The Scorpion Centipede

“Yes, centipedes the size of sausage dogs.
My eyes don’t lie.
Why does it have a tail like a scorpion
and a snail like head,
I don’t know, ask a biologist.”

“It’s so preoccupied with drinking pus,
from gangrenous goats,
I feel safe videoing it.
Hopefully the wind
carries the stench of rotting flesh westward.
When I press play, will anything be there
besides Melaleuca shadows?
The chameleon dolphin,
peeking from the dam,
assures me the creature is real.
Some say he’s less trustworthy,
than a serial killer leading a murder investigation,
but they don’t know him like I do.
Why would I question my sanity?
What do giant Scorpion Centipede’s sound like?
Dogs bark, cats meow, cows moo.
and centipede scorpions blerk and blork.
Blerking is a happy medium between hiccups and burps.
Blorking is what growling would sound like,
if it was as mellow as piccolo.
Do I mean a high pitched screech, except smoother?
Can’t you hear it?
Are you going to ask me what a duck sounds like too?”

“Sir, please remove yourself from the football field,
this ground has been booked
by the Draper Hill Dragons
and the Wiley Valley Wombats.
Only players and officials
are authorized to set foot on the field
before full time”

“Football, what are you blabbering about.
Ouch, an obese pterodactyl just collided with me.
You’re acting like nothing happened”

“There are no pterodactyls here sir,
you were struck by a football”

“A football match you say,
you’re psychotic.
I’m watching four scorpion centipedes,
with snail like heads,
They’re feeding on the hindquarters,
of gangrenous goats.
Can’t you smell their rotting flesh?
There’s a Melaleuca lined dam over there,
with a chameleon dolphin
frolicking in the shallows.
He doesn’t doubt me”

“Probably not sir”

“Probably not you say?”

“yes, probably not,
in the sense the Earth probably isn’t a cube,
resting on the back,
of an interstellar Pegasus,
that level of probably not”

“Do you have evidence,
to support your denial?
Why can I hear sirens?”

Social Conventions

Before countless tints of sun rise flame,
the sea entrances like an emerald plain.
An Islamic poet,
in a white and gold Hijab,
glides across the sand,
sparking fantasies of a more brilliant paradise;
I barely notice the beach volley ball girls,
in lingerie fit for a partner swapping foray.

Christian extremist choirs stalk bikini top littered sand,
berating audacious sinners, who demand to be tanned,
obviously they’re all harlots, with wild orgies planned.

I stroll along the beach pondering social conventions,
voyeurs, exhibitionists, hypocrites and evil intentions.

In this place bare flesh is as familiar
as the cries of the gulls,
as neutral as the driest medical dictionary.

By midday, attention mainlining models
are on the road to a lobsters death;
the epitome of elegance,
in precious metal embroidered cloaks,
are destined for Vitamin D deficiency;
a puritanical Christian choir girl
has been raped “for displaying her thighs;”
and an artist murdered,
for declaring nudity is natural.

Bling Hippo Reigns Supreme

Trolleys crashing, miniskirts fluttering,
yobbos hanging from dodgy guttering;
children screaming in rage,
over ice cream they crave
like a junkie does a needle.

There’s Ferris the farrier,
wheeling away enough lager
to sink an aircraft carrier.
He’d sooner accuse me
of giving his dogs mange
than offload loose change.

A soul destroying jumble of silver coins
distracts a thief from my kick to his loins.
Endless Helen Keller imitators flock by.
I may as well be talking to a termite tower.

I’m contemplating packing up.
Amused shoppers greet Bling Hippo
and his jowls with hysterical howls.
‘That cancer research fundraiser,
he gets paid’, that bling lugging cretin,
with more chins than my extended family,
utters in a tone normally reserved for
a forum on the evils
of donating microwave ovens
to infant craving cannibals.
Bling hippo’s mum tries to mollycoddle
but her incensed son refuses to cease
his venomous garbled twaddle,
until distracted by the ice cream aisle;
no doubt that blubber isle will be a while.

As his mother demeans her beautician,
Bling Hippo returns to wish me dead
by the wires of a NAZI electrician.

