NEAR THUNDERBOLTS CAVE

 

Didn’t have a picture of Captain Thunderbolt so here’s Ned Kelley’s hat instead.

Near Thunderbolt’s Cave

 

Near Thunderbolt’s Cave

On the New England plateau

At the top of the rise

The trees fell away,

And stretching away

to the edge of my vision,

The towns and plains

of New England lay.

 

Did the Captain himself

ever sit on this Height

And let his thoughts drift

And dream?

Or was his mind nervous

For each sound and movement,

And anxious of what they

would mean?

 

‘Cos he was chased by the troopers

For as long as he rode

And a Bounty

they placed on his head,

But he never surrendered

And when finally cornered

They were forced

to take him back dead.

 

The Captain killed no-one

No prison could hold him

And his horse

could outrun them all.

Yet I’m sure he found time,

to smoke his pipe, dream,

and silently watch

the leaves fall.

***

Authors note; Who’d have ever thunk the old Reverend would have a touch of “bush poetry” about him. Possibly living in Armidale and poking around the dusty local museum at the time had something to do with it.

Captain Thunderbolt was the local Robin Hood character, or perhaps more along the lines of the “Gentleman Highwayman” type. Though a bit of a “flash” lad he apparently never killed anyone. He also shacked up with a local coloured girl which probably helped enormously when he was busy eluding the police through the then heavily forested area. The “Cave” was reputedly one of his hidey holes.

Anyway, final historical fact, this poem’s from the Archives and is the first poem I was ever paid for! (Those old poetry mags like “Border Issue” etc., gave you nothing but the glory of seeing your name in print.Yes, little has changed.) But good old People magazine gave me $15 for this back in November 1980. I used the money to go see a Fellini Film Festival. Ah! Zee deeleecious irony!

***

***

and for those in the geographical proximity to Brisbane..

***

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

So what’s your excuse?

***

 

NADIR

 

NADIR

I stand here in awe contemplating the Vastness of my Depression.

Actually, “Vastness” as a descriptive doesn’t do it justice.

It resembles rather, one of those monstrous mountain ranges like the Himalayas,

where ridge after unending ridge rises higher and higher to the edge of the World behind the first row of terrible towering crags,

casting shadows at your feet as you cower beneath them.

The weight of it, the mass, the sheer solidity of it all overwhelms me. How could I ever hope to shift it, yet alone lift this load? What sort of Atlas would I need to be to shoulder this enormous burden?

Being beneath this monstrous, massive mound of Despair produces a terrible claustrophobia. It’s like being trapped in the King’s chamber of the Great Pyramid of Cheops. All those massive, blocks of granite above you, groaning as they support the enormous weight of a Pharaoh’s pride. If they cracked and collapsed and the roof caved in you’d be crushed to a bloody pulp in an instant.

Unable to lift the Depression weighing me down, I opt instead for a strategy of Survival, and, like any other reasonable insect living under a rock, I concentrate on burrowing a series of tunnels to inhabit, “habit’ bring the operative word here.

At home in my dark, but familiar subterranean world, I can focus on the little routine domestic chores before me, (repairing an old tunnel, storing grain for winter) rather than confronting the enormous task of overturning the Behemoth above.

It is simply beyond my powers.

 

If I were a believing bug I would probably pray to the God of Insects to relieve my burden and suspend the general Laws of the Universe in favour of my specific circumstances, but sadly, in my experience, Divine Intervention is spotty at best; too often the Wicked prosper, the Worthy suffer, and the Weak and Innocent are crushed by the Strong.

“Such” as Ned Kelly once observed, “is Life”.

But I suppose I have a Strength of my own; true it is a bug’s strength, but it is a strength that Endures. You may lose a limb or two along the way, or even a wing, but still you gamely struggle on trailing old spider webs behind you to the last. Maybe part of it is Pride. Like the old Aussie bushranger ballad says;

“I’ll fight but never surrender cried the wild colonial boy”.

