikes
but evidence remained as elusive as Bigfoot.





David Cook


Some rights reserved, you must acknowledge the author, provide a link to the license and indicate if changes were made. You must not use the material for commercial purposes or prevent others from doing anything the license permits.


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 Wrath of Erskine Jay Magoo

I was shown a thing or ten about fondling and beyond
by Cassandra Sapphire Parella, a statuesque blonde,
with the sweetest chest morsels either side of the pond.
Then she married bondage guru, Erskine Jay Magoo,
that guy lived to discipline her with Bernard Bamboo
and give tips on technique while his disciples did too.
Cassandra still wanted my mushroom tipped rocket.
Her alleged free love hubby said he’d steal and hock it.
A text message mutilation threat is a prior confession,
but ‘jail’s Bernie’s free hotel and he loves aggression.’
Rumours of Cassie and Conor Mcgregor’s love child,
proved real danger renders Mr Magoo meek and mild.





Rogerio Silva

Claudia, Sit Portrait, Graphite B3


Some rights are reserved, you must acknowledge the author, provide a link to the license and indicate if changes have been made. You must not use this work for commercial purposes or prevent others from doing anything the license permits. For further information use the link above.

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.





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’