Lucy Sarah Diamond

As the early morning chill subsided, Lucy Sarah Diamond draped her hoodie across her guitar case. “I see a red door and I want to paint it black, no colours anymore, I want them to turn black”, she sang with a soft dystopian fury. Her hopes and dreams were very much alive, but right now her vocals were redolent of a coffin prison, closer to the mantle than the sun drenched fields above.

“Give me fuel, give me fire, give me that which I desire” a metalhead across the road roared. In decibels he was mighty, talent wise he was a mite.

“I see a line of cars and they’re all painted black, with flowers and my love never to come back” Lucy sang with perfect pitch. I got the feeling she was mourning the loss of more than a lover. 

While she sipped from the lid of her flask, I dropped gold coins into her guitar case. She invited me to help her finish her salad breakfast, an assortment of edible funguses, as mysterious as her, were nestled between the leafy greens. Only the mushrooms looked familiar. I happily gave her another ten dollars, after her rendition of Under the Bridge and watched her slip the note into her floral silk bra.

She looked at me with amused curiousity as I gathered the courage, or the stupidity, to ask if I could slide a larger denomination in there myself. She looked up and down the deserted street before saying “go for it”. I didn’t feel like the generous one as slipped a one hundred dollar note over a towering dark nipple. After furtively glancing up and down the street again, she invited me to delight in her womanly softness. I traced my fingertips over liquid satin, before stretching my hand over the cup and squeezing ever so gently. By the time I’d bought her back catalogue of C.D’s, the footpath was swarming with frantic commuters, shoppers and schoolchildren.

“He’s my boyfriend” Lucy told Darius Fabian, the ruddy old real estate agent, who had witnessed proceedings from his office window. He continued to insist I’d set a precedent that couldn’t be ignored. “If you want to transfer a million dollars to Youth Off The Streets, while I watch, then I’ll think about making your dreams come true mate” Lucy challenged. I wasn’t sure whether she kissed me solely to maintain the charade or because she wanted to.

“I’ll give you three hundred”, the real estate agent sneered.

“Three hundred will get you a song request, a few C.D’s and the happiness that comes from knowing you’ve given me somewhere safe to sleep tonight”

“If you come to my Double Bay penthouse for the weekend, I’ll give you three thousand dollars and whatever make up and pretty new clothes you want. We’ll eat at gourmet restaurants, with the most delicious dessert you’ve ever tasted”

“This sugar babe is fussy. Only the finest Belgian chocolate will do” Lucy quipped.

“If you stick with me you can have all the Beligan chocolate you want darlin, a little padding on those curves wouldn’t hurt a bit” 

“The coincidence that I grew up in Belgium, with my Nigerian parents, was not lost on me. Most people thought I was French, I was surprised Lucy had picked my accent. Apparently Darius Fabian thought I was a member of the local indigenous tribe, because at one point he asked if I’d left my didgeridoo at home. Eventually Darius stormed off, muttering something about seeing to it that Lucy’s busking license was revoked. He came back to hurl more abuse and she responded with a parody of The Angels hit, “Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again.” Australian audiences are renowned for replying to those lyrics with “no way, get fucked, fuck off” naturally, under the circumstances, Lucy performed that part too.

Lucy’s goodbye kiss was hungrier than the one intended to dupe Darius Fabian into believing we were a couple. She tasted like passionfruit. Presumably she was living the precarious life of a couch surfer, opposed to roughing it on the street because she smelled as nice as her freshly laundered clothes.

“I’m an art lover, do you have any reccomendations for where I should go first” were my parting words. Lucy directed me towards an old hotel in Alexandria, now known as Quirk Gallery. Just before I turned to walk away she handed me a poem she’d written, while we ate breakfast together. Lucy grinned mischievously as I leaned in for another goodbye kiss.