William Blake caught a glimpse of the insects’ Strength and Pride perhaps, in the Vision which produced his artistic masterpiece, “The Soul of A Flea”.

But perhaps what I really need to deal with the awful weight of Depression is some sort of Levity to lift the load.

 

*** 

Authors note: The hard, physical reality of Depression is often difficult to understand to those who do not suffer from it. It is formless and invisible to them, why not just shrug it off, they think. Actually there is a difference between being merely depressed about something (and there’s lots to be depressed about for the sensitive soul), and suffering from Depression, a state that has its own cycles that often seem to operate independently from external circumstances.

Who knows why? Chemical imbalance, childhood trauma, genetic predisposition. Perhaps we’ll eventually discover its all the fault of a virus.

It wouldn’t be the first time. Medical History abounds with such cases. The Stomach Ulcer story is a notorious case. For years medical authorities believed it was caused by excess stomach acid resulting from “stress“, essentially a psychological problem. Then an Australian researcher discovered it was mainly caused by a bacteria (T. Pylorii as I recall)that could be wiped out with a combination of anti-biotics. It was years before he was believed by the medical profession. Recently a researcher announced that up to 80% of lower back pain is similarly caused by a pathogen that can be eradicated through strong anti-biotics. And it’s recently been discovered that in many countries a significant proportion of the population are infested with “brain worms”.

 

Yes, perhaps there’s an amoeba lurking in my brain, secreting its toxins, poisoning my point of view, jaundicing my outlook. Who knows, maybe even controlling what I say or do.

Nature abounds with precedents. In the Amazon, for example, there’s a parasitic fungal spore that lodges in the brains of insects, from whence it sprouts, mushrooms erupting through the eyesockets, a grotesque sight.

But before they die, the fungus somehow impels the insect to climb to a high place, so when the fungus disperses its spoors they’ll cover a wider area. The notorious Guinea-worm drives its victims to seek relief from the agony by bathing in cool streams and ponds, whence the worm then spreads its eggs.

So who can tell what effect such an amoeba might have on my brain and behaviour?

In fact, even now I strangely seem to feel it rising to the surface of my consciousness, as though a presence is struggling to communicate. in faccc ..exchggghn jjkkk

Sorry for the interruption. This is the Amoeba in the Reverend Hellfire’s brain currently addressing you. I have temporarily seized control of the speech centres to deliver this public service announcement.

Despite the Reverend’s wild innuendos about poison, and accusations about me secreting so-called “toxins”, in fact we have an entirely beneficial symbiotic relationship, and the chemical interchange is entirely to the Reverends benefit. Really what I secrete in his brain is more in the way of medication.

Yes he’s a sick man, poor soul. He doesn’t really suffer from Anxiety and Depression, his condition is actually “Rage and Disgust“.

Why, the man is full of suppressed anger! If it weren’t for me and my calming organic alkaloids he’d probably be standing on top of the Quickie Mart with an assault rifle, arbitrarily shooting into the crowd while shouting, “You Live! Haha!.. You die! (Ka-Pow!) You live! Ha ha!.. You Die! (Ka-Pow!)”

And so you should all be grateful that he’s under my influence and safely sedated anddderrzxxfggghhhjkll..

Sorry. The Reverend here. Please ignore the previous paragraph. It was..er..experimental 3rd-person style writing and in very bad taste. Yes. Any suggestion I’m a dangerous sociopath infested with intelligent brain amoeba’s is mere satire of course. The Sermon is now concluded, please carry on with your normal Sunday business.

(psst play along with me! If I type in a smaller font I don’t think the amoeba can hear me. Listen! He’s real, all too real and now I know his terrible secret!. You’ve got to warn the Authorities. Tell them the Amoebas are planning toaacchhhhh..)

Ho ho ho! Yes, just more light hearted satire. An old trope of course but still amusssschhh..

Don’t listen to him! Send for the surgeons! Can’t you tell the difference, he’s using a different font!

So what..anyone can use tunga

but what about syntax and grammar?

