Wednesday 27 June 2012

Hark! Hark!


The Lark at heaven’s gate sings
like a snow Goth minstrel.


Halo punked and wings pierced,
she’s zipped her fawn boots to the knee.
With lips that ope to concert lights,
she head bangeth to a little rhapsody.

A newly wired electronic harp

finds psychedelic love in angel tunes.
Soulful notes are amplified
through manna snorted melodies.

She screeches for thee, oh human one
To shuffle off that mortal coil
For heaven paints a picture bright,
but it ought not to be as bad.




** Inspired by a few lines from the 'Bard.'







Tuesday 26 June 2012

That Cuppa Joe's


Photo by Margaret Bednar

Sitting there with his demitasse,
shards of thoughts made a word cloud
in his fragmented mind
and brought pointillism on cheap tissue.

He pressed the nib
on his single lined writing pad,
making the ink bleed into
damp latte-stained rings of patience.

But the sentences of expectation

had abandoned the creative mind,
leaving the contours of a cursive hand
with nothing to write.

He bridged two coffee circles

with a half-mooned hairline
and filled the spaces below
with irises of joy.

Doodling his way down

the writer found his muse,
the artist beamed at the big picture,
for Mickey Mouse was born.



* For imaginary garden with real toads
** Photo Courtesy: Margaret Bednar




Saturday 23 June 2012

Gretel's Grouse




He rammed his head and cracked one of those cellophane licorice windows open. The gingerbread walls were crumbling at the scaffolding. He struggled to elbow one of the beams, but the chain around his limbs allowed for little movement.

Gretchen, a pedophile cannibalistic witch of the west, was preparing a new feast of plum cherry clafoutis with vanilla whipped cream. Muttering complicated incantations through cavity-eaten teeth, she skimmed through new dessert specials to fatten him up before the big sacrifice.

But where the heck was Gretel?

Gretel seduced Gretchen’s sharp tongue with a bowl of the previous kid’s leg in caramelized apples for dinner. The witch's lenient eyes rolled to the top of her head and she began to sleep, alternating snores with grizzly whistles.

So the sister managed to tiptoe into the hay barn the night before, promising the fattened elder sibling of a way out.

“Her life lies within the bugs on her bed!” discovered Gretel. “Tomorrow night it is. I’ll just fog up the bedpost and fumigate her to death,” she laughed.

But with peach melbas, pistachio macarons, lime-curd meringues and mango mascarpones on Gretchen’s menu for the week, Gretel had a slight change of heart.

She continued poaching pears of perfection as ideas kept brewing in her head. With Hansel on the back burner, she knew she could create magic on a plate. 

Chuckling at her new idea she gave Gretchen a wry smile.

Cause the next season's title of ‘Junior MasterChef Australia’ was going to be hers.





* For 3WW




Saturday 16 June 2012

Unformed




Mouth to mouth
I breathe out
And fog up the reflection.
Soundless droplets of mist
Cling to mercurial glass
And sit there, holding on
To words that haven’t
Been conceived yet.

There’s a twinge
In the pit of my stomach
A seed of life
That has promised to sprout.
My innards have coiled down
With a patchwork of bulky nerves
Thatched together to create
That perfect nest.
As I crumple into the sink
And vomit yellow bile words
But no one hears a thing.

I walk into the closet
And raise my tee shirt.
Cupping both palms
Around the navel
I look through its passage
Into that kaleidoscope of life
Where the umbilical
Connects to the netherworld
With those gone away,
With those dead.

I look into its father's eyes
Dilated brown irises
That collapse
With unconditional love
As I resign the world
In silent deep sleep.



* For 3WW
** For Imaginary Garden 




A Wednesday


She stood there in the cold, dressed in a faux fur coat and leather overalls. Flicking her wrist, she raised the tobacco-stained ochre end to her trembling lips and filled her lungs with pretentious comfort. She stubbed the last ultra-mild under her stiletto and strutted towards his car.


This was not the first time.

He would park his black Sedan at the corner of Mt. Vernon street on Wednesday nights, and wait outside Delilah’s till she had wrapped up for the day. She’d hop in and they’d head to a pre-booked suite at a wayside inn.

Mr. Maloney was a reputed judge who had spent 30 years of his life to serve the law. He was a dedicated husband, a devoted father, and a man whose career panned out without a blotch on his reputation. Tina wasn’t his first escort, but there was something about her that kept drawing him back to Delilah’s. He never realized that his mild interest in this pretty young thing would grow into a form of wild obsession.

For three months they met once a week in discrete motels on the outskirts of Philadelphia, and this Wednesday was no different. They headed straight to the room and ensured that their murmurs of pleasure would be confined within the walls of these unfamiliar hotels.

He lay on his side as she pulled out her well-concealed revolver from behind her garter. She sat there in her corset holding the cold nozzle onto his temples. Closing her eyes, she clenched her index finger and splattered his brains out on the pillow that cushioned his head.

“That’s for Sammie’s sentence!” she breathed with relief knowing that it had taken her three years to bring her plans to fruition. Wiping the threads of blood from her face, she touched the gold band that was still clinging to her ring finger.

The praying mantis walked out without fear, as the sounds of the gun kept ricocheting through paper-thin walls.



* For 3WW