This poem was meant to be a glorious thing, To really take off, even sprout wings But somewhere, somehow it took a wrong turn, The vision got lost, the fuel failed to burn So I switched phrases furiously, here and there Sentences too, to give it more zest, flair But I saw it wasn’t working, I began to panic, It was like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.
–––––––– “The greatest peacetime maritime disaster is the perfect metaphor for the poem that no matter what couldn’t save itself.” – the writer
The silvery disc-shaped ship landed exactly where a rational space-going race would land their ship: on the mall in Washington, DC. A slim, silvery robot emerged from the ship. Every satellite, probe, listening device, etc., available was immediately focused on this humanoid.
Within minutes, a huge, metallic-grey Warbot had plodded from the Pentagon to the Mall, where the robot was standing next to its ship. When the Warbot came within ten meters of the obviously alien creature, the silvery skin of the newcomer began to flash with a dazzling rainbow of colors.
“Nice colors,” the Warbot rumbled.
“Oh, this old system!”
–––––––––– “I write to express myself as a social being and as an individual.” – the writer
His parents kept telling him to let it go. How could he? His favorite chair. His very own bed. He felt violated.
It had been easy to find her in the end. The platinum blond’s breaking and entering reputation was as large as her appetite for porridge.
With the family pinned to the wall in fear, baby bear ate his way through her bowl of porridge. Next, the pretty pink chair in the corner splintered in half with the axe he was carrying. Finally, he lifted the duvet and climbed into her comfortable bed. He ignored the screams.
–––––––––– “I have quite a serious job and writing is pure escapism. If I can make someone else smile, even better!” – the writer
I would give the place five stars, despite its poor reputation. My chair was comfortable, everything sparkled with cleanliness, and the personnel was formal and attentive as if they expected the governor himself. Unfortunately, the governor didn’t even bother to call.
When a man in black came over to me, I sniffed as if I could already smell frying meat.
“Are you ready?” the man asked. I shook my head and tugged at the belts that strapped my hands. Cold sweat gushed into my eyes.
“No!” I screamed when another man reached for the large switch. He pulled it anyway.
–––––––––––––––––––– When P.C. was in kindergarten, he convinced his classmates that his grandma was a tribal shamaness. Then he learned his letters, and kidding his friends no longer seemed adequate—so he started to write.
If my poem had long hair dyed black & a voice gorge deep & musky honeyed as Chris Hemsworth you’d listen If it had abs biceps a chiselled face like The Rock you’d pay attention if my poem was lean & loose exuded menace you’d come onto it so, baby, couldn’t you close yr eyes ears & imagine?
John’s been thinking about how he could make his poems more sexy.
I’ve been clearing up the house sweeping up the crumbs. It’s a monthly ritual. Am I mad? Or just dumb? I clear away the cobwebs sweep up the dust collect and bin the rubbish. Somebody must. They won’t wash themselves, mum used to say. The sink’s full of them so I put them away. Make the place spotless so it shines & it hums. & I better get a move on before the cleaner comes.
John L. Malone wrote this piece “… because you don’t come across many funny flash fiction poems :)”
The blue Yaris pulled up at the traffic lights alongside his HiLux; the driver began picking his nose. Christ! did people still do that? Soon it would accrue a fine. You weren’t supposed to even touch your face. What would he do next? dig a finger into his ear, clear out some wax, have a good itch? scratch his balls? He was amazed at this guy’s brazenness, his folly. The things you see at traffic lights, he thought. Then he realized he was looking at his own reflection in the Yaris’s side window.
John is a South Australian writer of poetry, flash fiction and the occasional short story