The Portraitist

With a surf carnival of blues and greens,
Zenith depicts Lucy as a Hawaiian break.
Her portrait glows with valiant vitality.
With enough purples, oranges and reds
to outshine New Years Eve fireworks,
Zenith portrays Lucy as a burning torch.
On a mossy rock, by the curling flames,
her doppelganger plays the guitar.
Flying leaves, twigs, scrolls, quills and ink
define Lucy in his third masterpiece.
Even Zenith can’t paint the breeze itself.
On a canvas titled ‘Towering Inferno,’
his beloved Lucy is solar flares dancing.
His desperate search for the alchemy
to transform her admiration into love
is more daunting than water into wine.


© Rodney Hunter, 2024

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Underground Proclamation

Maybe I should have just stayed in the park.
The tunnels I trod were wet, dingy and dark.
The wall art was weirder than a giant quark.

It said metaverses floating in potential soup?
Chug it all down, down, down Augustus Gloop.

What’s there to see in that Metaphor Sea?
Genes spawning you, is that what you see?
Body/brain, personality just a functionary?

What is there to find in sub quantum broth?
Is my question too questionable boffin toff?

How much do I care about your ivory tower,
its publications and their persuasive power?
A few decades from today comes the hour.

The time when materialism is out of rhyme.
The day when unshackled spirits are sublime.

I’m done with explaining why I believe it’s so.
You’d just back away and claim you must go.
Maybe you would say ring a psychiatrist bro.

Integrated, not synonymous, with our brains.
They influence us, but spirits holds the reins.

That intriguing rhyme was signed the Punster.
Judging by the pics he looks like a Munster.
Is he serious, or another meddling funster?


The Munsters is an American television series that began on the 24th of September 1964 and ended on May the 12th 1966. Re-runs were shown all over the world in the decades that followed.


© Rodney Hunter, 2024

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Frugality is Key

It seems like you’re destined to make it to old age without ever heeding the difference between the garbage and the recycling bins. Why do you go clothes shopping fifty times a year? What fraction of your purchases do you wear before throwing them out? Have you donated anything to an opportunity shop in your entire life? What does this years phone do that last year’s model couldn’t do? Electric cars still don’t have enough range for you? Have you ever towed a trailer? How often do you drive for more than an hour or two at a time?

The world is contending with melting ice sheets, rising seas, ocean acidification, bleached coral reefs, heat waves, droughts, bushfires and floods. Meanwhile, you’re still dreaming of palaces, mega-yachts, private jets and prestige car collections? Within your fantastical bubble, Super Nerd will save the day. Within your fantastical bubble, the Titans of technology will make everything okay. Frugality is the answer, don’t block your ears, frugality is the answer.

You’re a climate change denier? The thermometers are broken kind, or the people didn’t do it what would NASA know kind? What about the need for clean air? Would my non-smoking friend have died of lung cancer in a combustion engine and coal fired power station free world? Climate change isn’t the only reason to care about phasing out fossil fuels. Breathing matters.


© Rodney Hunter, 2023

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Trippy Chippy

There’s a fluffy dog named Chippy,
whose life has become too trippy.
He dances with hip hop flowers
leprechauns and Austin Powers.
He was a hawk, now he’s a hippy.


© Chippy Hunter, 2023

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Mr Young’s Class (1984)

My second-grade teacher Mr Young was like everyone’s favourite uncle. He was a human carnival ride, a merry go round, a roller coaster and a rocket ship rolled into one. There was much more to him than Luna Park DeJa’Vu on tap though, in drama and music especially. He introduced the class to Cat Stevens and Weird Al Yankovitch. It was a long time before I realised that “Eat It” wasn’t a Michael Jackson song. The concept of a parody was brand new to me.

The class play that year was Jack and the Beanstalk. I played the giant. There was nothing in the script about a southern accent, or diving across the stage every time I attempted to murder Jack. That didn’t stop me though. I was into improv long before I knew what the word meant. These days, I wonder if Jack and the Beanstalk was censored to make it more kid friendly. Magic beans aye, what’s that code for?

