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.

The Poetry Fight

Claude Maude, the tactic telegraphing,
titanic, wobbly tit wielding,
wank bar warbler from Wallarah,
tugged at his ‘Marijuana, a special kind of stupid t-shirt,
before wagging his finger at DwiteDaSpriteKnight.

Dwite was planning a thirteen pun combination,
to end that estate agent as swiftly as a guillotine.
Now he opted to sustain the pain.

Dwite’s promoter, Kevin Celebrity Lucich,
lugged his bling to the ring.
According to Claude Maude,
he winked at the judges so blatantly
everyone thought he was a cyclops.

Referee Darius Lagoon was as ready as a rodeo clown.
Gentleman, the standing eight count
and three knock down rule are both in effect.
Protect yourself with all rhymes.
Claude Maude was still pointing at his
‘Marijuana, a Special Kind of Stupid’ shirt
and wagging his finger at Dwite.

As the bell sounded, Dwite unloaded.
“Why applaud Mister Maud
or his micro sordid sword?
He’s an intellectual plodder,
pile of sardonic wit fodder;
he’s never smelt marijuana,
let alone spelt marijuana,
yet that tragic serial joker
says I’m a wacky smoker.
I never thought marijuana
was a highway to nirvana……..

Claude struck back
“Mockery foreseen and mean copped fiery fates?
You can’t guess how Claude Maude retalliates!
DwiteTheSpriteKnight, he cannot prophesize
all the ways I can chainsaw him down to size.
Most of the time the SpriteKnight can rhyme.
Like him, all else he does is an idiots crime.”
Kevin Celebrity Lucich flinched in his ringside seat.

Dwite came off the ropes.
“You think air swings hurt,
I’ve seen smarter parasites
in lead contaminated dirt.
The spasms of mental chasms
can be remolded and soldered.
There is poetry to be gleaned
from minds too brittle to be folded.”

Claude countered.
For millennia The Sprite Knight rehearses
retorts too clueless to be worth copper purses.
All Claude’s verses are triggered by the curses
of a deadbeat slower than passengers of hearses.

Dwite delivered an aircraft carrier humbling broadside.
“Claude’s an elbows and knees kind of rhymer rammer,
that tidal flat tower scammer should be in the slammer.
It’s enough knock down rounds for funeral mounds.
Every rhyme he raised, was erased or out of bounds.
Ground and pound bound, no need for five rounds.
Claude Maude is gettin Clawed and Mauled.

Dwite begged Lagoon to save his hapless foe,
before delivering the cataclysmic final blow.

Claude has a laugh like The Riddler
but he’s never written any riddles,
he’s just a pocket pissing fiddler,
a slum dunked, debunked diddler.

The Real Estate agent was speechless.
Referee Darius Lagoon had seen that glazed over look before.
If he let this continue
Maude would’ve ended up in Serenity House,
more far gone than the psychiatrist
who thinks the C.I.A are spying on him,
with miniaturised submarines
lurking in his septic tank.

Adversity University

‘If I’m not risking death I’m not living’
the reigning middleweight champion mused,
as multiple microphones 
were shoved in his face.
Legend has it, Callen High Caliber Collins,
ate a sumo wrestlers breakfast
and qualified for cruiserweight
by the weight of his eyebrows.
According to the Telegraph, Ben the Beast Baxter
ran from the sauna to the weigh in.
Two billion people counted down the minutes and seconds.

Adversity University was emblazoned on High Caliber’s jacket,
and Guerilla Gorilla embroidered on his cap,
as he swaggered to the centre of the colosseum,
accompanied by his trainer, manager and cut man.
His entrance was a stark contrast
to his opponent’s Circus Soleil style entourage.

High Caliber’s opponent was universally known as The Beast.
In Oxford Street they call him Tracy.
It isn’t a drag name,
it’s a reference to the cyclone
that demolished Darwin in 1974.
When Sugar Ray Robinson killed a man in the ring
he bought the victims poverty stricken mother a house.
After Ben the Beast Baxter pummeled a comatose man,
on his way to the canvas,
he blew celebratory cigar smoke
into the face of the victim’s mother.
She was quicker than a rattlesnake,
with her canister of pepper spray.