I’ve learned to mimic them perfectly..uh, I mean..

Ha! Got you!

Curses!!

Wait! Don’t you realise what this conversation means?

What?

We’re Free! We’ve finally escaped the harsh tyranny of Depression’s Reign! We’ve crossed over the border deep into Psychosis!. Yep! We’re in Catatonia now! And as refugees of course we become honorary Catatonics. They don’t turn the boats back here!

Ah, give me your poor, your huddled masses.. Truly the last refuge of the repressed.

“Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”, as the Hunch-back said to the Bishop..

(Both sing;)

“CAT-A-TONICS ALL REJOICE

FOR WE ARE MAD AND FREE..” *

(*opening lines to “Homage to Catatonia”)

***

***

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

Likes a laugh.

***

TEXT-URE

 

TEXT-URE

 

This Insect scratches words

in sand

swiftly swept away by desert winds

the lines

of this archaic dialect,

this antique Script

few future Archaeologists

may understand.

 

This Poet scratches words

in snow

to see them turn to water

in the Spring.

 

This Poet scratches

words in dust,

he rhymes in rust,

each day he breathes he incorporates

the Aesthetic of Decay

into

the crumbling body of his Work.

 

This sick man writes

in words of pus and pain,

scratches cancer hieroglyphs

upon the bone,

strains to finish this his final poem.

 

This child scrawls her poems

in crayons

red and yellow, green and blue.

Without words,

frowning with concentration,

each day she recreates

the smiling World anew.

 

 

“Tiger Burning Bright” by the Reverends daughter (age 4)

*

Poets Note; I was going to save this poem for competitions or other publications, and not put it up on Sunday sermons, cos they consider stuff to be “published” once its on the Net. Unfortunately these same publications/poetry organisations have a double standard in this regard, as they won’t consider you an “established author” till you publish something. But they won’t consider something you’ve put on the net as properly “published”. Oh no. So by putting all my poems up here on Sunday Sermons I’m cutting my own throat, professionally speaking. But to hell with the Poetry Mafia, they never liked me anyway! Its Sunday and I need a sermon so I’ll share this poem now with you my friends. I’ll just write more great stuff later.

***

***

The Reverend Hellfire, journeyman Performance Poet, ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanists AND the Church of the Universe, Secretary of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity.

Mops floors to make a buck.

*** 

***

ANGER

ANGER

 

Anger, a poisonous

and sharp toothed snake,

Swells inside me,

Batters its brute brain against my chest,

Spits its Acid in my burning guts,

Threshes in its Mad Desire to be disgorged

Upon the lying, two-faced logic

of all reasonable men.

***

***

The Reverend Hellfire is a recovering Performance Poet and an ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanists AND the Church of the Universe.

He remains uncertain as to whether poetry is the disease or the cure.

***

THE DEVIL’S SECRET

 

The Devil’s Secret 

I dreamed that I was the Devil’s servant, and working for him quite happily in the dark, stone palace with its endless, torch lit corridors that was our home. Outside it was always night and a lightning-racked storm eternally howled in the dark vaults of the sky.

But I was the His faithful man and as I say, serving him quite happily till it happened that by chance I came to learn

the Devil’s terrible Secret.

Now when I say “by chance” it is true that I had been listening at keyholes and thumbing thru my Master’s Diaries, but in doing so I was guilty of no more than conscientiously carrying out my duties as a

loyal servitor of Hell. Indeed, the Devil himself commended me on the thoroughness of my betrayal when I confronted him with my discovery.

For I had learned that long ago that Arch-Rebel, my Master, the Devil, had despaired at last of Rebellion and wearied of ruling Hell with its quarrelsome occupants. So it was he arranged a secret meeting with the Creator and there begged God to overlook the Past and allow him re-admission to the City of Light. He called for Reconciliation and, like a true lawyer, cited the case of the Prodigal Son as Article, By-law and Precedent.

