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.

Unidentified

Xerxes Lagoon exists to paint music
in clouds of ambient noise.
The disembodied heads of composers
stare from his rhythmic auroras.
Picasso called him the Sultan of Synethesia.
Dali called him the oddest roller
in the pinball parlour of life.
Those who question the authenticity of his eccentricity,
their sluggish, shrunken brains are lacking electricity.

Enroute to an artists retreat,
Xerxes was oblivious to the jarring motion
of the all terrain vehicle.
He didn’t notice the driver swerve
to avoid a coyote.
We could’ve been on a dancefloor,
in a rodeo arena,
or a cooking pot, for all Xerxes knew.
He was shocked to discover
the rainforest had given way to desert.

Above the cacti canopy,
on a barren hilltop,
the smoke shrouded, blood red sun
glinted off a mysterious object.
It was abstract enough to baffle us all,
yet recognizable enough
to inspire countless hypotheses.
Interstellar spacecraft,
experimental military aircraft,
meteorological research station,
avant garde limousine, in levitation mode.
psychedelic sculptor’s residence,
and interdimensional pixies conference centre,
were among the multitude of theories.

I reached the object from a rocky outcrop.
A sequence of dull thuds,
upon its shimmering surface,
was followed by percussive orchestral brilliance.
It’s vibratory contortions
converted random strikes into eerie melodies.
I couldn’t shake the feeling
it was trying to communicate.
Somewhere in Xerxes comprehending gaze,
lay the keys to the ghost in the machine.

While we watched a hawk descend on a wounded rodent,
the mysterious object vanished.
In its place
was an exquisitely detailed mandala.
Under a microscope,
random imperfections hinted at hand painting.
It was wet when we found it.
Rhiannon concluded it was a gift
from extra terrestrial hippies,
that their sky borne palace
existed to give birth to mind mending art.

Xerxes uttered his first words in weeks.
“Sometimes my ideas solidify.”
He refused to elaborate.
Xerxes next words were “biscuit of light.”
The context was as forthcoming
as a stone age nuclear winter.
Had he descended into word salad
or was he alluding to the nourishing light of reason?

For the duration of the retreat,
Xerxes was quieter than his brushes.
He painted for days, collapsed into sleep
and resume painting before he awoke.
Sometimes he remembered to eat.

Xerxes winter exhibition “Astral Travel,”
blurred the distinction between painting and sculpting.
He’d created aerial views of tree obscured landscapes
we’d passed while his head was buried in a cushion.
The oldest painting on display
predated our desert journey.
It depicted the unidentified object,
on the barren hilltop,
above the cacti canopy,
from a demystifying angle.

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.

Featured

Party Hopper

Is the lady opposite me mute?
In search of a reaction
I compose a tribute to the sunrise.
Trickles of molten gold caress vapor canyons!
Dioxin devastated water ways
cannot banish the suns sanguine art.
Fiery mist overwhelms factory haze
as it climbs to a pale blue pinnacle.

I finally notice her pale blue pallor.
How did I not realize she was dead?
I blame it on her sunglasses
and the zombie like expressions
of living, breathing commuters,
hypnotized by their computers.
They’re perfect camouflage for a corpse.

In shock I exit the station and climb a wattle
and weeping Meadow Grass knitted embankment,
to the porthole in your back fence.

Your house is as hidden as a serial killer’s conscience.
The slow jujitsu of vines is divine.
They’re racing to slaughter the mortar.
The party is in its embryonic stages.
I stash soft drink in an Antarctic wading pool
until its embossed in frost.
Someone puts a cigar plant to my lips.
I’ve been told Cuphea’s less psychotropic
than an electron microscope is telescopic,
yet it seems I’ve caught a logic disease;
concertos are encoded in the breeze.
Is this the Mount Pinatubo of placebos?
Too many inquisitive psychiatrists at this party,
time to leave.

Stretchy gnomes, twining around Corymbias,
smirk at peach flavoured watermelons
parachuting to power lines.
They’ve been jettisoned from the mother ship
of intergalactic fruiterers.
Longer houses and the narrowing of the road
create the illusion the street is stretching.
The moon has left its orbit to ogle me.
Fireworks stream from my fingertips
to paint landscapes on the lunar surface.

