Slumlords value their bloated empires
above extinguishing poverty’s fires.
Where are the maverick biographers?
Journos have become stenographers!
Corporations craft election slogans
to hypnotize the dimmest bogans.
More sophisticated emotive talks
are educated peoples tuning forks.
May the pathetic lies be superseded,
real policy info is all that’s needed.
In a world where corrupt is a kind label,
I dream of genuine cards on the table.



In the bowels of Razor Rock Island,
the light is as artificial as the staff.
The blood as real as the despair
polluting damp, dark, stale air.
For twenty three hours a day,
steel reinforced concrete,
as dull as the daily broth,
fits the prisoner like a coffin.
Steele speaks
“The doom pervading this dungeon
is not mine.
The empire is a termite mound
and I am the King of the Echidnas.”
Sustenance delivery robot thirty six
is as unresponsive as a corpse.

Warden Jennings is sweating icicles.
Steele’s confidence is as disconcerting
as dying of thirst in a scorpion pit.
“In hacktivist heaven,
automating prison officers
is as unwise as long jumping ravines
in a blizzard” Steele bellows.
The first hint of rebellion
is crematorium advertisements
interrupting Jennings internet chess.
The second hint
is robots dragging him towards the furnace.
Steele strides through the gates,
flanked by android cheerleaders.
The rescue ship reaches Everest altitude,
before the chase begins.

Steele’s pen is as dry as a Martian river bed.
Beyond the realm of fiction,
nobody’s escaped from Razor Rock
since seventeen forty two.
A dolphin armada distracted the sharks,
as Jonah Wallace swam for the swamps.
Conditions have improved.
Rats snacking on the toes of sleeping prisoners
creates headlines now.

During his morning dance
Steele’s mind paints movies on the walls.
He struts through bejewelled corridors.
Waitresses blush as Steele banishes suits
with a click of his fingers
and redesigns lingerie with another.
Black lace, leopard print, purple velvet,
divine embroidery, transparent silk rainbows;
he dresses those dishes in whatever he wishes.
Steele’s vast array of mimed dials
transforms hair colours and styles.
Golden blonde Nordic Goddesses
are baffled by their momentary buzz cuts.
Mediterranean delights
with ringlets as black as moonless midnight,
are ambushed by mohawks.
Invisible hands ink decades of decadence
upon their plump thighs.
They wonder if God is an eighteen year old boy.

After epic minutes, Steele’s passion wanes.
He sinks to the bland, filthy concrete floor,
wondering if his mind can conjure more.
Waterboarding robots
believe passwords are stored in his mind.
Every number in his head
is as obsolete as videotape.
As their footsteps near, his mantras accelerate.
“Hell is temporary, hell is temporary,
truth is eternal, truth is eternal.”

Living Garbage

Thornsword Earwig, telepathically ordered the latest version of Time Optimizer to call his wife. After analysing one hundred and seventy million words of his manual conversations it approximated his personality eerily well.

“A toxic afternoon to you too Jyena. Planet Droom is great babe, it’s a wonderful place to start a family.  Droom’s dominant creatures are anatomically almost identical to Homo sapiens, a typically stupid Earthling primate, but they’re much smarter. Droom is frequented by innumerable impressive species. Its prison population is hardly homogenous either and neither are the participants in its most popular reality television show Living Garbage. It’s a title that reminds me of your friends Jyena. I’ve already given you four extensions for your higher calibre acquaintances project, I look forward to the next update.”

“Returning to a more important subject, every episode of Living Garbage features an astounding array of incarcerated creatures Jyena. They’re the worst imaginable prisoners. A smattering of murderers and rapists, of valuable citizens, walk among the most despicable felons of all, activists. The most notorious is Lomandra Whamboozle. Her diabolical ascent among the ranks of anti juvenile slavery campaigners, resulted in her becoming the most wanted Droomian fugitive.

“No words can convey how grateful I am to those who apprehended her. The thought of having to purchase and insure an expensive robot to perform cleaning, cooking and maintenance tasks sickens me. It’s not necessary to insure juvenile slaves, they’re as replaceable as plastic bags. They can be abducted from planets in neighbouring galaxies thousands at a time. It’s like picking fruit without having to grow the orchards.  Lomandra Whamboozle and her comrades could have ended all that in less than a generation, if most of them hadn’t been so gloriously slain.”