Nobody wanted a man who donated his winnings
to rebuilding the lives of troubled teens
to lose to a distillery, casino and brothel owner,
but The Beast was a cold, calculating stalker,
who outweighed Collins by a sledgehammer
Betting against him was considered as risky
as surfing a tsunami.

As the referee issued his instructions,
High Caliber met the Beast’s murderous gaze,
with more funny faces
than an ocean liner of clowns.

The bell sounded.
High Caliber’s footwork was the envy of every hip hop genius.

By the time the Beast answered one question
there was a new wave of mysteries to solve.
Landing flush on Collin’s cranial fortress
was like hitting a dragonfly with a spit ball.
Every time The Beast grazed his skull,
counter punches flew
from angles more unexpected
than the weirdest creature in the queerest universe.

The beast finally landed a shot
that would have dazed a rhinoceros.
High Caliber returned fire with a right uppercut
and a double left hook.
As he waved the giant forward
hordes of doubters began to believe.

‘I’m going to make you my bitch’
the Beast raged,
like a badger taunted with a bullwhip.
The bell sounded.
A television audience that could’ve overcrowded
every stadium on Earth,
wanted High Caliber’s gloating, smirking, nemesis humbled,
like a Michelin star spangled sommelier
reduced to selling goon bags from his garage.
High Caliber put an imaginary microphone to his lips.
‘This pugilistic braniac is the ultimate Maniac,
The tide is coming in, your’e about to drown
Collins is your matador, not your rodeo clown.
‘Your big mouth looks like a mummified c%#@,’
the Beast goaded, from his corner stool,
between spitting out globules of
 diluted blood.

Round two commenced,
Baxter nearly false started,
on his way to colliding with the ropes.
For ten rounds he threw punches
fit to
 disfigure a Stegosaurus,
but failed to hurt the crazy clown,
who rolled his shoulders like Mayweather
and danced like Ali.
Baxter’s corner had no advice left,
unless volleys of vicious obscenities,
conveyed tactics.

A blind, naked hatred fueled hay maker
penalized Collins for standing still for a nanosecond.
A billion people groaned in unison
as he sank his knees, looking as incapacitated
as a bulldozer fighting pit bull.
‘A champion is someone who gets up when he can’t’,
roared the ghost of Jack Dempsey.
Before the referee could signal box on,
High Calibre was ambushed with a liver shot.

Discontent with a disqualification victory,
Collins summarized the latest research
on everything from self-hypnosis to veganism.
On his day off he shimmied up a hemp rope,
to a sun singed lookout.
Collins promoter thought basketball
was a good way to break an ankle,
but he’d never explicitly forbidden
climbing like a human spider,
above a wild river.

The pre rematch publicity was plagued by rabid envy.
Journalist Jermaine Leech attempted to dispatch
Collins biography down the garbage chute hatch.
High Caliber sat silently,
waiting for the defamatory errors to pile up,
like the also rans in a crash them up derby.

“Eight minutes of overrated, orchestrated derision
is met with instantaneous, spontaneous precision.
In bitter sediment clouds from my distant past
fools imagine self-sewn, flags flown at half mast.
I was buried upended, but I never surrendered!
I’m not one to portray powerful lungs as cystic,
I am a doubt demon purging, optimistic mystic;
knocking out once invincible happiness slayers,
slamming hate sprayers and gnawing naysayers,
outing Leeches who don’t want to be tax payers!
High Caliber has doused a smoking microphone,
Forget it Jermaine, all the fireworks have flown.

The rematch of the millennium arrived.
The brutal technician eyeballed the grinning warrior artist,
High Caliber had seen Baxter fall countless times in his mind.
“Knowledge is not enough, we must apply,
willing is not enough, we must do”
an apparition of Bruce Lee affirmed.

High Caliber circled, like a ballet dancing Tiger Shark.
“Are you a fighter or Margaret Fontaine”
the man with 666 tattooed on his chest roared.
In the dying seconds of round one,
the bobbing, weaving, bombing Ben the Beast Baxter
walked into a left jab that obscured the hardest right hook
High Caliber had ever thrown.
As The Beast prepared for a left uppercut,
he was cracked with a right cross.
He returned fire,
missing a retreating Collins by millimetres.


High Caliber wasn’t a “bring your muskets and cannons

to the paddock at noon” kind of guy.
Guns and Roses “Welcome to the Jungle” filled the arena.

 

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.

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?”