As he throws an endless tantrum,
I defend his mum’s Botox dealer
by singing an ageing Barbie anthem.

‘Heirloom Barbie!’

‘That nicotine blonde icon of visual pollution
was a best seller, by the French revolution.’

‘Heirloom Barbie!’

‘Victorian Ken hasn’t been satisfied,
since she’s been partly mummified’

‘Heirloom Barbie’

Bling Hippo’s old bag read my tag and said
‘Rupert you’re boring, ugly and stupid!’

I said ‘you dear are an excitement diuretic,
infinitely worse than experimental surgery
with a six pack of light beer for anesthetic.’

Bling Hippo has the turning circle of a train
but with a little momentum, as I discovered,
his 150kg of lard can cause serious pain.

Misery

He hails from Freezeburn Swamps,
a place where rock bottom
is just another ledge,
on the way to another nameless bog hole.

He’s not granted death.
He drowns again,
in the flood of his own
rising and raining blood.

He lives in the cold,
a cold where sheets of ice
as hammer proof as granite
are sought like thermal blankets.

Black dogs roam freely,
across withered tundra,
their fetid breathe asphyxiating the weak.
Anthrax powder in mother’s milk,
is the most benign wish of their ilk.

The Wildcats, New Year’s Eve 2013

Courtenay was served an indictment,
for wilful resurrection and murder
of men from excessive excitement.

A sparkly dress like hers has its perks.
imprisoned on its surface is everything
from galaxies to the midnight fireworks.

It seems all that glistens and gleams
is held captive between those seams.
The arc of Courtenay’s towering stiletto
in synch with back up boy’s falsetto
is more intriguing than the allegretto.
The front is a magnet, an utter must.
I’m in awe of her vocals and in lust.

By the new year I’m far too smitten
to steady my quivering quill until
my ode to pussy power is written.

Courtenay was served an indictment,
for wilful resurrection and murder
of men from excessive excitement.

Grandpa Hammersmith’s Review

I asked the grandkids to buy me
The Best of The Andrews Sisters
for Christmas.
They exposed me to a punk rock band instead.
Royal Headache they’re called,
and that they are.
I’ve heard more tuneful sulphur crested cockatoos.
Their lead screecher’s
ghastly, ghostly pale, chest
is as unimpressive as his vocals.
Put a shirt on you gangrene inspiring pin dick!
A horde of demonically possessed jackhammers
sounds more musical than these jackasses.
Please make it stop, are the final words
in their latest single. I concur.
Royal Headache’s vocalist occasionally opts
for a more mellow sound
than a tasered banshee,
but he soon reverts to imitating a bear
with its balls jammed in a blunt guillotine.
He dances like an octopus
being flailed by a tornado
and that’s being kind.
Writing this review isn’t as traumatic
as witnessing a Royal Headache performance,
but neither is yanking your brain through your nostrils,
with a pair of pliers.

Woofy

You plunged into the ocean
like a hurdling hydrofoil.
No shark ever hunted a seal,
with the intensity you chased tennis balls.

After a month of fishing in a wheelbarrow,
you never did figure out the splashes
were from dripping guttering;
so it’s no surprise
being kicked in the head by a horse
failed to make you any dopier
than you already were.

You’ve been plucked from canals.
and survived a Red Belly Black attack
by biting that rampant reptile in half.
What a striver, what a survivor,
and at the scent of food,
or anything vaguely resembling it,
what a furry reservoir of saliva.
How many metres of carpet was it
that we hauled from your arse?

What a striver, what a survivor!
Eventually though, every dog has to die,
take a trip to the Pet Barn in the sky.

Dog Fight

The Red Baron of love has flown into town,
to machine gun a drunk cherub archer down.

Hilda claims she adores her Bohemian bard
but all that girl really loves is his credit card.

Weekends spent in Hawaii and romantic odes
will never ever satisfy the Queen of the toads.

She wants to be Winston Yu’s child and owner.
He’s her winning Lotto ticket and sperm donor.

The week after the wedding, and harbour cruise,
Win wants a divorce, she can’t believe the news.