Quirk Gallery was an eight storey art deco masterpiece filled with some of the most enchanting impressionist and surreal paintings I’d ever seen. On that Monday morning it was empty enough for the zany marble statues to outnumber the patrons. Perhaps the most striking one was called The Prince of Darkness, if the horns, fangs and tattoo on its forehead were any indication. It was busy pouring petrol on Middle Eastern and Tamil refugees. This abomination bore an uncanny resemblance to the Minister for Immigration at the time.

One room was full of what appeared to be taxidermied extraterrestrials, ranging from what I can only describe as a blue skinned manatee man, shepherding reptilian tigers, to slug like quadripeds using their tongues to play strip poker. I could envisage them performing surgery with those deathly pale protuberances.

On the eighth floor, I gazed at a uniformly black canvas in bewilderment. If there had been any suggestion a mystery painting was hidden underneath or the artist had created sophisticated patterns invisible to the naked eye, I would’ve been instantly enchanted. What was the point? Apparently I was supposed to glean something from the one word title, EPIPHANY. A house painter would’ve been sacked on the spot for replicating such an uneven job. That dastardly darkness was as clumsily applied as shit from a toppled fertiliser truck.

Maybe the art lies in the way the paint was spilt. “It’s all in the wrist” the critics might’ve quipped, if there had been a video of the methods employed. Sadly there was nothing to analyse but a canvas draped in black, it’s runny topography as dull and annoying as an eternally dripping tap. Luckily I drifted into a psychdelic state before I was completely overwhelmed with despair. The last thing I noticed, before losing touch with this dimension, was the curtains beneath the painting. I briefly wondered if they were hiding some sort of puppet show. What the hell was in the salad Lucy gave me?

For reasons unknown, I found myself repeating the word topography over and over again, like it was some sort of shamanic mantra. This word acted like a magic spell, transporting me to tropical darkness. It was barely possible to discern the forest from the sky. The jungle was a more enchanting mystery than anything in the gallery.

I reached Imagination River and quenched my artistic thirst there. Strangely, the deeper I dived, the less I feared drowning amidst its schools of haiku tattoo sporting Demon Fish. Eventually I realized they were hallucinatory, by about the fourth bite. Eating one was enough to scatter the rest. A hallucination within a hallucination, interesting, I mused as visions spawned by the Demon Fish’s flesh shapeshifted from shadowy shamans to mermaids, who cried tears that froze into the sweetest silk. Intersecting rainbows, from alien spectrums, escaped from their cavernous wombs and rapidly cloned themselves.

Imagination River transformed itself into a winding fruit mocktail, as confounding as time travel. It seemed I had travelled in time. Eight hours had elapsed since I’d almost collapsed from boredom, in front of that sloppy ten by eight foot patch of darkness. I was standing at the cafeteria counter, with no memory of how I’d gotten there, any idea how long I’d been there, how many drinks I’d had, or what was in them.

The waitresse’s name was Tiffany. “For the last time, no I can’t sell you any more of those vodka, cucumber, strawberry, watermelon, raspberry and blackberry cocktails, infused with hints of  lemon grass, elderflower, aloevera and crushed ice, #### off we’re closed, Tiffany yelled.  Why was somone who was waiting so impatiently for me to leave, listing the ingredients in their most complex cocktail? How many tracks of my mind had been operating simultaneously?

“I see a red door and I want to paint it black, no colours anymore I want them to turn black” drifted from the Jukebox like an acrid cloud of melancholy, infected with crippling nostalgia. Suddenly it dawned on me what I needed to do.

“Sir, the gallery is closed, the security personnel barked. It seemed my psychedelic state was yet to leave me. The guards had apparently turned into snarling black dog/sequoia hybrids, a surprising alchemy of sorcery and natural selection. The guards panted heavily as I accelerated, ascending the stairs in fours. They sped up like flames bursting from an accelerant. I went to a gear that left them gasping like fish on a jetty “I see a red door and I want it painted black, no colours anymore, I want them to turn black” echoed softly off the Victorian ceiling.