“Like a lot of people, I was ecstatic when I heard Lomandra had been conscripted to appear on Living Garbage. Unbelievably, the multi species attacks on her, since her sentence began, have completely and utterly failed to break her spirit, but the 28th episode of Living Garbage will surely rectify that appallingly frustrating situation. Whamboozle has been led to believe the displaying, whipping, pawing and penetrating of her living carcass isn’t part of the show, that she will be given an opportunity to seek “justice” haha air quotes justice baby, air quotes justice. The Vangtorbs’s, Wungborb’s and Kraabslarb’s will teach her not to steal my slaves.”

“I’ve got to go Jyena, Living Garbage is about to start. What do you mean you have issues you need to discuss, didn’t you hear me, Living Garbage is about to begin. Cease your self centred whining woman and I will forgive you for speaking without an invitation to do so. Oh, you want a divorce do you? Call me back if you think of something important to discuss. It’s only ten seconds to Living Garbage sweetheart, make sure you call back during an ad break.”

The synthetic version of Thornsword was a tad tactless, but the next software upgrade was nigh. While Time Optimiser did its thing, Thornsword made millions, by more closely monitoring his investments. A few calls to financially influential people, on an intergalactic scale, still trumped automatic trading. Any remotely significant citizen could purchase the best software.

“That’s weird, normally Jyena would’ve called back already, to apologise for her insolence” Thornsword muttered to himself, as he watched the holographic orgy advertising his favourite brand of toothpaste. It was the first time he’d ever seen an ewok get down and down and dirty with an Andromedan goblin of any sort and he was impressed. As the advertisement receded, the mock courtroom, where Lomandra Whamboozle assumed justice was about to be served, came into focus.

At first, the fake judge spoke Droomian legalese with ease but after a while he sounded like he was referring to a teleprompter. Whamboozle looked confused. Thornsword assumed she was asking herself why on Droom would an experienced judge stumble through a routine part of their job. Suddenly the room inverted. The hem of Lomandra’s translucent floral dress clung to her face as she fell to the padded ceiling. Thornsword whistled in appreciation at her matching floral silk delicates. Lomandra was briefly stuck in the most squishy folds of a vast waterbed, her legs flailing uselessly. The Vangtorb’s, Wungborb’s and Kraabslarb’s, had anticipated the inversion, so they landed on their equivalent of feet.

Once the briefcases belonging to Lomandra’s pseudo legal team stopped bouncing they opened. There were no documents inside, just a vast array of sex toys. The drooling Vangtorb’s, Wungborb’s and Kraabslarb’s erotic tentacles were as hideous as tapeworm and as erect as skyscrapers. They were arguably the most disturbing manifestation of predatory euphoria ever seen on Living Garbage.

Lomandra Whamboozle didn’t mince words “In contrast with your kiss, bin juice tastes like heaven. The most wart infested arsehole in the galaxy looks gorgeous beside your plague comet nostrils and pus glacier eyelids” she roared at the biggest Vangtorb in the room. He looked somewhat taken aback.

“How about you drink the dregs of a Slorg Snail swamp and shit yourself to a death as gruesome as your smile” she continued, as though she were as willing to play the game as they.

“We’ve got a feisty one here boys. What shall we do first? Should we bring in the impregnation robots, to plant the seed of the oesophagus tarantula down her throat, the offspring of the sabre fanged glow worm in her entrails and the eggs of the parasitic scorpion in her womb or is that too kind?”

They all agreed it was too kind, even the nice guy among them, whose most heinous hobby was nothing worse than watching babies dissolve in vats of acid.

“Why does she look so confident?” Hoobmafia Gronkbland nervously asked the amorous horde. They didn’t bother to answer. They were too busy encircling and closing in on Ms Whamboozle. The smallest among them was a powerlifter five times her size.

The fleet of butt plugs, double ended dildos and transforming vibrators followed the commands of  Trargchomper, a four hundred kilogram Kraabslarb. He looked like the conductor of an orchestra, as he waved them forward in a variety of swarming formations.

“Exit pseudo co-operation mode” Lomandra commanded. The devices hovered as still as the opals in the wall.