How much mayhem can only one man wreak?
He expects her to survive on ten grand a week.

Clearly his devotion wasn’t Grand Canyon deep.
She said she wouldn’t really kill him in his sleep.

The Red Baron of love has flown into town,
to machine gun a drunk cherub archer down.

It has been a long time since Cupid has spoken.
His wings are Swiss cheese and his arrows broken.

Radio Fallout

“This is your morning show host,
Miles Platinum, on 2GC.
Responsible protestors are out in force today.
Their banners read:
“Don’t fuck, don’t fiddle.
“Contraception is evil.”
“Miscarriage is murder.”
“War is the road to peace.”
“The Flintstones is a documentary.”
“Science is a cult.”
“Ban teenage pregnancy.”
“Burn French letters.”
“Cognitive dissonance has too many letters.”

Get your protesters license today.
And remember,
unauthorized slogans may result in kneecapping,
according to riot police discretion.

In other news,
the Heroin Dealers Association
successfully lobbied parliament
to abolish quality controls today.
According to a recently deceased journalist
“Black Pearl Corp’s needle samples have sampled everything.”
Rinsing is expensive, autoclaving unthinkable.
Needle exchange nurses,
they’re worse for business
than a tsunami at a seaside resort.
Their lead coffins are free.
Their cemetery lies beyond the continental shelf.
Our benevolent dictator says
“They’re good guys,
they did a terrific job, tremendous”
the executioners that is.

Making environmental news today,
satellite pictures of our world heritage listed areas,
have revealed mountains of syringes,
coated in the bloated corpses of endangered species.
Rangers cigarette butts float to earth like dead bees.
Concreting over all remaining wilderness
is the only means of cleansing the nation.
Syringe Everest tourists,
run over litter bugs for sport.
They empty their tanks on the way to nowhere.
May they crucify other ecological crusaders
and exchange their barbed wire crowns
for armoured vehicles.

Yesterday, climate change hoaxer Rob Green
lit a fire on his rural property.
Hazard reduction burning?
That’s as deranged as brain transplants.
You’re a hypocrite Green.
Sparky wants you for arson.

According to a discredited journalist,
who was reported missing on Monday,
my urban cottage has four fireplaces.
I want justice.
The defamation inferno is out of control.

Sydney property values continue to plummet.
Some blame white supremacist gentlemen,
for replacing their footballs
with the heads of refugee quadruple amputee scum.
Those in the know blame Islamic immigration.
My equity sales have sailed beyond the horizon.
I demand compensation.
It’s worse than the Great Depression.

Dear Diary

11/08/15

Have these tourists never seen a seagull before?
Close your eyes and it’s easy to believe
they’re marvelling over spectacular plumage, 
not seen beyond taxidermists workshops
since Linnaeus fathered taxonomy.

The gulls are stalking my sandwich,

like they’re the bomb squad
and it’s a doomsday device.
I almost wish I had an air rifle, 
to scatter a few feathers
and deflate the mood a bit.

Buskers abound.
The levitating reptilian
levitates the coins
scattered across his banjo case.
The guano mine in his hair doesn’t phase him.


My eyes almost land on the pavement,

as I spot a Federation era one hundred pound note,
among the fivers.
It looks as freshly printed
as the fifties the ATM spat into my world.
“I’ll give you a thousand dollars for that”
I offer with surprising calm.

12/08/15

“I found it in a rusty old safe,
in the basement”
I tell the museum reps,
as they apply their magnifying glasses
to my random discovery.
A few tests later,
I’m admiring the Picasso fakes
on the walls of my new apartment.

Dinnertime arrives.
“That cornflake looks like Richard Nixon”,
I muse,
as I rescue it from my serial bowl,
before drowning the likenesses of lesser criminals
in chocolate flavoured soy.

Cornflake Nixon is inspirational.
He will star in an animated advertisement.
I can see the agri-giants limousines
causing a multi car pile up,

in their bid for parking spots
at the premiere.
Naturally they’ll risk financial ruin,
at the auction for the rights to
“The Adventures of Dick the Cornflake”

13/8/15

An advertising executive suggests quitting smoking.