A Question Answered:

All the lonely people

            come from

                        Lonelistan:

a self-declared (it would have to be)

de facto sovereign state,

not recognised by the UN,

            FIFA or other international

bodies.

Some facts:

Not-so-fiercely independent,

            the citizens of

                        Lonelistan

have made few significant

contributions to contemporary global culture

(the meal for one, the doona suit).

The Lonely tongue is a language isolate.

The few contemporary

economists studying

            Lonelistan

note that its economy is again experiencing

a quarter of negative growth, and appears to be

in a state of permanent depression.

Its chief export is its people:

            found on the fringes and centres of

(non/sub)-urban areas the world over.

The currency of

 Lonelistan

            is the

                        (Sigh),

            which is non-exchangeable.

OhSeeMileyAss

I met a traveller from Montana land

Who said: Two lithe and nubile starlet legs

Shake on the telly. Near them, like a douche,

A Thicke pervy visage lies, his leer,

And swollen bits, and sneer of cold Blurred Lines,

Tell that public passion’s dead

Yet survives on these tasteless things.

A foam hand, a dry hump, a hammer lick’d.

And among the base these words appear:

“Her name is OhSeeMileyAss, skank of skanks:

Look on her twerks, she Miley, and despair!”

Of that colossal dreck, shameless and bare

Wrecking ball boredom stretches far away.

(With apologies to PeeBee)

Spoiler Alert: Breaking Haiku

Cold open again:

            Heisenberg’s shitty hot wire—

keys fall in his lap.

Trust fund solution:

scare yuppies with red lasers,

Badger and Skinny Pete.

Blue meth returns, and

nearly potent as ever.

Jesse is alive, yo!

Marie warns Skyler: Walt

            is back in town. Pullback: he is

there, listening in.

Lottery ticket:

GPS to Hank’s grave—deal

from Skyler to narcs.

Todd woos Lydia.

            (Meth Damon, Steel Cooch),

Walt’s tempting offer.

Neo-Nazi hide-

            out, robot machine gun—Is            

Walt now MacGyver?

Slave labour Jesse

            chokes Todd. Walt asks for bullet:

Do it yourself, bitch!

Surprise: Ricin in

            Camomile with Soy; even

more undrinkable.

Cops close in. Jesse

            flees. Walt bleeds. Badfinger plays:

bad song to die to.

"The Drum" Found Poem No 2: "Labor Lets Coalition call the shots on NDIS"

Interpretation—she’s just not up to it!

She talks such rubbish, not a back-

            fire indeed!

Not from my memory; he

spoke in aspirational terms

                        only.

…

(“mulling it over”)

…

He will be salivating with tongue hanging out

like Taz from Loony Tunes

(aargh grunt grunt raah growl pant pant)

she said … “in September” three times

this was set in concrete

What’s next?

Hear! Hear!

(but nothing of integrity here)

Sockpuppets strip Tasmania

(The real expert at this is Bob Katter)

(ex-boxers & memory problems):

the parasitic nature of Tasmania

won’t be disadvantaged.

ok, ok, so we are agreed.

Found Poem #1: A Gnome Remembers the Stump-Jump Plough

Found Poem #1: A Gnome Remembers the Stump-Jump Plough

It appears to be the so-called Dutch disease.

Wow, so much negativity.

There is a thing called reality, you can make your own, for your own little world.

Usual rent-seeking rubbish!

As usual, more damage is done by the do-gooders.

Then, good!

Get rich first! It’s easier to stay rich than to get rich in the first place.

The gnome grumbled: “I’m afraid you forgot the stump-jump plough!”

Merry go round—don’t get me started.

De-education is the problem! Academic lead bureaucracy.

All true.

“Is it bad to call a fat person fat?”

That’s what the captain of the SS Titanic told his lookouts.

Custard and Billy Bob, oh Billy, you poor naïve fellow!

We haven’t seen anything yet!

We need to wake up.

We need to see a way through this current lunacy!

            You are right on it, Paradise!            