I have no memory of my journey
to a festival somewhere in Bankstown.
After mulching through dubious fast food
I’m not in a lively mood.
The new lump on my neck is oddly geometrical.
Vague memories of extra-terrestrials,
testing hair products on me, return.
Possibly the shock of the dead woman on the train
is wreaking havoc with my otherwise healthy brain.

In a dilapidated culdesac,
Lebanese thespians douse the audience
in Jiddo and Jadda nostalgia.
Dimly lit laneways, feature iridescent pole dancers
decorating disused traffic lights.
On a treehouse veranda,
in the yard of a gargoyle collector,
the only band to combine a qunoon
with a shamisen and a didgeridoo
features a singer whose different too.

The journey back to your party,
via a boot with bullet holes for air holes,
is in keeping with my unorthodoxy goals.
I’d always wondered why Vincenzo’s
car cost only five hundred dollars.

My second entrance into the vine reclaimed house
is via candlelight.
Someone drove away with the solar panel trailer
but there’s no shortage of amplifier batteries
for the guitar solo equivalent
of pitch black roller coaster rides
through crumbling mountain sides.

One moment I was listening to drum beats
chasing stars from their lofty mantles,
then I awoke at midday
sprawled across a chest of drawers,
in drag and a sumo suit.
I’d hate to think what might’ve happened
if I’d been drinking.

The Woman with the Flame Robin Tattoo

1.

Masquerade belly dancers flowed across sprung maple,
as effortlessly as mermaids swaying through aquamarine.
Bethany’s shimmering waxed crown
merely altered the flavour of her beauty,
nothing could detract from her radiant gateways
to alternate universes.
She recited my paper aeroplane poem
‘It’s an honour just to see her move.
Oh how I long to taste the rising tide of her nectar,
to inspire an ecstatic lullaby
that escalates into a climactic scream’
‘How bold’, the raised eyebrows
of the translucent robed fantasy weaver proclaimed.

“Would you like to see our apartment,”
her voluptuous, cocoa complexioned, girlfriend offered,
unaware of the magnitude of my obsession.
Polyamory seemed poisonous then.

 

2.

That winter I spotted Bethany on ArtisticSingles.com
Her pale jacket was perfectly camouflaged
by a snowy backdrop.
Wayward strands of her wavy dark hair
reminded me of an old world forest,
its Autumn splendour buried beneath ice and snow.
Her serene gaze summoned thoughts of a stone cottage,
in the depths of blizzard ravaged woods;
the harsh glow of electricity
never to illuminate its bronze age walls.

Then she was seated at a grand piano.
Her strapless, emerald, satin dress,
revealed a perfect rendering of a Flame Robin in flight.
I imagined her to be on the verge
of playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

In a flooded valley,
she snorkelled to within reach
of a mediaeval cathedral spire.
The final photograph was a silhouette
framed in Kirlian colour.
By the time I’d composed a message
her profile had vanished.

 

3.

Montages of Bethany’s magnificent performances
dominated my thoughts,
as waves thundered into rocks
a thousand rungs below my recliner.
Before I spoke in sentences
a fisherman was swept from the ladder,
in front of my uncomprehending eyes.
With Bethany on a virtual stage before me
I couldn’t finish the first paragraph
of bank heist, ritual murder
and courthouse graffiti articles.
The cabaret theatre finally faded
as a story pondering the disappearance of poets
seized my attention.
According to The Daily Reflection they’d received death threats,
in handwritten calligraphy, on human skin.
The eliminator vowed to throw her rivals
into box jellyfish infested waters.
‘Belly dancing and spoken verse wunderkind Bethany Trellis’
was rumoured to be the latest abductee.

From my cliff top hideaway I scanned the surf,
with a powerful telescope,
in search of porpoises and dolphins.
On the tip of a sea ravaged headland,
a Flame Robin adorned woman gazed at the blazing horizon.
Remnants of a mighty wave concealed her.
Spray plummeted to Star Fish havens below.
She’d vanished!
Had the ocean claimed her
or had she departed from the storm whittled stage
as discreetly as a magician?
Was she was real,
or a radiant shard of a shattered mind?

 

4.

I walked the winding cobblestone lane
from my cliff top village home
to the river mouth.
Trestle tables, laden with baskets of fruit,
lined the path to the shore.