At last, the solely black painting came into view. It was supposed to have transformed. Disappointment struck, like a slow monotonous sledge hammer. Tap, tap, tap, tap, went that metaphorical sledge hammer in my tired, tortured ears. The sound of that painting was still as dull and depressing as an eternally dripping tap. Aren’t paintings supposed to be gushing with inspiration? I walked up to the one word explanation beside that swathe of darkness, hoping to find something between the lines which alluded to more than the blandest midnight.

I desperately needed to see the music again, to dive into the cool rippling, spiralling swirls of stereophonic heaven. For the first time I noticed the copper coin printed beneath the towering BLOCK LETTERS, that spelled EPIPHANY. I looked closer and spotted the drawing of a tiny lever nestled between parted curtains.

“Hurry up”, the woman from the cafeteria yelled in exasperation. Had security gone or never been there in the first place? Their apparent departure was as welcome as an oasis among aeons of sand dunes.

I parted the curtains beneath the painting and nudged the lever. The canvas rotated one hundred and eighty degrees to reveal a red door, on a television screen. An explorer who bore an uncanny resemblance to me approached the door, picked the lock and wandered inside. Climb in to us, whispered the optical illusions on the walls. “What Dreams May Come”, mumbled the star breathing wizard in one. “First, let this dream within a dream gleam” uttered the platinum armoured unicorns. Their choreography painted symphonies with the southern lights.

With baited breath, the explorer removed the veil from the towering canvas in the centre of the room. On one side was a red door that appeared darker or lighter, depending on the viewing angle. A smothering sea of nothingness monopolized the other side. The explorer took a copper coin, the size of a frisbee, from his coat pocket and scratched at the red door, swiftly scraping it away, to reveal the hidden painting beneath.

The vast canvas was dominated by a grey skinned, almond eyed, interdimensional traveller. While glowing purple blood, seeped from self inflicted wounds, he painted the dripping phrases. “It’s an epiphany Tiffany. From the sheerest darkness emerge the brightest lights. Creativity goes to die in a flood lit room. With no torch to shine the old is invisible and so are distractions from the new.

The canvas swung one hundred and eighty degrees again. While I waited for the grey skinned, almond eyed, interdimensional traveller to apply the frisbee sized coin to the darkness, it strode into that opaque night, the gleam of adventure in its eyes was the last thing I saw before it vanished in the distance.

The moment I left the building I tried calling Lucy. I was in such an emotionally charged state that it wasn’t until the fourth attempt that I realized I wasn’t making any typos, the phone number was a digit short. Over the next few days I searched for her in every popular busking spot in Sydney, to no avail. I tried every variation of her name on every social media site. By the end of the week I was asking random pedestrians if they’d seen a busker who called herself Lucy Sarah Diamond.

Eventually I returned to The Quirk Gallery. I couldn’t tell you what was in my first cocktail because the list of ingredients was longer than this story. It’s quicker to say that it reminded me of a tropical island paradise, as strange as enchanting, the kind of place where interstellar space can be seen on a turtles shell, if you focus your eyes just right and leprechauns teleport their spawn into the incandescent platypus eggs, that litter the surf. My next cocktail was weirder still, yet equally refreshing.

On my fifteenth visit to the Quirk Gallery that month, I followed the eerie, acrobatic sound of an electric guitar. It’s feverish tendrils stretched from the roof to the ground floor. Hooded figures circled the masked six string virtuoso, feigning attacks and retreating. The cloak was tight fitting enough to reveal her voluptuous figure. There was a healthy plumpness that was absent the first time we met. After her astonishing instrumental performance Lucy removed her mask. There was something different about her that didn’t make any sense. Eventually I realized it was her hair, it was already foot longer than last time we met.