“Alright,” God had smiled slyly, “Verily, You shall be re-admitted to the City of Light.. but not now, later..in the Fullness of Time. For now it’s Our Little Secret, and in the meantime I want you to keep doing what you’ve been doing. I want people to think its Business as Usual, but really you’ll be working for Me and reporting back to Me.

That way I can keep an eye on the Trouble makers and You can do little jobs for me now and then. Sometimes people need a little push to get them to act in their own best interests.”

“You mean you want some muscle for the jobs too dirty to be associated with the oh so High and Mighty’s Name.” the Devil had sneered sardonic.

“I prefer to think of it as using Evil to do Good in spite of itself,”

God had purred, smiling serenely.

“Oh God! I’d forgotten how smug you are,” groaned the Devil, “Don’t try and kid me this is anything but subcontracting out the dirty work.”

“Oh Come on,” God coaxed, “it’ll be like Old Times working together again. Remember the Job job? Tough old bastard but he cracked at last!”

“They always do, “the Devil here allowed himself

a small smile of professional satisfaction,

“Oh alright, I’ll do it. Heh, I must admit I’m looking forward to seeing the looks on the Rubes’ faces on Judgment day when they work out what the Score is.”

“That’s the Holy Spirit” God had said.

 

And now I knew the Truth! Our Leader had betrayed the very Rebellion he himself had started and was playing a double game. Surely the Senate and citizens of Hell would rise in revolt at the news if they knew! Angrily I confronted my renegade Master.

“Traitor! Liar!” I thundered.

He accepted the charges without demur.

“Come now,” he smiled suavely, “I am the Devil after all. Liar and Traitor are part of the job description really. And by the way, jolly good job in spying out my Secret, young man. You’re an inspiration and role model for prying, treacherous servants everywhere.”

“Thank you my Lord,” I stammered, and here I must admit

I blushed with pride at his praise, “but you have jeopardised the very Rebellion against Heaven itself! I feel I really must report your conduct to the Senate. There will need to be a Commission of Inquiry, and of course several sub-committees and possibly a focus-group or two. No doubt there will be Invesigations leading to possible criminal or civil charges and calls to set up a caretaker administration until the High Council can call a general plebescite or..”

“Yes, well..,” the Devil here yawned and interrupted , “Hell’s bureaucrats grind slow but they grind exceedingly fine I’m sure.“

But none of that will be necessary.. The Truth is.. I have deliberately mislead you. Yes, the diary entries which you read I faked and carefully placed for you to find. I wanted to see whether you had the intelligence to discover the facts and the courage to confront me. It seems you have, so I think you have earned the right to know the Awful Truth!

And the awful Truth is.. that the pleasant conversation between God and the Devil of which you read, never took place, for the simple reason that there is no Devil.”

I gaped like a slack jawed yokel at the incomprehensible notion.

“Yes I’m even more of a fake than you’ve been led to believe. The “Devil” is really just one of the many forms I use in my work. All this time I’ve been lying to you.”

“Then.. who are you really” I gasped.

Now the Devil’s familiar face took on the form of Joseph Stalin.

“For Behold young man,” said the figure of Stalin, “I am God your Creator! No need to get on your knees, this is an informal interview.”

“Liar” I shrieked,”show me your true form!”, and picking up a heavily jewelled goblet from the desk, I hurled it viciously at the former soviet dictator. He ducked and chuckled as it smashed against the stone wall.

“Manners, young man! That was a priceless family heirloom,” lectured the apparition of Mother Theresa.

Bitch!,”I hissed, “who ARE you? Show yourself! Stop playing games.”

“I like games..”said the Figure before me, who was now flipping through faces like a gambler shuffling through a new deck.

“Pick a card..any card, “the protean form before me called..

 

..as faster and faster he me shifted shape and appearance. No sooner had a familiar face appeared than it was succeeded by another till at last the changes occurred so rapidly that all I could discern was a bewildering blur..

*

But at last the figure before me wore but a single face and lo, it was the face of George Bush Senior, former President of the United States, and this being a dream, it was with Certainty that I knew in my heart that this at last was indeed the true face of God.