In a vacant meadow,
the girl with the Flame Robin
emblazoned upon her shoulder blade
played a duet with the rising wind.
I waited for one of the villagers
to toss a coin into her barren instrument case,
to prove she was real.
“I feared you’d been abducted and murdered”
were the words imprisoned in my throat.

As I warned off a chihuaha stalking fox,
the enigmatic trobairitz vanished
as swiftly as that shifty canine.

 

5.

The promotional posters, at Crystal Temple,
were the size of a swimming pool.
I would’ve recognized Bethany’s silhouette minus the aura.
The orchestral splendour of a grand piano
drifted down a spiral staircase,
washing over surreal landscapes
like surf caressing the beach.

The pianists tuxedo was as moulded
to her towering, curvaceous figure as her cocoa skin.
Exquisite lace, nestled beneath her regal ensemble,
was as pronounced as wrought iron wildflowers.
Ladies who’d thought themselves more immune
to the charms of womankind than a eunuch
found themselves in the thrall of her pan-romantic sorcery.
Her Goddess humbling form was upstaged
by the frantic ballet of her talented hands.

Ribbon twirling contortionists
accompanied the sultry musician’s miraculous voyages
into the possibilities of sound.

The most exquisitely proportioned Goddess of music ever deified
was overshadowed by the mystical aura of the host.
If she were an epic poem, the silky smooth thighs,
vanishing beneath her flared satin skirt
would’ve been the least meritorious detail.
It was easy to imagine her sleeveless, iridescent blouse
choreographing the opalescent lighting.

The raven haired, Flame Robin inked, compere
recited a poem from my anthology Phantom Pilgrimage.
Her melodic voice wrapped around the audience
like divine light.

It’s Time to soar beyond the Canopy

Every chrysalis has split asunder,
our wings cannot be overwhelmed
by the deluge following the thunder.’

Adorned by pendants of jade,
we dance in a Wattle glade,
admiring cherry grevilleas
and crimson bouganvilleas,
until the heat begins to fade.

Mauve dusk gives way to moonlight.
Awkwardness melts and passion rises,
expert hands spring intimate surprises.
Sensuous animals and souls embrace
as mouths caress and fingertips trace.
Hearts are healed with summit prizes.

We cross Poseidon Creek by lantern light.
I see word pictures of your soul in auburn eddies,
which I recite before the Sun God
reveals its blazing Cyclops eye.
Venturing back into graffiti defiled urban wild
fails to murder the magic.

At the culmination of that euphoric tale
I thought I saw the vividly hued Robin
inked on her shoulder blade,
fly above the crowd and vanish.
After the dimming and brightening of the lights
her back was a blank canvas no more.
An enigmatic smile graced her lush, blood red lips.
To this day I cannot say
if the flight of the plump, diminutive bird
was a hallucination, special effects or real.

 

6.

After the show, Charlotte the piano wizard
sold memorabilia in the foyer.
I waited in vain for Bethany to appear.
The oil of her testing the narrative limits of a Spanish guitar,
was it there when I entered the auditorium?
The midnight haired beauty,
on the tip of a sundrenched headland,
hadn’t she been standing beneath a waterfall
before the show?
Her birth name is Bethany Trellis
but only the woman with The Flame Robin Tattoo
captures her layers of mystique.
She is the essence of Bubushka.
Since then I’ve been as close to her
and her piano virtuoso lover as their gourmet dessert,
but probing questions are met with no more
than a twinkling of her sapphire gaze.

 

7.

Charlotte was banished
from the realm of the Flame Robin Princess,
after succumbing to the wiles of an actress
who steals lovers with the zeal Stephen Hawking
explores the mysteries of astrophysics.
While Bethany walked the streets,
lamenting the death of the relationship,
a tranquilizer dart missed her
by the width of a violin string.
The gossip mags devoted more ink to pondering
Charlotte’s wary eye bordered jellyfish tattoo.

The anniversary of my paper aeroplane poem
interrupting Bethany’s belly dancing troupe
was as momentous as the moon landing.
I found a copy of Phantom pilgrimage,
with lipstick all over the dust jacket,
hiding beneath free samples and pizza vouchers.
In the evening, a dusty wooden crate
mysteriously appeared on my veranda.

I waited to dawn to prise open the lid
and remove three ornately framed canvases:
a telescopic view of a statuesque figure,
on a sun drenched headland;
a close up of the sender
wearing nothing but an enigmatic smile
and a painted enlargement of a poem,
in my handwriting.