Filth, Moral Degeneracy, and Lashings of Ginger Beer

Is it any wonder the world is a cesspool of unrestrained lustful impulses and general moral turpitude, with a dangerous shortage of smug sanctimoniousness? We are living in end times. Peak Piety is upon us. "Yea!"I say to you my brothers and sisters, (or maybe I mean "Forsooth!" I'm not sure) "our moral hygiene is like the kitchen of an unwedded man, whose Oreo crumbs and takeaway pizza crusts bringeth out the ants of moral degeneracy." 

How did it come to this? What brought about this fall? How did we stumble from the Holy Innocence of Our Babyhood, when we emerged from that Special Unmentionable Place, bathed in the Perfect Unction of Mommy Juice and Celestial Light, to our grubby Latrine of Impure Thinkings?

The answer is simple, my brethren, and sister-en(?). Three words: Fancy Book Learning.

Here I speak not of your Lawrence or Joyce, or Cosmo, but of a more dangerous--because paediatric--moral bacterium. Yea Forsooth, I speak of children's books. "Social Issue" novels for the teen market. Anglophilic Adventures for the preteens. Even early readers overflow with smut and innuendo, singing the praises of self-abuse in daemonic doggerel. 

Moose mopping? I ... I ...  I'm sorry, this really upsets me ... they're children, for the Love of God!

I just get so darned angry. I mean, look, JUST LOOK, at this: 

Oh, yes, Ha Ha Ha. Molestation is so mirthful, if you're a Greens voter or some other sort of Pagan Pervert, but I can tell you that God is not so pleased with this. And neither should we be. Yeasooth, our Moral Salvation will begin when we disinter the pestilent corpse of this Enid Blyton authoress and perform Divine Interference on her most wicked soul!

Post the Sixth: On the eXtreme comfort of Nivea Shaving Gel

HOLY FUCK is this stuff comfortable! Sweet Mother of God, how I have longed for such a state of non-vexation! Aye, until now there has been an unquenched burning desire for comfort deep within me—far, far beneath my follicles, at the very core of my stubbly unconscious being!

My unconscious being, Yes! Nivea eXtreme comfort shaving gel batters me at the core of my personhood. I no longer just depilate—I peel back the psychical ravages of being-in-time and become again a babe suckling at its mother’s Arctic Fresh scented bosom!

Nivea eXtreme comfort shaving gel non-aerosol pump-dispenses rich lathering glossolalia in that linguistic register Julia Kristeva called the semiotic—a realm before and beyond words and meaning. Before trying Nivea eXtreme comfort shaving gel I scoffed at its claims. “Ha! eXtreme comfort,’ I thought. ‘Those words are merely the glib droolings of an overpaid marketing consultancy! eXtreme comfort, indeed! One might as well speak of “Awesome Adequateness” or “Sublime Mediocrity.” Oh, what is that you say? The eXtreme comfort comes from an “anti-irritation” formula? Oh, bully for you and your entire no-more-suppurating-wounds team! Now, leave me be to scrape my face with an amputated cat’s tongue and a meagre quantity of ice-cold water!’

How it shames me to write these pre-Damascene words now. Oh, ‘twas blind but now I see!

But, how does Nivea produce such eXtreme comfort? Three steps. First, every hazelnut-sized dollop dispensed into the palm of your hand starts with at least 23 faeries, who are harvested from a moonlit meadow before being processed in industrial-grade centrifuges at Nivea’s special maquiladora de higiene in a free-trade zone just outside Nuevo Laredo, Mexico. Then, Nivea takes this Pixie Comfort Essence and blends it with wing clippings from only the finest Cherubim and Seraphim kept for 42 days in battery cages at the ‘Lil Haloes angelculture processing facility of a Nivea agribusiness subsidiary located deep within Ozark Mountain Country. Finally, our team of white lab-coated shaveologists at Nivea Headquarters put extra capital X essence in it. That’s important, fellas—it’s what makes you want to do dangerous stuff and keeps you from wanting to pee sitting down!

And ladies, we haven’t forgotten about you! We’re just ignoring you! Our special manly formula uses smart technology to circumvent female usage and those annoying girl germs that often accompany it. We've formulated special gender-recognising corrosive nano-particles that chew through bikini lines like a rat through hot gruyere. Cuz there’s nothing womanly about eXtreme comfort.

Remember, eXtreme comfort—because regular comfort’s for pussies.