•April 20, 2014 • Leave a Comment

 This poem I guess is a kind of tribute to two of my favourite Australian poets.

I hope they like it.

ghostie explains ghostly



He said his name was “Ghostboy“,

but he never said exactly

just whose ghost it was he was.


Myself, I sometimes suspected

that the shade of Michael Dransfield

had snuck in like a squatter,

put the electricity on under another name,

and now sat in his unsuspecting landlord’s brain

beneath a single, bare light-bulb

in a dingy room furnished

with only a table and a chair,

obsessively pounding out poems

on an old Olivetti typewriter,


Despite his demise

Death seems to suit Dransfield;

he’s put on some weight,

looks healthier,

given up the drugs..


But he’s still writing those lines though.

Those lines that wander

like a Wordsworthian cloud,

delicate and serene,

seemingly disconnected

from the Cartoon Violence

that surrounds..


Till they turn around, that is,

and stab you in the eye

with a used syringe.


Served you write for looking.

dransfields eyes

(-dedicated to David S. and the shade of Michael D. Respect.)




 and for those of you in the vicinity this Public Service Announcement..

logo crop

The Kurilpa Poets

are proud to present their


Sunday 27th April, 2pm.


Feature Poet: The Reverend Hellfire


Special MC: The ever-lovely Linda Loop

and also

“Surrealism-Poetry from the Psyche”

Featuring Films from the archival vaults.


Mystery Musicians of the Month:

“Mr Gray and the Dark People”


and as always bring your words for

Brisbanes Openest “Open Mic” sessions!

Free Refreshments and Parking!

All this and more for a mere $5!


the Olde Croquet Club

91 Cordelia Street, West End,

under the trees of sacred Musgrave Park.



The Reverend Hellfire is a practising Performance Poet, President of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity, and an ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism AND the Church of the Universe.

He is not as other Men. Made for order not off the rack.



•April 13, 2014 • Leave a Comment

This story is true apparently. I heard a radio interview with the Composer the other day and I was so impressed I wrote this poem straightaway.

 rev going out the door  



He wrote a Concerto

for Cold Climates

and played it on a Cello

made of Ice,

melodies melting down

the slippery-slide scales

on a gradual glacial gradient..

By the time the Music

was over,

he was playing a Violin.



  RaceJpig - 2              ***


The Reverend Hellfire is a practising Performance Poet, President of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity Inc., and an ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism AND the Church of the Universe.

If sighted please notify the appropriate Authorities but do not approach.



•April 6, 2014 • Leave a Comment

 generic couple 1

Art of Conversation


Some may not think this poem PC,

but sometimes it seems to me..


Women use words

and language like

Needle and Thread;

Sewing everything in Life together

on one long strand of talk.


Men use language like

a carpenter uses their tools;

everythings very cut/

and measured.


In fact, I’ll bet it was a man

who invented punctuation!


the exclamation marks home!

Deep into the Conversation.



Bikini Jpig



The Reverend Hellfire is a practising Performance Poet, President of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity Inc., and an ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanists AND the Church of the Universe.

Never puts the lid back on the jam jar properly.

(or so he’s been told)



•March 30, 2014 • 2 Comments

 rev and westender sign reduced

The Poets take to the Streets

“There was an ancient Mariner,

He stoppeth one of three..” -Samuel Coleridge


The Reverend Hellfire plays Pied Piper

to a pack of Water-Rats

on the streets of West End

to celebrate World Poetry Day.

Spreading the Word/s

Spreading the Word/s

Usually I abstain from participating in the Census, but I do recall one year filling in a census form (under the name of “Big Lizard Number One“) in which I (correctly) gave my principal occupation as “Tarot reader at local markets”, and when asked to describe my principle activities whilst at work, I confessed it was;

prostituting the Sacred Mysteries and debasing myself in Public.

For some reason that long forgotten jest came back to mind last Friday, 21st of March, as I prepared to lead a crack team of Cultural Terrorists from the Kurilpa Poets, in a daring guerilla assault designed to bring The Muse back to the streets of West End.

