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
What was that guy thinking? Did I agree to this? I must have. What was I thinking? I should never have posed nude, for starters. That wasn’t necessary. And sitting in public view for all to see. You know what I look like? A guy sitting on a toilet seat, hunched over, muscled legs taut, trying to take a dump instead of having a good think. At least he could have put a cubicle around me. Even a bronze statue deserves some dignity.
John Malone is on a roll. His chapbook of poems has just come out.
So what’s your story? You’ve been out all day, don’t come home at night, and just when we’ve locked up and getting ready to go out, you rock up! Nice one. I know what you want. I know what you’re after. So, what’s your story, eh? She looks up at him with her mock-innocent amber eyes, but the cat has nothing to say.
John’s new poetry chapbook, Hope is the Helium, is coming out this year.