Lake Bliss

Supply helicopters shrink on the horizon.
A canvas tent,
nestled on a rock formation
strangely like a human hand,
is home until Autumn.

The stony shallows of Lake Bliss,
are aeons from plumes of diesel fumes.
What are the comets of colour,
dancing like avian choreographers
in cobalt blue?
When did they arrive?
They’re communing with me,
like eyes of intelligent creatures.
But all my pupils digest
is swirling light,
compacted into divebombing tadpoles.

Comets and tadpoles of vibrant colour,
bend into leering question marks.
How does an unfathomable light show sneer and leer,
as surely as flitting wrens
grace me with their presence and disappear?
Thoughts terrifying and divine meld with mine.
I see them within, I see them without,
until they’re as disorienting
as the waves of river dolphin and birdsong
by an inexplicable water spout.
It dawns on me,
I’m witnessing aspects of a single aura.
Have I observed the connectedness,
or is it a fallacy implanted by the lights?
They depart.

I’m alone,
with nothing more than mild anxiety,
slowly melting beneath the caress
of beautiful isolation.
I wander in radiant shallows,
sometimes swimming over ancient valleys.
Cities from forgotten eras
dominate the distant floor.
Walls, paths, steps, as intact as London.
Timbers long since morphed into silt,
fail to bury the grandeur.
Scuba diving apparitions,
venture close enough
to decipher hieroglyphics on marble reliefs.
For fleeting moments I share their gaze.

Nearer shore,
sunlight plays with wavelets
from my feet to the horizon.
The freshwater weeds
are as edible as herb gardens
a continent away.

After a dizzy spell,
I wake inside a gleaming white sphere,
as soft as silicon gel.
Sound beyond the bubble
drips with intrigue.
That’s all I can glean from what’s probably
a form of music, or a spoken language,
but possibly neither.
Perhaps it’s the sound of machinery.
I can’t imagine this place is of human origin.
Have I left the planet as physically
as some presume my mind did long ago,
or are visitors,
with technology beyond the reach
of primitive human imaginings,
residing here?

Murmurs reminiscent of discussion,
accompany pauses between barrages of stimuli.
How many intermingled arguments
dredged from distant memories
can I withstand?
The clockwork rapidity
with which these disturbances come and go,
informs me they’re not my doing.
My pain receptors are stimulated,
until I wonder if my vocal cords will snap,
from the stress of screaming.
Perhaps the battery of tests takes weeks,
but it feels like years.

The dizziness that accompanied my capture
signals my release.
I pat foreshore grass,
like it’s a fragile puppy.
Yams, berries and stone fruits proliferate,
on a farm overrun with an emerging forest.

I’ve heard there’s phone reception,
on the rim of the crater,
but the nearest electronic device
is weeks of climbing, clambering and sliding from here.
Smartphones arrived at the monastery in 2015.

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.