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.

 

Limbo

Just when you think
the American government’s image
can’t burn more poisonously,
a means of further obliterating
its charred blood and shit stained reputation
looms on the horizon.
The state sanctioned murder of Julian Assange
is nigh.

Trump’s limbo stick is so low
Rubber Man mistook it for the skirting board.
Even the rats,
with their collapsible skeletons,
can’t fathom how he slips beneath it.
Can the 45th best president of the United States,
maintain his ranking until 2020?
Dig up Richard Nixon
and he’s bound to slip to forty sixth.

The state sanctioned murder of Assange
is nigh.
To rescue him from extradition,
you must fund his legal magician.
Head to wikileaks.shop,
to dynamite destiny.
N/A F.B.I, C.I.A, N.S.A,
peaceful justice,
not the lit wick of doomsday.

A Different View

An Eminem clone entered the vestibule,
perusing his girlfriend’s copy of “That’s Life”
and treating a Halloween article within
more seriously than any stock market wunderkind,
ever took the Wall Street Journal.

“Says here they is getting married in a graveyard”
he commented
to his tattoo parlour advertisement partner.

“They like Gothics or something are they Ramble?”
she replied as indifferently as a robot.

“Yeah,
if they invited me to their weddin,
I wouldn’t fuckin go.
They held the reception in a crypt,
the sick freaks!” Ramble raged.

To the contrary:
I imagined worries dimmed by headstone shadows,
guests sipping from jewel encrusted goblets,
skulls stolen from the university’s anatomy department
overflowing with snack food,
dessert disappearing faster than grave robbers at dawn;
lovers exploring lush, green, graveyard paths,
bathed in full moon light,
gazing at gold lettering on marble headstones,
as they whisper “unto death do they part.”

Horizon Hill

Dust devils pirouette across the track.
Water purifiers hang uselessly from Will’s belt.
Cows search the crumbling lake floor
for drinkable pools.
Foxes gorge themselves on rotting fish.
Overhead,
a conspiracy of ravens harass wedge tailed eagles.
Two days of water hug Will’s torso.
He sips sparingly.

Shadows lengthen.
On Horizon Hill,
an inland lighthouse towers over ironbarks.
Its sandstone exoskeleton
is immune to the ravages of forest fires.
Underground it’s shaped like a bottle.

Will peers through his telephoto lens.
The lantern room is ready to illuminate the canyon.
Will follows the ridgeline
to the subterranean entrance.
The Autumn coolness within
is as soothing as silk sheets.
Will saturates his sun mask
with a splash from an underground stream.
A cap torch lights his climb to the cellar.

In the cavernous temple above,
serpentine flute songs
wrap themselves around serene dancers.
A wild xylophone solo
is accompanied by the scent of innumerable orchards.
Voices bounce from ceiling to stairs
like crazed rubber balls.
The words “I knew you’d come,”
intermingle with the riotous laughter of kookaburras.
The president of the Obscure Poet’s Club
appears to float into the cellar,
upon a fog tinged cushion of dazzling light.

Upstairs, in the cupped marble hands
of Graham H Goalposts Smith,
a rosewood lectern awaits the lone traveller.
Will climbs the ladder
inside that towering psychedelic Buddha.
Haikus, limericks and sonnets
drift from Graham’s lofty grasp.
The words hang in the air
long after the poet’s lips have ceased moving.

“LSD is superfluous here”
says the sulphur crested cockatoo
frolicking on the piano keys below.
After witnessing the statue’s eyes move,
Will isn’t so sure.

Outside, it’s forty in the shade.
A procession of profusely sweating dwarves
lug their sedan chair lounging court jester
past skeletons of drought massacred fish.
A dust storm obscures the remnants of the lake.

Inside, the celebration of the bizarre intensifies.
Bar staff masquerade as bunyips and Banksia men.
“Orthodoxy is anathema”
the ivory tinkling cockatoo yells
at a man in a Hawaiian tuxedo,
with tadpoles swimming
in his transparent platform soles.
“I know mate” he replies.

Chess Man

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

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

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

The Poet’s Journey

Be who you are, be what you are,
until the door of miracles is ajar.

With Earth’s cumbersome languages,
you chase the soul’s beauty,
like a wounded warrior
on the mighty jaguar’s trail.

Realising millennia of global acclaim
is less than plankton in fame’s ocean,
fails to curb your boundless devotion.

Poet, lament, invent, soak society,
with a shrewd arsenal of adjectives
and a voracious appetite for variety.

Be who you are, be what you are,
until the door of miracles is ajar.

Stella Brindabella

Stella Brindabella,
the demigod of fame walks among us.
She’s quick to declare
the coolest way to get men to stare,
is to accidentally, on purpose,
forget your underwear.
She wants to help the homeless,
but not while her diamond encrusted high heels
are in disrepair.

“Booty Shake Earthquake”
she’s labelled her size twelve rival’s latest music video.
She hopes to revive her own pop music career,
with singles like “the Geek and the Goddess”
and a remake of “Jimbo and the Bimbo”

The host of “Outsmarted by a Ten Year Old”,
discovered she’s slow,
when she said “diluting whiskey?
What a senseless way to go.
“Isn’t Africa a country, what’s an incontinent”
she demanded to know.