Yes, we would be well out of the Poetic “Comfort Zone” that poets mostly inhabit. The cosy world of comfy bars and bohemian cafes, with the polite applause of our peers protecting the fragile ego. We would be out in the Real World! On the Mean Streets of West End! Who could tell how the Unsuspecting Public would react when confronted with the Word!

fresh fruit and poetry. Cam spruiks his wares!

fresh fruit and poetry. Cam spruiks his wares!

Indeed, we managed to provoke the full gamut of reactions from said Public with our antics that day. Everything from perplexed and bemused, to delighted and amazed, right on through to aggression and outright hostility. There was also complete confusion and some office-drones’ robot-like programming to ignore our very existence. It was all very gratifying.

Meeting the people

Meeting the people


The Plan was the twisted brain-child of Kerrod Trott, the mad genius behind the defiantly Independant local magazine, The Westender. Keen to maintain West Ends Bohemian tradition, the Kurilpa Poets agreed to provide the shock troops neccessary to make the poetic assault on bland Cultural Conformity


Taking Poetry to the streets..

Taking Poetry to the streets..

Aside from yours truly, the Reverend Hellfire, the team consisted of Kurilpa Poetry Cup winner, Cameron Logan, the multi-talented Sasha Cuha, and veteran cultural agitator Tony Kneipp, who graciously agreed to reprise his “Old Sarge” character for the day. Dressed in a uniform suspiciously resembling that of our beloved Queensland Police Force (or is it a “Service”?) Tony lent a reassuring, or posssibly perplexing, air of Officiality to the proceedings.

Documenting the whole affair (and providing a bit of muscle should it be needed) was KICI’s “Visual Arts Director” Shane Kneipp, who took the photos accompanying this review.



Nothing to see here folks, keep moving..

Nothing to see here folks, keep moving..

So we started at High Noon in West Ends heart, next to the Big Lizard under the big fig tree, spruiking our Art to passers by and a line of taxi-drivers on the other side of the road. After having warmed up a bit we wandered along the length of Boundary street, setting up temporary camp at suitable locations like a band of gypsies. Indeed, at one street corner Sasha demonstrated his lively violin skills whilst others declaimed. His playing is sometimes said to be in the style of the late Sherlock Holmes.

Somewhat in the style of Sherlock Holmes

Somewhat in the style of Sherlock Holmes

At times we were reading poems directly to only one person out of three who stopped to listen, sometimes we gathered a small crowd.

People lent from windows and balconies to listen. Pedestrians would be recording us on their Iphones and tablets.

At other times there was only us, shouting out our words to an empty street.

"You're spinning me out, man," said the chap wearing only a towel and a straw hat

“You’re spinning me out, man,” said the chap wearing only a towel and a straw hat

But that didn’t seem to matter. It felt good to be out there, taking back the streets for poetry. It felt good to be a mad Jeremiah on the street corner denouncing the modern Babylon, or whispering tender sonnets to the wind. The whole experiance was empowering overall. The mere act of standing in a public space and declaiming whatever you damn well felt like.

Wandering bard Asheroth

Wandering bard Asheroth

Somewhere along the way we picked up an extra poet, the red-dreaded Asheroth who proved to be a talented Wordsmith and performer. Newly arrived from Olde England, he became a valuable member of the team, as we walked the length of Boundary Street, declaiming as we went.

The Poetry Police move in

The Poetry Police move in

It was at Archive Beer Boutique that the Rev finally went too far and the Poetry Police were sent in with a complaint from Management! Sensing trouble, the Reverend quickly escaped through the railings with eel-like agility.


Nontheless he was retrieved and we were read the riot act.

No bothering the customers.

No poems about religion, sex or politics.

Reading the riot act

Reading the riot act

We looked at each other blankly, mentally scrolling through our catelogues for something PG.

Then Cameron Logan stepped forth to save the day with a blisteringly sarcastic jeremiad that must have seared the ears of every yuppie in a five hundred foot radius.