The opening verses read,
“Street lights surf wavelets across the bay.
Moonlit Casuarinas stand sentinel over fragile soil.
Flying foxes surf the midnight breeze.
This symphony of movement,
is conducted by the swaying of the belly dancer’s hips.
Her gestures sculpt the clouds into an alien menagerie.
In contrast, the intricate portrait in my coffee
is as unimpressive as a toddlers stick figure.
She steps with the lightness of hoverflies,
as I gaze into the galaxies of her eyes.

It’s an honour just to see her move,
oh how I long to taste the rising tide of her nectar,
to inspire an ecstatic lullaby
that escalates into a climactic scream.

 

8.

I heard footsteps on the stairs.
Bethany had the audacity
to stroll through my house unannounced.
In her hand was a series of sketches
I’d bought from a street artist a decade ago.
Pairs of Scarlet, Flame and Pink Robins
looked set to soar from the page.
‘That was you’
she laughed at my stunned expression.

I removed a velvet box
from the bottom of the dusty wooden crate.
Inside were Bethany’s annual self-portraits,
ranging from a toddler’s smiley face
to Archibald Prize entries.

Her mind was elsewhere.
‘Poet, how versatile is your tongue’,
was among her questions.
By the time we collapsed into each other’s arms,
few fantasies remained unexplored.

9.

Bethany selected her Saturday night outfit
from a suitcase the size of a coffin.
I watched in horror as calligraphy
in the style of the poetess death threats
protruded from the pocket
of her bouquet embroidered jeans.
She put on an exhibition
of ambidextrous mirror writing,
in more styles than the F.B.I’s forgery files.
‘Maybe the one in your handwriting is a suicide note’
she quipped, after setting it alight
and burying the charred remains in a pot plant.
“I copied the calligraphy of the poetess killer,
for a comp run by http://www.twistedhorror.com”
she insisted, as light heartedly as she’d
declared herself the better darts player.
“Let’s play Robin Hood,
I’ll tie you up at sword point
and give your stereo to the poor” Bethany pleaded,
as she played with my ornamental cross bow.
“Something wrong with my timing”
an impish grin spread across her angelic face.

 

10.

There was a thunderous knock at the door.
Charlotte was as insistent as a wolf
starving a child from the safety of a tree.
Exasperated, we let her in.
Her eyes were wild with fury over unanswered calls.

Videos of missing poets, chained to each other,
inside a tunnel as anonymous as a composted corpse
arrived in Bethany’s inbox.
They thrashed about in a human eyeball
and box jellyfish infested tank.
“You’re next” a text bubble menaced.
Charlotte looked as unmoved as a snuff movie fan.
Her tattoo was beginning to look as ominous as a swastika.
Bethany trembled as she rang 000.
Charlotte snatched at her phone.
Holding her back was like wrestling Ronda Rousey.
Somehow I escaped with my shoulder sockets intact.
The videos were on YouTube,

A police car arrived.
Minutes into ‘protective custody’,
we were handcuffed,
herded into a warehouse at gunpoint
and confronted with a box jellyfish infested tank.
Lifeless bodies floated on the surface.
“You ignored my warning” Charlotte lamented,
as she pointed to her tattoo. 

The apparent victims were erotic android doubles.
Pseudo police officers fled the scene.
The abductees were found in a forest,
a mile from the scene of the prank,
looking as refreshed as meditation retreat residents.
Detectives suspected them of colluding
with the manufacturers of their sex toy lookalikes
but evidence remained as elusive as Bigfoot.

 

 

 

Photo

David Cook

http://www.flickr.com/photos/kookr/581400435

Some rights reserved, you must acknowledge the author, provide a link to the license and indicate if changes were made. You must not use the material for commercial purposes or prevent others from doing anything the license permits.

 

Steeplechase Donkey

Godfrey chose charity fundraising over welfare.
Now he was working for the privilege
of being labelled a parasite.
On his first day as navigator,
he wore a T-Shirt advertizing
his jazz and disco fusion quartet,
Steeplechase Donkey.

The leafy suburb of Eltoro Gardens loomed.
May the force be with you,
Godfrey encouraged old Jimmy Wallace
as he handed him his paper map.
Retirement was a luxury Jimmy couldn’t afford.