In Mister Young’s class, my interest in acting was soon overshadowed by my passion for writing. In the space of weeks, my stories ballooned from a few lines to chapters. I wrote like I rode my BMX, leaping recklessly from one idea to the next. It would be two more years before I learnt what a paragraph was. I don’t have my second-grade stories in front of me, but here is an imitation of my writing style as 7 and 8 year-old child.

“I took a time machine to the cave man days. I rode a wooly mamoth. Terrordaktools chased me. I burned their wings with my lazer gun. Then I went to a giant red back spiders weding. I had to go in disguise because those spiders eat people. The cake was made of flies. The weding dress was made of spider web. We ate magget soop. A spider put me in a caterpolt and threw me all the way to the smurfs village. Indiana Jones was there. He played catch and kiss with Smurfette. Gargamel wanted to play too. Smurfette screamed when he tried to kiss her. I went and got my lazer gun from my time machine and shot Gargamel in the balls. He went home. I drank hot chocolate with poppa Smurf and Indiana Jones. Then I got back into my time machine to go home. The battery was flat. It was lucky Indiana Jones had jumper leads. THE END.”

Many of the stories I wrote in Mr Young’s class were more chaotic than that, but none of them lacked imagination. Once my writing was better organised than Darwin in the aftermath of Cyclone Tracy, smiley face stamps, gold stars, strawberry scratch and sniff stickers and well-done comments were in abundance. I was instantly addicted to success. In kindergarten and year one, I’d wanted to be a police officer when I grew up. Seeing my stories so decorated with gold stars, that they reminded me of a generals parade jacket helped to change that.

By the time year two was over, all I wanted to do for a living was write. Writing after work? Writing on my days off from gardening, rubbish removal and land restoration? What an alien concept. I was going to write books, end of story. Mr Young wasn’t one of the people who told me that’s impossible. That was the job of people like the project manager for one of the bush regeneration crews I worked on. I heard that she’s a de-motivational speaker now. The inmates of gaols Australia wide fear her more than any prison officer. I might have made that up, but it’s in keeping with her personality.

My best friend Stephen probably loved writing as much as I did. You could tell from our stories that we watched the same movies and cartoons, but we were beginning to find our own voice. There were more earthquakes in Stephen’s science fiction/horror tales than mine. The way I remember it, all his stories had multiple earthquakes.

Stephen was more influenced by Masters of the Universe than I was too. The bad guy in that cartoon is Skeletor. Do you remember him? I guess the best thing about being Skeletor is he doesn’t have to worry about acne. That’s probably all that guy had going for him. He was no Darth Vader. As for He-Man, he was just a glorified bodybuilder wasn’t he? When it was time to sabotage Skeletor’s diabolical plans it was his sister Sheera Princess of Power that did all the heavy lifting. “That’s not how it went down” you say. It’s only Masters of the Universe, it’s not Star Wars, so who cares.

Making the decision to become a writer wasn’t the only pivotal moment for me in Mr Young’s class. 1984 was the year I became immune to girl germs too. Briony helped with that. I seem to recall her liking Ewoks and R2D2 as much as I did, but my recollection of our talks is vague. I certainly remember being fascinated by her. She was as interesting as the Dark Crystal and as pretty as the Princess in the Never-Ending Story. I protested as loudly as she did whenever anyone suggested we were boyfriend and girlfriend though. Briony was the girl I got to know, but it was Rochelle who I imagined rescuing from the Planet of the Apes with the Millennium Falcon. If she ever reads this, I hope she feels flattered.

Being in Mr Young’s class wasn’t the only great thing about 1984. I also went to Sydney’s Luna Park for the first time. Thanks to Abe Saffron there was no ghost train anymore. I don’t think the 1930’s merry-go-rounds had been auctioned off yet though. I wasn’t allowed on the roller coaster, but I had a great time on giant slippery dips and in pits of plastic balls etc.

A day trip to Smiggin Holes Ski Resort was even better, it was every bit as good as an Antarctic cruise. My dad and his biker friends chartered a bus, which left from in front of his place. I’d never seen a minibus in our street before, let alone a 50-seater. What do I remember about Smiggin Holes? I remember a lot of ice and not much snow. Snowball fights and making snow men proved to be impossible, but the toboggan rides were amazing. The people I nearly ran over can’t have been too impressed though.