“Enter attack mode!” she spat. Her dildo, butt plug, vibrator and penis pump air force revealed their retractable tranquiliser guns and fired a barrage of automated syringes at Lomandra’s assailants.

“Rape them, rape them, rape them you stupid bitch” Thornsword Earwig yelled at his holographic television. His more explicit instructions made the director of the most nightmarish Earthling porno sound romantic.

“Enter defence mode” Lomandra barked at her sex toy squadrons. Not surprisingly, she ignored the hideous viewer suggestions that were being transmitted into the would be torture chamber, at a rate of fifteen per minute. The overlapping voices were an attempt to simulate schizophrenia. Lomandra’s unconventional bodyguards swarmed around her. The studio guards didn’t dare call for reinforcements, let alone attempt to stop her themselves.

“Enter platform mode” Whamboozle whispered as the last guard slumped to the ground, with a tranquilizer syringe protruding from his buttocks. Lomandra flew over the Living Garbage studio wall, on a magic carpet of penis pumps.”

Thornsword looked so ill that one could be forgiven for thinking he was possessed by a Varkonian Cranium Worm. He’d bet ten times as much money on the outcome of Living Garbage than he’d made by delegating his marriage conversational duties to Time Optimiser. Thanks to Thornsword, Living Garbage’s co-producer, that disinherited loser Vortex Varnisher the 5th, had been able to buy an orbiting bachelor pad. Thornsword asked for nothing more than Vortex Varnisher granting Lomandra Whamboozle access to Living Garbage’s computer network, under the guise of having his way with her in his office.

Apparently Vortex Varnisher had also allowed Whamboozle to change the passwords to the doors between the various layers of the buildings. Why hadn’t Whamboozle taken the opportunity to seek revenge on her leering, pawing, probing fellow contestants? What was wrong with that woman? All she had to do was rape Gronkpanza the Vangtorb and Spewrash the Kraabslarb and that would be five million Droomian dollars split twenty/eighty. With so many episodes left to bet on, he couldn’t afford not to pay her.

Faceless Phoenix

Rebel Chameleons are rising,
shedding skins as surprising,
as Da-Vinci was enterprising.

They’re here to melt toxic rage,
and banish spirit eating beige.
As the sages cleanse with sage,
I think deeper before the stage,
when my pen strikes the page.

Slipping by the arrogant slime,
of dolts blasting thought crime,
with a battle axe wind chime.
Hate fuels their Optimus Prime
and bias, pious eponymous dime.

After all Abbott’s done and said,
I cannot buy that brand of bread.
The risen and baked is delicious, 
but flat is for the anti-seditious. 
It’s offered by Sneaky and Vicious,
worst of perverted and malicious.

Rebel Chameleons are rising,
shedding skins as surprising,
as Da-Vinci was enterprising.

Momentum in the fiery landslide,
to neutralize predators not editors.
Slow the killers of dignity and pride,
Strike the punishers not publishers.
How can they glide if they can’t chide?

During the most crucial election week
why vote for secrecy for the powerful
and spying on the innocent and meek?

God Botherers

“Jehovah’s Witnesses are coaxing
fools into endless bible coaching.
The angel suckers are approaching,
it’s time for theologian poaching.
Don’t they know Satan lives here
and his evil is without peer?”

“Bible bashing girl Wonder,
I do not deal in Gods puny
sheet lightning and thunder.
You’re glad to be fuel, cool.
If not I’m not your ghoul fool.
Forget Riddlers and Jokers,
I am one of those seriously
hard core furnace stokers.
See no evil, not even traces?
I’ve stoked eleven fire places.
I’ll incinerate every disciple.
My badness you can stifle?
you’ll need more than a rifle.
Hoping I’ll mind my manners?
I’d prefer to bake your nannas!

The Virus

Resisting a second and third glance, at Melbourne artist Mariah Bordeaux, was akin to silently stepping in molten granite. Internationally renowned food critic Pierre Broderick, abandoned his scathing attack on the worst dessert of the century, to admire her. She was the most exquisite creature in his universe. That visual banquet strolled from the restaurant and his life, before he could half jokingly ask her to be his wife. Was she the artistic genius of his imagination, a malevolent dunce with less creative flair than a garage porn director, or somewhere in between?