We sat down in a dimly lit corner of the cafeteria “I’m not Lucy. She told me that I might see you here. She was so sure you were going to ring her that she wondered if you were dead, like her. I am the demon that grew within her until she was no more. I came so hard while she begged desperately for continuing access to her brain. By the time she’d faded away I was so wet that her lovers needed to swim to me.  I can’t sing like Lucy but she could never play the guitar quite like me. Whenever I need a more intense vocal performance I revive her for a little while, torture her some more and kill her again.”

I almost lost control of my bowels, from listening to the thing that had consumed Lucy gloat. My goosebumps were about to escape my skin and strike the walls like tiny arrows by the time I remembered it was April Fools Day and realized that Lucy was still Lucy, that she was just reciting a few lines from a warped horror movie I’d seen too.

“I don’t know how my hair grew so fast but I think it’s something to do with the eighth floor, a lot of weird things happen there” Lucy explained as she lead the way to the Botanical Gardens.   




The Virtual Reality Pod

Her fluttering mini skirt and translucent blouse,
immobilize Herbert like a tranquilizer dart.
She puts a steadying arm around his waist
and leads him to a virtual reality pod
Her delicious sales partner’s voice
is reminiscent of honey and triple rainbows.
“Would you like to watch a movie from the inside?,
the first seven minutes is free”
she whispers in his ear.

The director is allergic to orthodoxy.
Solid marble is plasticine
beneath Athena’s lathe humbling touch.
Her opalescent Lady ego
and an Amazonite Lady empathy wrestle for supremacy,
on a granite globe.
Bee monkeys swing from the sculptors left ear lobe.
It stretches like a rubber band
in response to every bungee acrobatics command.
No telescope is required to view alien oceans here,
Athena’s eyes are cosmic portholes.
In exchange for premasticated sea weed,
terrestrial cephalopods skate on beach slugs.
Through tentacle sweat glands,
they give their gastropod buddies sun tanning lotion
and colour enhancing drugs.
A bat on a leash
rotates Athena’s fan at hypersonic speed.
It’s just an exhibition advertisement.

The movie approaches like a cloud of parrots at sunset.
This place makes Alice’s Wonderland look as mundane
as an accounting manual.

Strange Days

Jerome’s memory of the office Christmas party
was as vague as a tabloid horoscope,
yet he was sure his position
remained as unsinkable as an iceberg.
If he’d done anything as disastrous
as texting his penis modelling portfolio to the board
or slapping the gardener,
for neglecting the plastic plants,
he’d remember wouldn’t he?
He staggered to the letterbox,
to rummage through fast food vouchers
and get rich quick schemes
and failed to find anything more useful
than a bunker busting bomb
in an archaeologist’s tool box.

Jerome made climbing the garden stairs
look as death defying as swimming across
an alligator infested swamp,
before passing out in the lift.
He woke to discover he was made up like a geisha girl.
A temporary tattoo of Donald Trump
covered his left butt cheek.
Giggling could be heard in the distance.
He’d been wearing trousers when he entered the lift hadn’t he?
His party hat, that he remembered;
the sparkly silver thong he didn’t.

Jerome made climbing into his bunk
look as challenging as visiting a Sequoia tree house.
The sun would’ve had better luck
turning a necropolis into a hectic metropolis,
than rousing him before evening.
The belief he’d slept for twenty six hours,
stunned him like a taser.
His reflection mirrored his thoughts,
it took seven clones to keep pace.
The Sorenson’s Surreal Art Gallery voucher,
beneath the door, inspired curiosity
like a helicopter hovering over a stone age tribe.

The remnants of Jerome’s hangover faded, enroute to the station.
Judging by his shirt, strawberries grow on watermelons,
peaches on pineapples and grapes on coconuts,
and it’s all the fruit of singing avocado trees.

