The Relaxation Therapist

Felicity’s roller coaster of high distinctions and zeros
killed her status obsessed parents.
She kept their Canberra crash pads.
Youth Off the Streets turned their mansions
into schools for troubled teens.

The funeral attendees
were the who’s who of sycophantic scum;
vultures stalking the wounded wren of publicity,
that’s how they imagined Felicity.
Maximum damage was their motto.
“No Prime Minister,
I won’t be donating to your campaign,”
Felicity’s words echoed off the valley
like a bomb blast.

A series of cartwheels and backflips,
across her sacreligious parents graves,
caught the attention of vampire knaves.
Hideous headlines of stenographer hordes
kicked off the festival of hate.
Felicity scored from the kick off.
Propaganda outlets ignored the siren.
“No comment” the bright eyed mantra weaver repeated,
as reporter tsunamis swept her away.
Sunglasses were her curtains.
Her autobiographical mythbusting blog reached millions
She’d became a tick on the eyeball of tabloid hacks.

Someone’s controversial ANZAC Day views
turned Felicity’s Hawaiian surf into a still pond.
Tube riding sharks forgot she existed.
YouTube viewers became off camera characters
in  her therapeutic plays.
She caresses their ears with sweet mantras,
as her double belly dances
and her triple plays the flute.
Four blends herbs and spices
as passionately as Van Gogh mixed his palette.
Five and six are synchronized swimmers
in a Utopian sandstone pool.
Seven and eight are tailored suit clad heavies,
patrolling the perimeter.
The man behind the pool cue is you.
Sink the black and number eight
will fulfil your need
to knead her athletic flesh.

Last week Felicity played Himalayan singing bowls
in a crystal cave.
Tomorrow she’s a hypnotist in the Garden of Eden,
sharing tree of knowledge pie.
Then she’s Hitler’s assasin
posing as a burlesque comedian.

Felicity’s guitar chords are the umbilical cords,
connecting her fans
to their spiritual space stations.

Vungtorb, the Reptilian Orangutan

Vungtorb the reptilian orangutan, recharged his brain via his solar electric scales. A meal of antelope would’ve energised him more swiftly but in the Lorp Desert, hawk hornets and ballet scorpions, are the only readily available sustenance besides the merciless midnight sun.

Vungtorb the reptilian orangutan and his partner, Elvira the medusa poodle, began their land journey at the equator. Fortunately their all terrain vehicle, didn’t lose a wheel until they reached Gorbantula’s south pole. They’d honeymooned there an Earth century ago. Elvira’s wedding collar was stolen by the Gorbantula’s, the dragons after which the planet was named. Despite the theft, Vungtorb and Elvira considered retiring, just a flame from the geographical pole. Their interspecies marriage made them outcasts on most planets, but the Gorbantula dragons didn’t care what phylum their neighbours fucked. They were too preoccupied with treasure.

Vungtorb was confident the Gorbantulas would return Elvira’s wedding collar. His drag queen act had won over dragons before. Eager to see more, past audiences had parted with synthetic humanoids, reconnaissance drones, fully equipped interstellar spacecraft and a menagerie of soprano octopoids, baritone insectoids and a crustacean that sounded like a violin whenever it was immersed in a cloud of Vungtorb’s flatulence. These creature’s were currency throughout the Milky Way, but not as valuable as Vungtorb’s favourite money maker.

That reptilian Orangutan’s high heels were the final frontier in his act. While lassoing butterflies, with his flower draped erotic organs, he liked to launch his jewel encrusted shoes into the audience. Sometimes he engaged the retractable spears in the heels and sent them hurtling into a dartboard. In case you’re wondering, the butterflies love it.

The Garbantula’s burlesque cave was desperate for new acts. Elvira’s wedding collar was on display, behind RPG proof glass, in the kink museum upstairs. Apparently unimpressed with Vungtorb’s Muhammad Ali like agility, Jackie Chan humbling acrobatics, Fred Astaire rivalling rhythm and Elton John surpassing outfits, the manager refused to pay him the symphonic chameleons he’d promised, let alone consider returning Elvira’s wedding collar. Hoobdubba, the Gorbantula’s monarch, nodded its approval as Vungtorb approached, with his head bowed.

“I humbly thank you, for the honour of performing before you” Vungtorb proclaimed, before passionately kissing Hoobdubba’s cranium tentacle sphincter. It was momentarily startled. Vungtorb proferred his jewel encrusted, silk veneer high heels.

“A gift for you darling. Please take a closer look at what were my most prized possessions until I felt inspired to give them to a more worthy owner.” Hoobdubba was startled once more, as it tentatively sniffed the bejewelled offering. Its courtiers stared at their royal highness quizzically.

Vungtorb appeared to be mumbling gibberish as he crawled off stage. What Hoobdubba and his entourage couldn’t have known, is the crafty drag queen was issuing instructions, in an archaic language, to the multitude of miniature drones he’d sent into Hoobdubba’s blood tunnels. They waited for the signal to empty their hallucinogen tanks.

“The festering zombie donkeys, their bits don’t merely fall, their leprosy is volcanic” Hoobdubba yelled in terror.

Zungtorb addressed the room. “I regret to inform you there is a curse on the monarch.
The only way to free its royal highness from the curse is to return my darling Elvira’s wedding collar. If you’re wondering how this curse came about, we bought the collar from a witch, a Jorbblaga asteroid belt witch. Need I say more?”

“A collar you say. Oh that old thing, what a small price to pay for restoring the health of our royal highness. Hoobdubba is so attached to it but he couldn’t sell it if he wanted to. The most cunning shyster wouldn’t be able to trade it for an Earthling space probe, not even one from the fossil fuel era” Hoobdubba’s procurement officer chuckled.

Its Royal Highness babbled for a little longer “Resplendent in their evening gowns, they waddle across the boomerangs. Look how those throwing implements hover above the methane clouds. The aerial jellyfish swerve from their path. Why must they use their tentacles as satellite phone receivers, when they should use them to massage the urethras of viper maggots” Hoobdubba briefly slipping into a coma. When it awoke, it was its old self.

Vungtorb’s breaking of the curse was rewarded with seven symphonic chameleon’s.
Elvira’s wedding collar was presented in a marble replica of Zarbblimpers ark.
Zarbblimpa was renowned for salvaging plants and animals from planets destined to be demolished for their mineral wealth.

In the morning, a pair of ultra marathon Gorbantulas flew the proud interspecies couple and their crippled all terrain vehicle back to their interstellar cruiser.

Western Geisha

Evelyn’s eighteenth century marble cottage
adorns the last quarter acre block
in the latest city to emulate Manhattan.
The urge to launch this crème de la crème
of curvaceous gems
on to a four poster bed as elegant as she,
can be as overwhelming as an avalanche.

Evelyn possesses the power
to preoccupy her admirers with nobler passions.
It is said, her dazzling array of brush strokes
can capture your spirit on canvas,
that there’s something more exhilarating
about watching her paint
than witnessing the theatrical grandeur
of her forays into burlesque.

If you wish to see her graceful figure
unencumbered by layers of satin,
being a world renowned sculptor
is more advantageous than wealth.
If a corporate emperor,
with the artistic prowess
of a methamphetamine crazed jackal,
wishes to witness such a spectacle,
funding a children’s hospital for a generation
isn’t guaranteed to win the bidding.

Evelyn is glorified in birdsong.
Blue Tongues seek refuge in her hollows.
Banjo frogs frolic in her waterfall fed ponds.
I’m yet to buzz the intercom
and set foot inside her sanctuary.
The sound of her soul 
drifts into the park,
from a grand piano.