That night, Pierre dined at a religious themed restaurant called The Fallen Angel. It’s statue of Yahweh’s pupils are disco balls. His beard is a haven for bats. The statue of Buddha is a Juke Box. The Fallen Angel is a mecca for sinners. All the coolest demons hang out there. Satan has been a regular since he bought the business from Dick Cheney in the nineties. These days the Prince of Darkness is a helicopter salesman, who says he shares Pierre’s love of bird watching, mountain climbing and knitting.  Pierre was certain Satan’s bright red skin and razor sharp horns weren’t an illusion. He shared his yearning for Mariah with the notorious soul collector, who promised to help. They arranged a future meeting.

Pierre’s clairvoyant confidante, Jeremiah Elijah the 2nd, a proud franchisee of Sutton’s Psychic Therapy, also drank at The Fallen Angel from time to time. He claimed that a smorgasbord of delicious luck awaited his gustatory adviser. Pierre probed for intel on Mariah Bordeaux.

“My spirit guide said something about that vivacious Goddess being imprisoned in an otherwise empty cage, for a month, without dropping a dress size” was all the self proclaimed sage had to say. No amount of money could prompt him to elaborate on this miscellaneous titbit. How did it qualify as useful information? It seemed to be nothing more than intriguing trivia.

“Wear odd socks, one golden, one midnight black, for good luck,” Elijah advised Pierre,
on the eve of Mariah Bordeaux’s debut exhibition. Her psychedelic self-portraits hung beside a series of paintings depicting a golden hornet’s invasion of a glow worms fortress. The slithering warriors, composed symphonies via the shifting patterns on their luminous skin. In the final painting of the series, the classical music loathing hornet retreats.

As Pierre sought Mariah’s autograph, she looked down her patrician nose at his off the rack clothes. Once she caught a glimpse of his odd socks he thought she’d call security.

“At last, the man with one golden sock and the other as dark as a forest night.
My psychic told me he’s the cunnilingus magician I seek.”

“Jeremiah, you sly dog,” Pierre texted.

“Ready to get on your knees Pierre?” Mariah purred.

“Sorry darling, I was hoping for someone
more compassionate than a branding iron,
closer to monogamy than a bonobo and less sacrilegious than a brothel in a cathedral.
Declaring yourself more enticing than Mary, Mother of God, in a mini skirt and crotchless panties, is the most chaste remark you’ve made all evening.”

“Whatever, you’ll soon be addicted to my depravity,
you down on your knees is as sure as gravity” Mariah crooned.

Pierre swaggered away like the ultimate alpha, but he felt like an alcoholic fleeing a bar.
Run, a diver surfacing from the ocean of his subconscious pleaded. The click of Mariah’s high heels was as hypnotic as tribal drums. She corralled Pierre in a storeroom and parted the teeth of his zipper with bewitching slowness.

In his disembodied state, Pierre heard someone squealing in delight. The journey into Mariah’s wild, hungry eyes reduced a burst water main humbling orgasm
to a mere footnote.

“It’s time for your diving lesson Pierre” Mariah breathed in his ear.

With every trace of tension gone, the marble storage room floor felt as good as a four poster bed resplendent in silk sheets. Mariah wandered off, the moment the waves of pleasure spreading from her epicentre to her extremeties abated. Pierre was too lost in bliss to complain.

After weeks of fasting, Pierre still felt as full as an anaconda that treats jaguars like jelly jeans. “Legend has it Mariah was imprisoned in a glass ball for a month, without food or drink, without dropping a single dress size.” Jeremiah Elijah, Pierre’s psychic adviser, once said, in the mock serious tone he’d mentioned the Lochness Monster gate crashing his pool party. Hunger pangs finally hit. There was only one food Pierre craved. Within minutes of pleasuring Mariah, he felt like he’d won the world pie eating championships. The former food critic was more puzzled than a Neolithic tribesman in a quantum computing lab. It felt forever since food had appealed to him. Apparently his passion for garlic and basil sprinkled barramundi, soaked in lemon juice, followed by homemade passionfruit and pineapple iced cream was gone forever. 

“Somehow your divine nectar is as nourishing as a feast for fifty, Mariah. How could this be” Pierre probed.