After that they left us alone and we read what we liked.

fiery tounged Cameron Logan

fiery tounged Cameron Logan

Finally we finished in the echoing smoking-zone pit of the Boundary Hotel,

where we performed in between a table of drinkers who loved us, and a table of bar-flies who buzzed angrily at our presence. It was perfect and we played to both parties.

Sasha Cuha taking no prisoners!

Sasha Cuha taking no prisoners!

Sasha shared an old Serbian curse for the occasion.

Translated it runs something like;

“May you give birth to a centipede

and spend the rest of your life buying shoes.”

(Someone once told me that all Serbians are poets; that’s how they kept their culture under a series of oppressive regimes.)

No religion, politics or sex..

No religion, politics or sex..

All in all a successful day. UNESCO, who invented World Poetry day in the first place, should be proud of us. I’m sure Calliope was.


words: Reverend Hellfire

pictures: Shane Kneipp






The Reverend Hellfire is..

ahhh you know the rest.



•March 23, 2014 • Leave a Comment

 train to Hell four



Tonight it seems

this Riddled, Raddled Mind and Body rife,

with every Syndrome known to Life,

suffering Society’s strain and strife,

despised and despairing

and almost past caring,

feels like a battered engine

that’s taken every goddamn

every goddamn

knock it

knock it can.


So come on, Experts, Overhaul me!

Call in your best Authorities!

Send in the Probes!

Test my urine and my bile!

Analyse my Feelings and my Blood.

Run my brain and every major organ

through your screening.

Process, scan and download me

to a new Conformity,

Alter my gen-e-ti-city

for more convenient managebility

(and extended Warranty!)

Reconfigure, and save to file

to better serve Society.


But beware of Virii, Worms & Bugs,

System Failures & Unknown Drugs.

train to hell


packaging Jpeg




The Reverend Hellfire is a practising Performance Poet, President of the Kurilpa Institute for Creativity and an ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism AND the Church of the Universe.

(Please note that’s the Institute of Creativity, not “Creationism”)



•March 16, 2014 • Leave a Comment

 beetle circle



I have seen black beetles blindly

stagger through the dust,

limbs entangled

in some spider’s web,

drunken dragglings in the dust

mark its painful progress.

A pathetic sight,

yet I confess,

I feel a kinship, out of all size and place,

for this blind and bumbling insect

in its doomed and futile race.

beetles cropped 


humble pi



The Reverend Hellfire is a practising Performance Poet, President of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity, and an ordained Minister of the Church of the Universe AND the Church of Spiritual Humanists.

Try getting a job with that on your C.V.



•March 9, 2014 • Leave a Comment

 Sorry folks, sermon delayed as the Reverend’s been nursing a couple of sickies today. They sleep now and so on to today’s poem..

crow dancing

The Undeserving


“And so”, the Social-Worker sighed,

“they come to me to solve their problems

petty and obscure.

In my Professional capacity I have no equal,

call it bedside manner I suppose,

What seems to be the problem, I ask yet again,

of some rough Stranger, as though they were my Friend.

I can’t help it. Push the Emotional Buttons

and the Sympathies arise as if on cue.

I was always a sucker for a sad tale.

It’s true.

Empathy’s like a Curse

or worse, for me.

So time and again

I lift a Helping Hand for “the Undeserving”

even though I know they take me

for a Fool, despise my aid

and laugh about me afterwards.”


“I don’t blame them,” I replied,

“It’s the Beggars’ Code.

Bite the hand that feeds you

or be condemned to be grateful

for sanctimonious crumbs all your Life.

I know. I’ve wandered winter streets myself,

a Failure in borrowed overcoat,

without a home or hope or gold

and let me tell you, matey,

Charity is always cold.”

 a crow lights tippi hendrens ciggie


Poetry Day Jpigred



The Reverend Hellfire is a practising Performance Poet, President of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity, an ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanists AND the Church of the Universe.

Well, someone had to do it.



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