Rosary Beads

You know you’re fucking it all down to the ground with your vacant looks and your fish-faced stare.

Then you spoke! I was someone else for a moment engaged in gossiping like a groupie infested with a lust for fame and shiny gold plated bling.

What became of my intellectual underpinnings, a desire for books to enclose around me, and that rebel we-don’t-understand vibe?

Is it I who was mistaken when I judged you too soon? Are filled lips just as tasty as regular lips? Are vacant looks filled with more sorrow than The Picture of Dorian Gray?

I’m bleeding philosophical perspiration from my pores; it flows down into the stormwater drains and out to the sea. I’m perspiring Aristotle, Foucault, Nietzsche and more. I’m infecting the sea with philosophy.

Should I worry that the rich people with yachts will touch the water I infect and find Bitcoin boring?

Will they walk in a different direction or put down their Versace cushions to move about, looking at the sky and the sea as they mutter eccentrically?

Would people think they were being touched by an angel or melt at the thought of the Devil?

Standing and speaking to this rather fashionable Nun, I cannot say a word for a moment as her words creep over me.

She holds the rosary beads up to my height, and I feel that childhood pew. My knees suffered on that wood for sins I hadn’t even committed.

Then she said, “You’re a wicked one the way you think too much; The Devil will get you in the end.

Miss Nun jolted me out of my musings and back to the dark. Without warning, words escaped my lips as I walked away, “If you see the Pope, you can tell him I want a refund for all those Rosary Beads I had to buy as a kid. They didn’t work…

Spatula Pad

Not one to shy away from the strange and the obscene, he thinks of some party tricks for tonight.

Ladies are many and boggle his mind, for he sees himself as an urban Casanova.

Unable to settle for one love, he prefers to love in threes or fours.

The time arrives, the guests are bouncing, and the party is swinging and shaking all about the mansion.

Beauty abounds and lovely young sights as he thinks of nibbling on chocolates or rose water delights.

Tricks do begin, but it’s the usual tosh, yet he’s thinking about what he can do.

With weird ideas swirling and too much bourbon soaking, he goes to the kitchen & thinks, “What do I have and what do I need to get my perversions on track?

Looking and looking, he opens the cupboards and draws with swirling thoughts plaguing his mind. Searching the kitchen and not drawing attention, he grabs three sturdy blue spatulas.

Like Houdini on crack or DMT, he makes frosting enough for three cakes.
It’s causing some giggles and a few weird looks, but he’s too fucked in the head to agree.

The frosting is ready, and it tastes like a sweet dream, so he lines the bowls up on the bench.

He waits for the prudes and the boring to leave until ten of the lovelies remain.

Once properly pinched and appropriately plucked to shine bright, he smears frosting all over the nymphs. Once frosted, he moves in and starts to carnally satisfy his longing for sweets.

There’s frosting about and in places unseen, yet he beats his best record of four.

With ten lovely ladies all over him now, he’s a man in a heaven of sorts.

Spaceship Washer

You were never one to clean your shower regularly. The towels piled up and the washers too, yet you only washed weekly; sometimes not at all.

There was a washer you kept forgetting to pick up. Perhaps it was because the washer was so small and insignificant to you, as you kept piling towels, underwear, and clothes on top of your hardened washer.

One night, you heard a noise coming from the bathroom. “What the hell! Is this a dream, or is the house alive and talking to me?

You stand up straight and turn on the light; the buzzing continues. 

Where are you buzzing? Are you a bee or a monster from the tip?

A noise comes from the bathroom. You hesitate before entering. Thoughts of strange monsters, lizards, and giant spiders terrorise your thoughts.

You walk through the bathroom door, turn on the light, and you are baffled by what you see; your crusty washer is alive and floats before your eyes. No longer just a washer, it hovers like a spaceship; It’s buzzing, and it wants to leave your house immediately.

Baffled, you run outside. As you run, the washer follows, and terror takes hold of your heart. Once out in the still night, you turn and see the washer flying away. There is no stopping your washer, as it takes off at light speed.

Standing alone and semi-naked, you stare into space, then think, “My washer lived, and now it’s gone. Is it because of neglect?

Contemplating the situation, you go inside, pour a drink, and ponder life’s recent events. You whisper to yourself, “I’ll never neglect my washers now nor ever again.

From that day forth, your clothes are always washed and clean, and nothing remains on the floor, for you never know where neglect may lead you again.

Grandma’s Jug

Grandma has this old jug she uses to water her plants made of tin, with white and a bit of blue and red paint here and there. We think someone made it for her when she was younger, yet no one is sure. 

Her grandson cannot understand how this crappy old jug seems to be back in fashion again. He’s never understood this fixation with idle objects. 

He’s mischievous and often looks for insects, animals, and anything that crawls. Once his mum found a spider’s nest in his room. It almost frightened her to death, so now she won’t let him have insects in the house. 

One day he took Grandma’s jug for a walk to the termite mound, which is a dirt fortress for insects. He thinks of the world of the king and the queen, the workers, and the soldiers inside.

Interested in how things work, he pours water into the mound to see what happens. Water starts to leak out of the various holes, yet there isn’t much damage. He examines the termites on the ground. Some have wings, and some do not. He thinks, “Perhaps Grandma’s jug is useful.

Not wanting to hurt any of the insects, he leaves for home; in a few days, he will check on the termite mound to see the results. 

When he returns, not only have the insects repaired the mound, but it has increased in size. 

He scribbles down a note, “Experiment number 251. Termites like water. “

Toaster Tale

 You always liked to play games. Sometimes sweet, sometimes spicy.

One day, we stood in the kitchen talking about your kink for tasty toes. You often joked that you would love to set your feet on fire. I thought you were being a bit creative.

One evening, as we sit casually in the lounge room, you bring me the toaster. There’s a weird look on your face. I ask you ever so casually, “What are you doing?

I’m determined to understand the fire of feet…

What the…? You better not turn it on! No! Wait! Don’t you dare put my toes in there! I shall kill you!”

I won’t turn it on, I promise.

…You’re so weird… My poor feet. They cry in terror at the thought…”

I would roast my toes for you, baby.

No, you won’t.

Suddenly, his toes are in the toaster.

Please don’t turn it on!