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.

The Roolnblies

The pale moon smirks from its lofty throne
Professor Blake ducks and weaves
along trails overgrown
with weeds as dangerous as machetes.
Beneath a tattered mist curtain they follow,
envisioning suicide
in the plunge of leaves and flowers
from gnarled choking masters;
As Blake has mercy on his bladder,
they sip his vitality
through heinously grinning eyes.

The Professor rejoins his riverboat crew.
Eerily synchronized bubbles
follow them deeper into the jungle.

At dusk they spy a city carved into a cliff.
Towering statues glare from lofty pedestals.
Hornets fly from the empty darkness of their eyes.
People fly from their granite nostrils;
tattoos of animals unknown to northern naturalists
resplendent on their brawny flesh.
Their canines glow in the twilight
as they advance.
Doctor Blake feels as vulnerable as a ladybird
a long walk into a Venus fly trap.

The last thing Blake remembers,
before his enforced nap,
is opening his mouth to scream
and a smoking pipe being thrust into the gap.
He wakes face to face with the surging tide,
on a stony beach.
The figurine pressed into his palm
seems to mimic his expressions.
His barge is in flames, out of reach.
Roolnblies aren’t partial to lessons
the empire wishes to teach.

A vicious sea claims that botanist bigot.
Currents drag him to a desolate rock.
From there he’s rescued by a frigate. 

Roolnblies watch via scrying stones,
as Blake informs the Loombese parliament
“better yields could be gotten from buck wheat fields,
if Roolnbli savages were farmed for blood and bones.
Finer specimens 
could be short listed for the colosseum
and juveniles earmarked for the museum.”

The Roolnblies feel that being burnt alive to save bullets,
sieved and married to manure holds less allure
than using a Death Adder for a dildo.
Being pit bulls opponents in a sports variety show,
also prompts a resounding no.

Professor Blake’s too busy
taking
 other men’s wives to orgies and plays,
to ponder stories 
of giant hooded stowaways
making quick getaways.
He’s traipsing through the woods
with yet another finely schooled maiden
who thinks him safe and kind.
Ever since an unconscious Roolnbli kiss,
deadly spores have been quietly filling
the ruts of his guts and slowly rotting his mind.
Within hours of their lips meeting
her entrails are quivering, quaking, disintegrating.

The doctor’s grief gives way to disbelief,
as he realizes he’s surrounded
by seven hooded figures as many feet high.
In halting, heavily accented Loombese,
they chant ‘We kissed this city goodbye’.

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.

Unworthy

Once I’d confessed I was carnally obsessed,
I felt as anxious as a peacenik hypochondriac
forced to work in a germ warfare lab.

Unable to arrest my compulsive talking inclination
I was thrashing around in a cauldron of trepidation.
Flashes of disdain in the windows to her huge brain
warned me not to dive inside her with words again!

She said, ‘enduring your hunger for me is too hard
Shrivel up and die like a slug in a salt avalanche,
weedy, weed bouquet bearing, bin banquet, bard.’

After I’d planted a soixante-neuf montage
in the delicate flower of Rihanna’s mind
she wished her imagination had gone blind.

Her rolling eyes said, men in custom made suits,
worth more than your  monstrosity mobile,
are entitled to drink in this vision of paradise,
if their physique is as magnificent as their tailor
and their career lucrative enough
to indulge in their quad passions
of floating palaces and private islands,
floating islands and private palaces.

The girl’s Teutonic and cryptically tectonic;
with a punch like that she could be bionic,
but I will forever believe she is my tonic.

The Demise of Hilda Johnson

Mangroves shield sandy banks from speedboat wash.
On sunshine kissed ripples
diamonds blink in and out of existence.
Wasps drift on micro swells.
Clouds peek over the tree line
like abominable vapor men.

On the ocean side,
Senator Hilda Banks clicks on the most elegant heels
she’s seen since Imelda Marcos
gave her a guided tour
of her warehouse dwarfing wardrobe.
In the buying frenzy that follows,
she battles grimly
to stay within a monthly limit
that could bring Christmas to a country town
for a generation.

A wren species not spied since federation,
is wounded by a lunging feral cat.
It crash lands on Hilda’s shoulder.
She swats it into the ocean,
like it’s just another blow fly.

A news report, highlighting decades of warming,
captures her attention for the time it takes
the critically endangered bird
to drown in a rock pool.
Ridiculous, useless modern thermometers,
Hilda murmurs as she waddles,
from her mansion scale motor home,
to the lookout
The grandest solar model could have powered
her satellite televisions and arsenal of hair dryers
but Hilda can’t bear to waste good oil and coal.
She’s ordered a truckload of each,
to supply her camping needs.
A traumatized dolphin submerges
after witnessing her masturbating
before a waxwork likeness
of her favourite fossil fuel lobbyist.