The solitary figure on platform four
was stranger than Jerome’s clothes.
His Dickensian suit and cobra tipped, floral walking stick,
weren’t as odd as his robotic dance between vending machines.
He chose a can of ice cold coconut milk,
poured it into his packet of pumpkin chips
and gazed at the over flow
as though it were as entrancing as Victoria Falls.
Saluting an Ibis,
as it salvaged half eaten chicken burgers,
from a broken bottle littered bench,
was an attempt to blend in.

“All stations to the city circle on platform two,
departing in one minute”
Jerome spun and boarded.
An old guy, in a Cannibal Carcass t-shirt,
listened to The Demonic Pixie’s Greatest Hits,
without headphones.
Desperate to escape this brain bleed inducing noise,
Jerome race walked four carriages. Once every set of doors
were as shut as a jar of funnel webs,
he barely heard that demonic audio cancer.
His ears were ambushed by distant doof, doof,
as monotonous as a life sentence in solitary confinement.

With the urgency of a man caught between
a flood of boiling mud and a river of lava,
he fled to the top deck.
Two phone Talia was half infomercial echo,
half gossip mag journo wannabe.
Pounding exclamation points
infested her ten words per second.

In a bid to block out her inane chit chat
Jerome salvaged a tattoo magazine
from an abandoned brief case.
An almond-eyed beauty,
with a cherry blossom branch
protruding from her black satin briefs,
distracted him from the reappearance
of the nineteenth century relic,
with the cobra tipped floral walking stick.
His high-performance phone
had eighteen years battery life remaining.

With a shirt like that
you must be on your way to Horace Hill Graffiti Labyrinth”
“I’m headed for Sorenson’s Surreal Art Gallery” Jerome insisted.
The dapper stranger found Jerome’s denials more absurd
than Tiger Woods staring blankly at a golf club.
“Horace Hill awaits you” he proclaimed,
before zoning out more completely than an interstellar astral traveller.
Glare tentacles prodded his abnormally large eyes.
He turned away and stared
in the perpetually jabbering two phone Talia’s direction,
as though she were part of her seat.
Jerome and Talia both stepped off at the wrong station
to escape the strangest man on the planet.

At the bus stop,
a voluptuous Goddess’s, flowery summer dress
lapped against her shapely sandalled feet.
The breeze threatened to send her hem into orbit.
The floral satin Jerome may’ve glimpsed,
vanished like a Thylacine in the undergrowth.
Beyond thinking, he followed her on to the 458.
Her hips were so broad,
squashing against her was the only way
to avoid tripping old ladies in the aisle,
As she turned to read a street sign,
one of her snugly suspended breasts,
pressed against his arm.

The bus went from cheetah to snail pace in a nanosecond.
Burning rubber invaded their air-conditioned sanctuary.
“This is Horace Hill, Graffiti Labyrinth darling,
with a shirt like that, it must be your stop.
Have you lost your irises” she teased.
The kiss she boldly planted on Jerome’s begging lips
was affectionate, yet chaste.
“Come with me”
It was the closest she came to asking a question.

The radically eccentric fellow,
with the cobra headed floral walking stick,
manned the ticket booth.
How had he arrived so swiftly?
Could a man like that have doppelgangers?

Once inside Jerome lost all sense of size and direction.
In the colloseum,
netballers moved as gracefully as ballet dancers.
Music erupted from sub court speakers.
They were their own cheerleaders.
Their little skirts flared like parachutes
as they leapt, flipped and spun in unison.
From giantess shooters to petite centres,
Jerome savoured every glimpse of jungle camouflage silk,
“This direction” Jasmine prompted.

“Which way now, through the hippy praying mantis’s eyeball,
or the beatnik koala’s pouch?”
“I don’t know”
Jasmine’s authoritarian stare said “that’s not good enough”
“Um, um, the beatnik koala’s pouch.”