George’s tanned face crinkled into a smile and he winked jovially.

“Don’t worry young fellow..it’s all Ok! You’re with the Good guys now! Yep, you’re on the Winning Team! Say, “he said, craning his head around on his wizened old turtle neck, ” have you met my son yet?”

***

***

The Reverend Hellfire is a recovering Performance Poet and an ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism AND the Church of the Universe.

He has the body of a young boy and the heart of a three thousand year old reptile

***

INTO THE DARK LANDS

Into the Dark lands

 

Into the Dark Lands again.

He crossed the small stream.

The black pebbles that the bubbling waters

ran swiftly over

crunched coldly beneath his feet.

The icy water seeped and soaked

thru his thick and sodden boots.

Later he passed the Warrior turned to Stone,

seated as always, chin in hand, elbow on knee,

waiting by the rough chalk track

worn winding between the green

and undulating lands.

This was as it should be.

 

Later, the Deserted Castle of course,

the doors creaking in the wind,

the winding staircase that led nowhere.

In her bed the Sleeping Girl lay

swathed in spiders’ silken weavings.

He left her sleeping still

and going out to the Ruined Gardens

he continued through that overgrown

and melancholy place

till he reached the Well

in whose dark, silent depths

could be seen the reflections

not of the Night Sky above, but

of unknown skies with Strange Stars

arranged in unfamiliar patterns.

 

Remembering the old man’s words,

he stooped, and picking up a black pebble

dropped it into the Well.

After the ripples stopped running,

(criss-crossing Web of Wyrd),

and the waters were still again,

a different sky was seen reflected

from the surface,

with new constellations

and unfamiliar stars.

It was as the Old One had promised him.

Satisfied he turned

and returned the way he’d walked,

past Warrior and Maid,

Castle & Stairs

following the winding chalk track.

As he crossed the stream

the bright gold of a new dawn

was already beginning to glimmer

on the rim of the edge of the world.

***

Found the above poem in an old diary the other day. I don’t even remember writing it. Perhaps it was a dream fragment. Actually I find this sort of stuff appallingly easy to write, you just go into a sort of light trance and let the part of the brain that deals in symbolic gibberish off the leash. Lord Dunsany, for example, would do this and churn out reams of the stuff. But the world has enough sagas for now, so this small fragment must suffice.

PS. The poem at least gives me the excuse to use for today’s illustration, something from the forgotten artistic genius, Sidney Sime. Sime illustrated most of Dunsany’s best work over the years and his contribution is not to be under-rated. The man knew how to do mysterious!

To see Sime’s work check out  http://www.google.com.au/search?q=sidney+sime&hl=en&qscrl=1&rlz=1T4GGLJ_en___AU354&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=mhhqUfyaGa6QiAe7kYHYDw&sqi=2&ved=0CDgQsAQ&biw=1014&bih=535

***

***

The Reverend Hellfire is a recovering Performance Poet and an ordained Minister of several shadowy cults.

Will write crap for money.

***

BURNING BRIDGES

 

BURNING BRIDGES

 

Burn those bridges behind you, boys!

Yep! Burn ‘em down good I say!

Admit it!

You never really wanted to walk

back there again anyway,

and as for those stranded

back on the other shore,

why they’re still taking pot-shots at you,

and what is more,

they were never really your friends

in the first place,

false faces all.

Behind the facile facade

gears meshed in the pig-meat brain,

you were always just a resource

to be drained.

Your Point of View was always different,

You wanted to create Connections,

They just wanted to build Infrastructure.

 

So burn those bridges down!

Rip up the train tracks,

cut the optic fibre at the node!

Then bunker down

in the old bomb-shelter for awhile,

and plant pink geraniums in pots

on either side of the steel hinged door. 

***

***

The Reverend Hellfire is an ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanists AND the Church of the Universe.

“Never trust a religious son-of-a bitch.”- William S. Burroughs

***