A Typical Saturday

art, mental health, Poetry 1 Minute

The goblin painted on the rock face
spied sonnets in lingering chemtrails,
and luscious limericks in lava plumes.
Virile vines at heavenly harpsichords
waited for it to snarl one more request.
Their flowers were truculent trumpets
sneering at fly spray wielding sprites.
They weren’t carrying insecticides.
They lugged anti-gravity aerosols.
Nothing like flubber you flopping fool,
just drugs that induce wild jumping.
That paranoia inducing picture
had me wondering if dragon flies,
hovering above shimmering ponds,
were battle ready CIA drones.
No, it wasn’t the subject matter,
it was the unsettling colour scheme
that left me feeling so psychotic.
It was the weirdest blend of dullness
sinister darkness and irridescence
ever to assault my sensitive brain.
Traces of rationality lingered,
until that ghoulish goblin was gone.
Nobody could’ve scrubbed it away
while my bewildered head was turned.
Then I spotted that fiend in 3D.
Not a hologram, in flesh it was.
That stumpy ghoul grabbed my wallet.
It’s a trick, it’s a trick, it’s all a trick
echoed inside my stimuli soaked skull,
but it felt as real as you and me.


© Rodney Hunter, 2024

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Published by surrealartpsychonaut

Among other things, the Surreal Art Psychonaut is a conduit to a lonely desert track lined with abandoned museums, laboratories full of aliens and aliens full of laboratories. Agar gel is their marmalade, anthrax is their herbs and spices and steel is their fiber. The Psychonaut's LIKE button is not there for decorative purposes, if you enjoy one of his poems, short stories, or articles, PRESS IT. Striking the LIKE button is as critical as sounding the alarm when the Triffids rise again. If I am displeased by a critique, I will paint the offenders lounge suite with a cocktail of rats piss and goats blood, graffiti their cat, tattoo their goldfish and reduce the tires of their pride and joy to a molten mess with some epic burnouts in the nearest police station car park. Then I will waggle my finger at them and say, you should not have said that. At this point, you may be wondering just how much we have in common. My hobbies are vampire hunting, werewolf taming and exorcising flagons of rum. Look, the spirits are all gone. I'm a unicorn whisperer by trade, and have been for the best part of eight centuries. I've spent the worst part of eight centuries having tickle fights with the alien from the Predator movie. The less said about that the better.

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