Thunder confirms the sky has taken offence.
Clouds erupt.
Beyond the frothy cauldron where the beach was,

monstrous surf is barely distinguishable from bleak skies.
Ephemeral billabongs and rivers merge.
Hilda’s hilltop camp site is a shrinking island.
Cocooned inside her mobile palace
she snorts derisively at an article
on the correlation between climate change
and extreme weather events.
She’s oblivious,
until her monument to the fossil fuel industry
is launched into the Pacific.

The Goldfish Incident

“Sorry I’m late Jill, My Navman
was drunk on cosmic radiation.
Trying to hear street names
amidst all that slurring
was like spotting soap suds in an angry sea.”

“You can’t be serious Dwite!
Have you never heard of a street directory?
There’s also those things called road signs
and haven’t you been here fifteen times?
You slept in didn’t you.” Jill asked as accusingly
as if she suspected him of molesting her dog
and tying up her ferret and making it watch.
If she’d installed security cameras,
she’d have realized the truth was far stranger.
Returning now, to Jill’s passion for punctuality.

“You, you slept in didn’t you!”
“Jill, the truth sounds less plausible
than being spied on by an Amish satellite”

“And what you’ve already told me doesn’t?”

“You wouldn’t understand Jill, you’re not ready!”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s radiator trouble.”

“If it’s just car trouble
why didn’t you tell me to begin with?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“I’m not your mechanic,
I don’t need to know the details.”

“I’m more in need of a psychologist
than a mechanic.”

“Well that much is clear.”

“To be precise, I need a grief counsellor.”

“I’m confused,
what does that have to do with car trouble.”

“Everything!
I think you better sit down before I tell you.
Quark the Carp, a miniaturized fish,
who lives in my radiator, has died.”

“Bullshit, even you would know to use a fish tank.”

“But Quark could tolerate extreme temperatures.”

“Even if that’s true, isn’t a radiator
a dark and cramped place for a fish?”

Dwite gazed at Jill
As though she was the most stupid person
he’d ever had a conversation with
since he’d broken into the spider monkey enclosure
at Taronga Zoo.

“Haven’t you heard of the flair
carps have for telepathy?
Quark the Carp sent me mind beams,
to let me know when to top up my radiator.
He couldn’t afford to let it evaporate.
He lived long enough for me to grow very attached,
we became lovers Jill.
It was purely a spiritual connection,
what 80’s pop star Phil Collins
might call a Groovy Kind of Love.
I feel so guilty.
While my car was impounded on the weekend,
Quark was recycling his own urine,
until the concentration was lethal.
For years he’s saved my car from overheating
and I wasn’t there to purify his home.”

“Would you like the day off,
to organize a psychiatrist’s appointment?”

“Do you question the sanity
of everyone who has a death in the family Jill?”

“Take time off to give it a funeral then.”

“He’s not an It, his name is Quark.
Yes, I do have funeral arrangement to make.
Dwite produced a scale model of a hearse
and pulled a match box sized coffin from his coat pocket.
Happy April Fool’s Day Jill.”

“Dwite, you nearly had me there.
I’ll have to dock your pay,
for wasting work time with your crazy story.”

“Is that your April Fool’s Day joke Jill?”

“No, I’m serious.”

“I’m serious too Jill,
serious when I say it’s a public holiday.
April Fool’s Day again. April Fool’s Day 360
Quark the Carp exists, but he’s alive and well
I must go’ Hershel proclaimed,
more suddenly than a switch in Arctic weather.
“It’s time to sample the juices
of levitating Star Fish Masseusses.”

“Is that another April Fool’s Day Joke Dwite?”

“No, why would you think that?”

Boy Poet

‘My arm’s as smashed as crockery
bouncing into the Great Australian Bight’ Dexter claimed.
He was a paper mache maestro,
and had fashioned a cast as convincing as Apollo 13’s.
He’d forged the signatures of doctors
onto his supposedly mangled limb.
There’d be no rock climbing for him.
Miss Mance had more chance
of creating a sonic boom in a luge
than unmasking his subterfuge.

Between ogling his whiteboard sage,
Dexter’s writing flew across the page,
in tribute to his little sister Paige.
‘Girl with a rainbow upon her arm,
she’s a nursery remembrance balm.
With that love heart upon her cheek
she’s the cutest elf I’ve seen this week,
a teddy bear tall good luck charm.’