Godfrey paired sixteen year old Summer Winterton,
with former bouncer Kelvin the Keg Kensington,
just in case predators were lurking
behind the Elysian exterior of Eltoro Gardens.
Former archaeologist Zachary Stafford
looked as determined as an Everest Sherpa,
as he approached a series of palatial homes.

Godfrey’s opening hours
made his stint as a telemarketer,
for a toilet paper company, seem as fascinating
as astral travelling to distant galaxies.
His area encompassed the shrinking fibro share house
section of Eltoro gardens.
Underemployed teenage labourers
peppered him with empty beer cans.

Is that all the I.D you’ve got,
an elderly garden gnome collector enquired.
‘That’s not you’ he claimed
as he examined Godfrey’s licence and passport.
Godfrey eroded the cautious codger’s skepticism
with his birth certificate, tax returns,
bank statements and school reports,
until he begrudgingly dipped into a jar of five cent pieces.
Negotiations stalled
once he realized the pre-printed receipt
wouldn’t cover precisely forty five cents. 

Business improved among the mansions,
as mums arrived home
with computer game obsessed brats.
Godfrey approached an automatic gate,
as enthusiastically as an apartment block puppy
let loose on a farm.
T
he olive complexioned Goddess,
emerging from her Mercedes,
weighed down with shopping bags
,
had visited the supermarket
in a bikini.
Her little girl shut the gate on Godfrey twice.
There was no cash for calendars
or inspirational fridge magnets,
in Grace Senior’s handcrafted leather purse.

“No pilot focuses as intently on landing strips
as Grace Junior does on
Peppa Pig episodes.
Let’s go upstairs so I can apologize properly.
I see you’ve pitched a tent for me Godfrey.
Is there a dwarf living in your shorts?”

“They prefer to be called short statured people,
Mrs Elkington,” Godfrey chastised,
as he lashed her quivering derriere.
“Yes Sir Godfrey” Grace agreed between groans.
He swung her riding crop
to the rhythm of a Steeplechase Donkey Original,
Lochness Monster Rodeo,
before bending her over the balustrade.  

Mrs Elkington transferred ten thousand dollars
to Fundraising International,
as her conqueror sipped champagne from a crystal glass.
‘Say hello to Chad for me’ Mrs Elkington said,
as her mystified playmate departed.

“Get the fuck off my lawn you lowly peasant cunt”
Grace’s elegantly dressed next door neighbor
snarled in a north shore accent.
“You don’t wish to peruse the products on offer?
think of the dying children?”
“I’ll call the police”
“Splendid, they usually buy a calendar or two”
As Godfrey retreated from the aristocratic bogan’s
perfectly manicured lawn,
he casually ducked a bottle of chardonnay
worth more than his laptop.

Chad Randall, C.E.O of Fundraising International,
called Godfrey from his golf course
to offer Steeplechase Donkey a gig
at a fundraising picnic.

Mrs Elkington was front row and centre,
in a translucent white dress and lace lingerie
more colourful than a Rainbow Lorikeet.
She bought two boxes of Steeplechase Donkey’s latest album,
Surf the Tsunami.
Her record producer husband Bruce,
studied the lyrics of Salesman Casanova.

“How’s my favourite talent scout” Mr Elkington asked
as the corporate couple watched a video
of their latest signings finest performance.
Godfrey’s appearance on their radar
was like a gold centred meteorite
blasting a crater the size and shape
of their future swimming pool.
“Bruce darling, start practising your angry face,
this adulterous triumph will go viral.
The scandal will thrust Steeplechase Donkey’s
stratospheric sales into orbit.

Piano Girl

A bent pen skims Ms Skinner’s desk,
highlighting a musical athlete’s contempt
for the world’s desire to enslave her mind.
By the time Skinner drags her sumo bulk upright,
Piano Girl has vaulted the music room window ledge
and barricaded the door.

She dreams of living backstage,
in her own amphitheatre.
A tuxedo hugs her burgeoning curves
as she break dances towards her wood and ivory altar.

In the garden those vying to be her Adonis
are living sculptures for her guests perusal.
Prudish abuse of fig leaves
is cause for instant dismissal.

To high octane rhythms she chants
‘be who you are, be what you are
until the door of miracles is ajar.’

Every new piece is unplanned.
The fastest eyes are flummoxed
by her percussive sleight of hand.