“Introducing Graham H Goalposts Smith,
the high priest of The Obscure Poets Club,
The Original, Mr Ultra Cool, Ice Cold,
The Terrestrial Scuba Diver,
a man who can put the floor
of the Mariana Trench under the microscope,
while break dancing on Chomolungma’s nose.
See how he strides to the stage like Hughes jaguar,
to enact a rap battle between Apollo and Seshat.”
To Jerome and Jasmine’s uneducated ears,
the ancient Greek and Egyptian Gods he channelled
spoke fast forward gobbledegook.
They left to explore spray art mazes.

Some works were as provocative
as children, orphaned by I.D.F bulldozers,
painting Swastikas on Zionist extremist memorials;
others were LSD on concrete,
hybrid storms plummeting to Atlantis,
on submersibles moulded from the shit,
of a dragon butchering, warrior bilby.
The amphibious giraffe man was Jerome’s favourite.
His forked tongue was superior to lassos.
Jasmine preferred the gliding squirrel fish.
Its scales were cinemas for artistic plankton.
Muffled drumming and guitar duels,
bathed their ears in enchantment.
Himalayan singing bowls
synchronised with tap dancers xylophones,
cut the remaining strands,
trapping them in this universe.

During an aquarium submarine cruise,
to a mural maze,
Jasmine undressed with a graceful fluidity,
burlesque Goddesses can only dream of.
Why was a 20th century alarm clock
invading that temple of creativity?

Jerome sauntered to the letterbox on steady feet.
A Sorenson’s Surreal Art Gallery leaflet
Plummeted to the footpath.
Must’ve seen that before I dreamt of it, he reasoned.

The fabulous weirdo with the cobra tipped, floral walking stick,
screeched around the corner in a gold-plated Rolls Royce ute.
The most alluring netball squad/dance troupe in history,
lounged in the Jacuzzi tray,
in jungle camouflage sports briefs and bras.
Falcons had stolen their fluttery little skirts
and paint tight shirts.
Jasmine walked a pack of huskies in the park.
‘You’re going the wrong way’ she screeched,
as he approached the most ostentatious motor vehicle ever built.
She didn’t protest as he strode to the hospital.
Diamonds toppled from low lying clouds, solidifying mid flight.
Once Jasmine caught them
in her purple lace adorned cleavage,
they shone like an amalgam of every precious stone
in existence.

It was a daunting wait.
A triage nurse finally arrived.
“Highly unusual question nurse, am I awake?
Did Socrates just ask me the definition of a dream?
Can you see a woman carrying ethereal gem stones
in her cleavage,
standing at the door with a pack of huskies?
Is slipping DMT in drinks a common bar room prank?
Do DMT trips ever begin as slowly as windows flow
and last for aeons?

“Regarding the bejeweled lady with the huskies,
not that I’m aware of sir.
Haven’t seen or heard Socrates either.
I need to get some details from you.
Firstly, do you have your Medicare Card there?
A doctor will be with you ASAP.”

“Youuu, you’re behind this”
Jerome accused a clown,
who kept four ping pong balls in the air
with his cobra headed, floral walking stick.
“Where did you park your gold plated Rolls Royce ute?”

“We’ve met have we”
the clown replied, while continuing his performance
for children with leukaemia,
on their way to The Enchanted Garden.

“Is he real?” Jerome asked the nurse.

Wrong Angled Triangle

The Bannister sisters and I were a “wrong angled triangle”.
We changed the definition of an elective
and smirked at the principal’s invective.
Every afternoon our gang absconded
through lorikeet infested shrubbery,
for a feast of lascivious grubbery,
and to photograph the grandest vandalism
ever to grace a storm water drain.