“Nutritionists and pathologists say my magic well contains fewer calories than diet cola.
It’s infested with DNA reprogramming viruses that render food as toxic as funnel web venom and the appetite for everything else as absent as Hitler’s conscience. Carriers of the virus convert air pollution into nutrients. The enzyme that enables them to do so needs to be replenished by my love tunnel tsunamis, on a regular basis. Too long without worshipping my honey pot and they’ll be more emaciated than an anorexic junkie.”

Pierre hadn’t needed Mariah to tell him that pure wilderness air made him hungry. He’d recently sold his investments property, to buy a helicopter from Satan, to travel to areas bathed in pristine wilderness air and return before the hunger pangs became too severe. It certainly hadn’t occurred to Pierre that it was pollutants, rather than Mariah’s orgasms, that were stimulating his body to manufacture all the carbs, proteins, vitamins and minerals he needed though. Once Mariah had grown bored with Pierre and banished him from her harem, she finally admitted there was a cure.

“The man who sells the cure is the same man who created the viruses. He used to work in a germ warfare lab. He’s quite the entrepreneur. He sells helicopters too”

“Is his name Satan by any chance?”

“No, I think it’s Sutton. He owns a chain of psychic healing sanctuaries too”

Jeremiah Elijah Junior, was a sly dog alright. He’d always said that he was well connected in the business world but it never occurred to Pierre that he was in Satan’s inner circle.

“How did you get the virus Mariah?”

There was a faraway, dreamy look in her eye, as she described the consequences of pleasuring Satan, with a lot of unnecessary detail. If Mariah could be believed, Satan’s erections were more spectacular than the Empire State Building, he had the staying power of a nuclear submarine and the rhythm of a professional dancer.

Pierre returned to The Fallen Angel. The helicopter salesman no longer had horns
or skin as bright red as Mariah’s stretch lace lingerie. He insisted his surname was Sutton, not Satan

“I heard you’ve been banished from Mariah’s harem, where are you going to replenish your stocks of the food replacement virus now?”

Satan, or Sutton as he calls himself these days, winked lasciviously,
as he poured a test tube of the virus into his  beer.

“I must return to my life as a food critic, how much for the cure?”

“Give me your soul and you can have all the cannisters of clean air you like, with the fruity fragrance of your choice, for a one of payment of only $20,000.
I can throw in a branch of Sutton’s Psychic Therapy, for 5% off, if you wish. How about a free meal, to replenish your strength afterwards.”

Pierre decided that flying his helicopter to the countryside, to bask in clean air until the virus was gone and then stumble to the nearest restaurant, before he collapsed and died, was preferable to emptying his bank account in exchange for a bottled version of the cure. He was overwhelmed with daydreams of future three Michelin star adventures. In the meantime, any pub that sold potato wedges, sweet chilli sauce and sour cream would do. His plans were thwarted by the mysterious disappearance of his helicopter engine. A phone call revealed that an anonymous thief was prepared to sell it back to him for precisely $20,000.

When Pierre finally spotted and confronted Jeremiah Elijah Junior, his former psychic adviser was all smiles.

“When someone as powerful as Satan, or whatever he calls himself these days, is involved it’s hardly worth the risk of openly sabotaging his plans. You can’t say I didn’t try to warn you though. Why would you a trust a woman who can eat nothing for a month for a month without losing weight?”

“You pathetic charlatan, how much money did you make out of this scam?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Satan doesn’t offer bribes when he can get his way through intimidation. The father of lies is a scary guy.”

“Don’t lie to me” Pierre roared, as he shoved Jeremiah with all his might, sending him sprawling backwards into the African Boxthorn growing in the nearby garden. The tyre shredding spikes tore into his flesh.

Mariah Bordeaux’s timing was uncanny. She strolled around the corner carrying a box of boutique scar removal creams and disinfectants. Apparently the economic downturn had forced her to get a second job. Pierre caught a glimpse of her brain melting, black lace adorned cleavage, as she bent over to retrieve some product samples. Two of the buttons on her satin blouse popped open. Pierre was busy fantasizing about gently nibbling on Mariah’s colossal dark nipples, when it occurred to him that he’d never seen Satan and Mariah at the same time.



Biohazard, Halloween Signage by Bill Dickinson



Some rights are reserved, you must acknowledge the author, provide a link to the license and indicate if changes were made. You must not use this work for commercial purposes or prevent others from using it according to the license. For further information use the link above.