The other non-school related adventure I remember from 1984 was a camping trip to Wapengo Lake. The best thing about that trip was a fallen tree in one of the saltwater creeks. Well, that’s what most people thought it was. My brother Neil and I knew it was a spaceship. On that trip we visited more planets than you’ve had baked dinners. Many of my knight in a shining spaceship fantasies happened at Wapengo. In my imagination Rochelle was there and mightily impressed with the way I could blow up just about anything in the name of rescuing her.

Some of the things that amazed me and my classmates in 1984 sound nightmarish now. McDonalds birthday parties are as good an example as any. We loved those parties so much that one could be forgiven for thinking Maccas had 3 Michelin Stars. For me, it was the ice cream cake that was as alluring as a burlesque festival is today. Brandon was one of the kids who didn’t have his party at Mcdonalds. We watched a movie on his parents video recorder. My uncle Michael had one of those, but we didn’t. Being able to pause and rewind was as good as icecream cake, maybe even better.

In 1985, Mr Young gave up school teaching and joined the army. At least that’s what my former classmate, and fellow writer, Stephen thought. If that’s what happened, all I can say is what a huge loss to the teaching profession that was.

1984 is too alien to my current experience to want to relive the entire year in a parallel dimension, that would be far too disorientating, but I still rate it as the best year of my life so far. It was as adventurous as George Orwell’s book of the same name, but unlike Winston I didn’t have to deal with the psychopaths in charge of a totalitarian regime. I heard the principal at my school was scary, but I never met him face to face, so who knows. If there were any hidden cameras or microphones planted on school grounds in 1984, they wouldn’t have been helpful for pinning anything on me. They would have needed to be in place by 1982 for that.

Perhaps my next autobiographical piece will feature 1981. It was the antithesis of 1984. I was so disinterested in learning to read that year that I scored 13/120 in the test. I remember the flashcards being held up and me saying “don’t know that one” and not giving a shit. Maybe, just maybe, that had something to do with having a teacher who thought the best way to control me was to threaten to break my fingers. As I would have said at the time “eat a yucky pooh shitty bum sandwich Miss Kennedy”


© Rodney Hunter, 2023

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Don’t Use, Reuse, Repair, Recycle

Don’t use, reuse, repair and recycle. Those principles mean more to me than the majority of the ten commandments. Unfortunately, with current technology, plastics cannot be recycled an unlimited number of times. That one hundred per cent recycled plastic water bottle you saw the other day was not and could not have been manufactured entirely from previously recycled plastic, therefore not using in the first place and reusing are much more important than recycling. The recycling of plastic does mean that a lot of barrels worth of oil will be left in the ground, but plastic reycling is hardly going to end oil drilling, not even in a future where everything from a hatchback to a long haul truck is an electric vehicle.

In an earlier version of this article, I said that it’s not only solid plastics that can be recycled, that plastic bags and plastic food wrapping tend to be recyclable as well. What I wasn’t aware of at the time is that China had already stopped purchasing the world’s plastic waste. As a consequence of this, the plastic shopping bags being handed in for recycling at Australian supermarkets etc were accumulating in local warehouses. The public remained oblivious to these indoor mountains of flammable waste until late 2022. This revelation resulted in Coles and Woolworths, the local supermarket giants, suspending their soft plastics reycling programs in November that year. It’s late July 2023 now, and local councils and Australia’s recycling companies are still struggling to keep up with the demand for soft plastic recycling. The major supermarkets are scheduled to resume their soft plastics recyling programs late this year.

It seems like a lot of Australians either don’t know, or don’t care, that you aren’t supposed to put plastic bags and plastic food wrapping in recycling bins, that you are meant to take them to the nearest recycling facility that accepts soft plastics. At the time of writing, I’m not aware of these options being available anywhere in my own local area though. They used to be, or so I thought until I realised how much of that plastic was simply being stockpiled in warehouses. I can’t help but wonder how much of it found its way into landfill.

Why do I think there is complacency, apathy and a lack of awareness surrounding recycling in Australia? Those who are dedicated to reducing their supermarket bills using the 10c container deposit scheme soon discover just how much recyclable material people put in rubbish bins and how much rubbish they put in recycling bins. In wealthy countries, like Australia, some people bin new, undamaged products of various kinds that would cost a working-class person a days wages or more. Usually, when I see inside a bin there is some sort of reminder why our civilisation is following petrochemical based detergents and shampoos down the drain. The damage caused by our reckless throwaway society can be limited but not without major cultural change.