In a psychedelic haze we’d gaze
at each and every foaming curl
painters had chosen to unfurl,
on a hippie ship drifting perilously close
to the waterfall at the edge of the world.
Nearby, hamsters hang glided in hurricanes
and dugong harlots waited
for a tie dye t-shirt wearing Bluebeard
to don his dope goggles.
Spear gun wielding, werewolf transvestites
paddling after yowie Voodoo Lords,
weren’t the strangest of the hordes
gawking from those gallery walls.
The artists sounded crazier than your average
Angel Trumpet munching, LSD lunching,
smoke imbibing, needle punching, Kombi zombies,
yet the latest caption to hold us captive read
“I’ve seen the music and the statues speak to me
with or without your shrooms, D.M.T and L.S.D.
Drug adventures are unattractive,
to Mister Naturally Psychoactive,
said the smoke goblin,
drifting from a rosewood pipe
as stretched as a Limousine.
Spontaneity is God,
was chiseled into the concrete
with surprising precision.

While nerds wondered if their algebra had slipped,
we went to a wake in a walk in crypt.
We didn’t mean to miss the maths test,
a blues guitarist’s tapestry of sound
rooted us to hallowed ground.

We spent the final week of school
in an empty mansion playing pool.
A Rolls Royce idling in the driveway,
prompted our escape from Rose Bay.
Revenge mad suits in swift pursuit
went sprawling over a fig tree root.
Textbooks launched into the harbour,
made room for loot as conspicuous
as bunyips playing frisbee, with a flying saucer,
on the White House lawn.

After we’d indulged in a heavenly blend
of four hands Swedish, Hawaiian and Thai massage,
I had the Bannister sisters mischievous, angelic faces
tattooed on my back by an Archibald Prize winner.
The dregs of our fortune evaporated in Gold Class.
Another Hollywood doomsday soon arrived.
None of the tsunami surfing Leviathans
headed for the Harbor Bridge survived.

The movie was a prophesy for a calamity.
The girls were a writhing mass of limbs
as they landed in the storm water,
their lifeless bodies snagged and snapped on a bridge.
A playful wrestle was twisted into mutual murder.
The papers claimed our polyamorous arrangement
was rocket fuel for enraged jealous derangement,
a ‘wrong angled triangle’ they called us.
I lost count of the cameras I sent cannoning into brick walls
and the drones I slingshotted into the bitumen,
before the story was buried
in the sediment of sport and celebrity gossip.





Untitled by Kedai Lelaki

Some rights reserved, you must acknowledge the author, provide a link to the license, indicate if changes were made and not attempt to prevent others from using their work according to the license. For further information use the link above.


Alan in Wonderland

In Wonderland, 
the landmarks breed such fascination,
gridlock is a cause for celebration;
the blandest billboard is a Bermuda Triangle experience.

Alan in Wonderland,
that Mecca of mayhem’s mayor,
swapped his party lights
for sternly staring statues baring blue diamond teeth.
Their tongues are speakers blaring stumbling tunes
about frog goblins billiards bars.
Bird eating spiders repair the pockets
for a hatchling an hour.
Those feisty amphibians cue opal balls across moss
and queue next door for blow fly blood and colas.

Alan’s garage band evokes hysterics
in warlock fearing religious clerics.
Into honeymooners hot air balloons
his third person person lyrics climb,
accompanied by murdered drum kits
and a shrill demented wind chime.

“They say Alan smashes norms.
Dive bombing hornets perish in his dandruff storms.
He loathes unoriginal sin.
Glow worms are lost in his pyramid sideburns.
Rapunzel worships his chest dreadlocks.
His spinal Mohawk is a werewolf rainbow.
Average wing suit warriors
are glorified kite fliers beside this sire.”

At Allan in Wonderland’s end of town
Newton’s apple rarely comes down.
The security tower in the wave pool is a statue of Poseidon,
mosaic Commandos abseil down his abs
to explore the rumour a tile is loose.

Amidst such artistic experimentation
not all psychonauts last the duration.
In this place rock stars don’t die of over doses,
they just embark on mystical journeys
and never return.





Psychedelic driver by Jeanne Menjoulet

Paris le marais

Some rights are reserved, you must acknowledge the author, provide a link to the license, indicate if changes were made and not restrict others from doing anything the license permits. For further information use the link above.