Dex moved on to confess
he was in awe of a teacher
never seen in a girly dress.
Our teacher Emma Mance
looks hot in leather pants.
She’s as sweet and petite
as a five cottage street
and calms bulls with a glance.
Dexter turned grey,
as Miss Mance asked
what his pen had to say.

At lunch it wasn’t by chance
that Dex met Jasmine Mance,
a writer of gothic romance.
No fool would’ve debated
to whom she was related.
She recited ‘The Raven’,
as she played hopscotch.
Most children thought her more cuckoo
than Dexter’s novel about aliens
abducting his thoroughbred badger
and training a meerkat,
to ride it to victory in the Kentucky Derby.
Emma the matchmaker didn’t miss.
Dex and Jazz were a stanza away
from marathons of catch and kiss.

 

Imagination

Green tinged clouds rolled in from the east.
Snug and dry in a cubby half way to the sky,
Gordon eyed a chocolate crackle men feast;
until a lightning scorched gully
become a raging dam of flame.
Hail stones bombed it tame.

As steam clouds scorched the canopy
Gordon’s little sister Caitlyn appeared.
‘what makes lightning’
she asked her professor of everything
from where babies really come from
to the migratory habits of fairies.

He replied ‘Some say lightning comes from Thor
bashing the fire out of dragons
but it comes from the ghosts who killed Casper electrocuting angels.
Lightning is their veins burning.’

While Caitlyn screamed for mummy, Gordon
began a new game.
With a beheaded mop, he became Donatello
of Ninja Turtle fame;
smashing meteors with his bo staff,
too quick for the human eye to pry,
except frame by frame.

Ronan Churchill

The Great Wall of China
never blocked Mongolian horseman
like Ronan blocks reason.
Catholicism is the perfect label, he insists,
as if his religion is significant
beyond this Milky Way backwater.

With enough venom to kill a herd of elephants,
Ronan accuses me of spewing nonsense,
for suggesting the first pope was Emperor Constantine.
To me it’s a trivia question,
as insignificant as the length of Elvis’ sideburns.
As if an unbroken papal lineage of two millennia
could rescue the church
from the absurdity of a virgin birth
and fence sitting between creationism and evolution.
Credibility doesn’t come with age,
just ask Rolf Harris.

Taking Ronan seriously, is harder
than solving a shapeshifting Rubik’s Cube blindfolded.
He can’t see the guilt trap
in banning premarital sex and masturbation,
contraception and abortion.
May as well ban breathing and suffocation.
We have sinned and God demands
we drag boulders of guilt
until we’re released in the confessional.
Denying the guilt traps is as idiotic
as ingesting a Valium burger
in preparation for a striking contest
with a rattlesnake.

The Great Wall of China
never blocked Mongolian horseman
like Ronan blocks reason.
The church runs addiction counselling services,
while its community clubs are awash with alcohol
and filled with with poker machines
No hypocrisy to see here, Ronan assures me.

In Synch With the Sink

Iceberg Lemonade,
cool enough to give a penguin hypothermia,
spruiked the caption on a canister of life saving liquid.
Hershel’s gargantuan gulp nearly ruptured the straw.
As he mangled Nimrod Island’s
last strand of Melaleuca murdering Moth Vine,
drops of hornet drowning proportions
exploded on drought baked soil.
An ants Atlantis disappeared beneath the onslaught.
The surrounding marshes became a lake.

In a desperate bid to reach the car park,
Hershel used a car roof as a makeshift boat
and driftwood for oars.
‘It’s not worth the risk’, the crew chorused.
‘You fools, I must see my kitchen sink in daylight,
before the opalescent jaguar breaks free’
Hershel bellowed in sheer exasperation,
as if it were a self-explanatory situation.
He was as wet as a mermaid whore, mid shift,
as he clambered up a brown snake infested hillside
in the direction of the bus stop.

Hershel unlocked his fridge with a finger print scanner.
Using a spoon, engraved by Uri Geller
from a thousand miles away,
he mauled the pop top on a bottle of Matador’s Elixir,
the ale for all that ails you.

As Hershel donned his echidna quill robe
the gleaming surface of his psychic sink
streamed pictures from all over the globe.
He’d always thought it would help him to debunk
tales of a bald yeti, tattooed with a tattooed skunk,
selling body builders a plethora of injectable junk,
but his sink confirmed the existence of that punk.

Hershel urged his revelation sorter to surge.
‘Take me to the pinnacle of the knowledge zone
my mould sloshing, dish washing, scrying stone’
Hershel says his kitchen sink was as good as a video link
to the helicopter hovering nearest to Nimrod Island.
He insists his sink recruited the ghost of Alan Turing
to hack into the rescue ships on-board computer
and guide it to the marooned conservationists.
The pilot disagrees.