Hopefully there is at least one person who has read this far, looked further into the topic and is now a more determined recycler than ever before. If so, they can inspire others to improve their approach to recycling. Perhaps this obscure message will reach a future activist of note third or fourth hand, someone who can galvanise support for this cause much more effectively than I can. Don’t use, reuse, repair, recycle, I rate those ideals more highly than the majority of the ten commandments. If Jesus ever returns, I like to think he will be a recycling crusader, the founder of a polluter shaming organization as radical as Extinction Rebellion.

Maybe my left-wing religious flight of fancy will leave some greenie loathing fascists foaming at the mouth. If so, I hope their furious oceans of saliva land on some plastic bottles and they start thinking about all the oil that won’t need to be pumped from the bowels of the Earth, if they and millions of others recycle as many plastic bottles as they can, and pick up some aluminium cans, glass containers and cardboard boxes while they’re at it.

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Disgruntled

I was just reading the Zoosk primary photo guidelines, and they remind me of the passport photo regulations except in this case smiling isn’t frowned upon, it’s obligatory. They might be recommendations, but I’m left with the impression that if my fake smile doesn’t look relaxed enough, if my face isn’t filling enough of the screen, or if my navel is naked one of the moderators might ban me for avalanching on their ambience.

What’s that, avalanching is not a real verb you say? If it wasn’t before, it is now and the henchmen of the grammar overlords cannot unverb it. Kapow, take that verb police. You’re next Zoosk photo police. I’m coming for you. If I want to frown like a sad evil clown, that’s what’s going down, and there aint nuthin your algorithm can do to disrupt my rhythm.

It turns out avalanching is actually a real verb, as real a verb as snowing, so much for my attempt to break the rules.

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Disclaimer: this is merely an opinion piece based on the author’s interpretation. He regularly sends coded messages to the vampire smurfs in area 51 and says he is on a first name basis with Satan, so not all commentators find his testimony reliable. According to television “psychologist” Doctor Phil he is “as controversial as curing sea sickness with a roller coaster and as nonsensical as frozen steam.” His seven strong audience believe everything he says though. Don’t sue him Zoosk. You wouldn’t do that would you? Freedom of speech is an inalienable right, even for non-Americans.

© Rodney Hunter, 2022

Boris Benson

Look, there’s Boris Benson, he’s back.
Boris claims to be a bullshit artist
but he’s just a bullshit hack.

Boris used to self publish on the toilet wall,
now he’s on YouTube, Facebook and more.

He’s sure he’ll amaze us with his quick wit
but in the real world no-one gives a shit.

He doesn’t stop trolling when he’s driving,
he even types insults while scuba diving.

All hail the shark that bit off his hands
and grabbed his voice box and toes
in case they’re in his typing plans.


© Rodney Hunter, 2022

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Home Weird Home

Hibernating dragons despise interruptions,
those sleepy barbecuers
cook cave invaders like volcanic eruptions.

Marauders as hard as Mordor fortress slabs,
are lured and skewered
between crispy goannas on a dragon’s kebabs.

Vampire glow worms and swift gliding slugs
are perused and bruised
by those shabby, scaly, scabby, flying thugs.

Those weird lines were scrawled in cats blood,
on a bin full of sin,
I wondered what horrors lurked deep within.

That dumpster held wine drenched skulls
and turbulent tales
of extraterrestrial subs hidden in shoals.

As I loaded the lift with things I hold dear,
I said to myself,
I can’t imagine moving away from here.


© Rodney Hunter, 2022

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Corpse Cove

Chaos is roaming free.
The bay is in disarray,
it’s whirlpools and debri.

Boats search for safe shores,
with monstered rudders
and remnants of oars.

Demons shriek with glee.
They drink sailors dismay,
despair is on a spree.

The few who reach the sand
search for toeholds in the rock,
they won’t see the hinterland.

The tide begins to surge.
Grim savours wake flavours,
every ear worm is a dirge.


© Rodney Hunter, 2022

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