The Devil in Their Midst

Satan had been frog watching,
with a static electricity torch
to keep him from plunging
into the empty darkness of a ravine.
He strolled into a megalithic church hall.
Staggered by a blast of infatuation,
he fought gamely to regain his equilibrium
amidst a sea of midriff tops,
navel sapphires, and tantalizingly short skirts.
The place inspired more perversity
than a stroll through the university.

After studying the lyrics of the hymns,
they remained as meaningless to him
as the trussed and gagged Zombies
defacing three of Derek Simms limbs.

The remnants of Lucifer’s concentration vanished,
as he glimpsed Angie Becket’s stained glass window lingerie.
Was she a trusting little darling
proclaiming to the good Lord her body is her temple
or making it known to yours truly,
that cheeky cloven hooved,
pitch fork twirling, life of the party,
that she’s a bad girl?

Pastor Jenkins discussed God’s ban
on sex outside of marriage.
Fuck the idea of a license to fuck,
Satan muttered before taking another peek
at the stained glass windows
decorating his favourite place of worship.

By SMS, he proposed a trip to a skating rink.
Angela said yes please, with a wicked wink.
The lace peeking from her paint tight leotard
made dancing on the glassy ice doubly hard.

All they wore was the shine of the blue moon,
as Angie’s epicentre overshadowed a monsoon.
Olympic gold could not upstage the revelation
it was the pastor’s sister who gave in to temptation.





Satan by Oscar



Some rights are reserved, you must acknowledge the author, provide a link to the license and indicate if changes were made. You must not use this work for commercial purposes, prevent others from using it according to the license or distribute a modified version of it. For further information use the link above.


That Corner Booth

It’s New Year’s Eve 1987.
The light barely glows
in the far reaches of that corner booth.
The odor of stale ale
and cancer stick exhaust is ever present.
The smug menace of Al Capone’s men
fill the voids beside Gretsky, Ali and Jordan.

It’s 1937, the photos are of Joe Louis,
Jesse Owens and Babe Ruth.
Dave Renault is a contemplative statue,
sipping flat beer in that corner booth.
His self-assured vulture features
reveal neither glee not sadness.
He’s a man prepared to die at any time
for the sake of extravagant living.
Eerily calm, he visualizes the arrival
of a blazing rifle.

The mayor is travelling incognito.
He’s on his way to Renault’s table,
for a confidential chat. He’s not happy,
something about a bag, snagged on the river floor,
breaking free in a flood
and ending up in the lagoon
by his father’s holiday resort.

It’s 1952,
Ralph Wilson lounges in that corner booth,
excited by the demonic atmosphere.
No one in the flesh overheard the fading cries
wafting from his cellar,
with the stink of dead and dying rats.
He wishes passing F.B.I agents well
as they stride to the bar,
winking as they pat their pockets.

New Year’s Eve 1987,
the beer is crisp, cold and foaming.
Fits of laughter pump rivers of tears,
in that corner booth.
Capone’s eyes shift in the old photograph.
‘Joke away you bums’
Reg heard Al’s whisper floating in the Friday night din.
Ordinary perception could not have discerned it.
The panic in his eyes
motivates euphoric revellers to follow him out.

It’s bowel avalanches all round
as machine gun fire sprays the room
like a cloud of lead hornets;
bullets find their splintery graves
in that corner booth.


Nobody votes for Mister Faceless
but his phone calls are worth a billion votes.
Kissinger and Nixon were among his finest servants.
He laughs at the anguished singing
of billionaire rock stars
crying out for peace and death to poverty,
for they are unwitting members of his club.
Faceless can’t remember a time
when he preferred making love to his wife
to molesting the face of Benjamin Franklin
on a one hundred dollar bill.

Generosity is a mental illness
in the mind of Mister Faceless.
Petitions sway him no more
than the screams of bomb orphaned children.
The only way to beat him is to be him,
claims his spit as it drips
from a little boy reduced to a torso.
He was an example to others
who staunchly refused to provide information
they didn’t have.

Faceless is booked in for a nightmare
with a man in a lizard skin mask.
His gaze is as penetrating as medical drill bits.
Imprinted upon his features
is every skerrick of menace and revulsion
since the sunrise of civilization.

An anaesthetist strike is relaxation therapy
compared to such attention Spike.