•May 1, 2016 • Leave a Comment


Australia; Then and Now


The Country I was born in has disappeared.


I have mixed feelings about this.


Even though I often despised that Country

and generally felt like a stranger living there,

nontheless, I sometimes find myself afflicted

with an unaccountable nostalgia.


The familiar buildings that served as landmarks

have largely been torn down

and replaced with ugly, anonymous towers,

Yes, the very landscape itself has changed.

and the inhabitants who lived there once

have mostly died away, only a dwindling band

of old timers remembers a Superannuated Past

the Young have no Interest in Saving.

Even it’s Currency has disappeared, now

different denominations bearing different kings

change hands, old Customs are forgotten

the complexions of the Faces in the Street

are different too.

Gough handing soil back to Vincent lingiari

The common language meanwhile

has altered almost beyond recognition,

as though debased like a counterfeit coin

made from cheap alloy,

where U Xprss yrslf in 240 character soundbytes.

It jostles for turf on the street

with strange, immigrant tounges,

and from their intercourse inevitably

new bastard languages will arise.


I live in a different Country now.

Only the flag and name remain the same.

Like a shop with Under New Management


Open 4 Bu$ine$$

signs in the windows,

whilst up above the awning,

an old shop-hoarding sign bears a different name

that they haven’t got around

to painting over yet.

boxing kangaroos

Australia 2016,

We are not the sum of our parts,

We are fractured and fragmented,

We are not one Nation State

indivisible under God. We

are merely a series

of overlapping Administrative Zones

policed by bankers

where everything breaks down

to Ones and Zeros.


And in a World where everyone

is reduced to Statistics,

You will count for Nothing.

blek hawk




Greetings from the Reverend Hellfire

The Reverend Hellfire is a practised 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.

You can’t judge a Cook by its’ blubber


and some days are good days

•April 24, 2016 • Leave a Comment




..and some days are good days,

you know what I mean?

Just in a quiet way,

nothing special but

the weather’s fine

and a breeze is blowing

that lifts your spirits

high into that blue, blue sky.

The Bills have all been paid (for now)

no bastard bothers you on the phone

and your obligations have all been met,

while the next days’ problems seem to fall

well within your skill set.

Yes, you’ll be able to deal with it all..




ignore your diminishing

sense of responsibility,

declare today a non-public holiday

and tell yourself that you

and you alone deserve it.

Put your feet up,

have a coffee and a smoke,

and waste a few more golden, glorious hours.


Later you can stroll round the garden,

if you want, and sniff the roses,

or go feed ducks down at the park.

Or wait for the Moon to come up.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter.

Some days are good days.

It just happens like that.


Greetings from the Reverend Hellfire


double trubble


April 2016 handbill with border



The Reverend Hellfire.. Humanity’s last hope against the Rise of the Machines!



•April 17, 2016 • Leave a Comment

bar code eye

Urban Haiku


Tic, tic, tic, tic, tic..

Some days I feel like a Bomb.

Tic, tic, tic, tic, tic.


wind up bomb


the good vapyre jpig


April 2016 handbill with border


reverend profile red

The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Perfomance Poet,

President of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity

and an ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism

AND the Church of the Universe.

Do not operate near open flames. Use only as intended.


D.I.V.O.R.C.E..Miley & Me Pt.5

•April 10, 2016 • Leave a Comment

mileycyrus with butterflu wings

Miley & Me, Pt 5:


I‘d just finished my poetry reading at a local Cafe and had slipped out the back for a quiet smoke and a moment of meditation, when I was suddenly confronted by two large, hostile gentlemen in suits.

Naturally assuming them to be Police, (or just possibly ASIO) I automatically swallowed the joint I’d just lit.

A wasted effort, for as it turned out, I’d scarred my oesophagus for nothing. They weren’t the Police out to arrest me at all! They merely clubbed and tasered me into a semi-conscious stupor and tossed me into the boot of a car. I think it might have been a Commodore.

Thereafter followed a long, somewhat uncomfortable journey, but no worse than flying economy class really, and it did give me time to reflect on my situation. It also gave me time to smoke the back-up “emergency” joint I’d hidden in my boot. (The irony of actually being in a “boot” myself whilst I smoked it was not lost on me.)

It soon grew very stuffy in the confined space but I had vague hopes that the sight of a shiny, black Commodore speeding down the highway with clouds of pot smoke billowing behind it might attract some attention and hopefully intervention.

But no-one rescued me and I was left alone with my thoughts.


I must admit, I’d been expecting something like this to happen. Because “this”, I quickly realised, was nothing

 more than a subtle approach from the all powerful CYRUS CORPORATION to discuss my marital status.

For as regular readers of Sunday Sermons would know,

through a series of inexplicable and extremely unlikely events, I had ended up marrying the troubled young pop star Miley Cyrus in a secret Wedding in a ruined Balinese Temple. This Wedding was tragically interrupted at it’s climax by the combined might of the Indonesian Tactical Response Group and Billy Ray Cyrus leading an attack squadron of CYRUS CORPORATION helicopters.


Mileys wedding dress was distinctive, to say the least

Since then I had not seen my blushing young bride, but I had, like all the rest of the world, kept track of her various escapades, including her recent plans to marry some minor actor or Pop non-entity whose name escapes me.

Naturally this had me speculating on the legality of such a union, given that the blushing bride might technically be considered to be Mrs Miley Cyrus-Hellfire in some Jurisdictions. Clearly the same thoughts had created rumblings deep within the bowels of the CYRUS CORPORATION, and now someone had been delegated to deal with the mess.


Thus we come to the discussion which occurred some hours later with myself, the large gentlemen previously introduced, and a lawyer from The Corporation, a smug, self-satisfied, office drone with immaculately manicured fingernails. I hated him immediately. I’ve never been able to keep mine clean.


“So Jerry, you’re in a lot of trouble..”,

the lawyer led off with his opening gambit.

“My name’s not Jerry”, I told him.

“Yeah..we were told you’d say that”.

Negotiations quickly skimmed over the trivial question of Identity, and onto more important matters.

They wanted me to sign a bit of paper.

I wanted money to do so.

They didn’t want to give me any, and were hoping to bluff,

bully and badger me into signing their piece of paper.


“It wasn’t even a real wedding”, he jeered

“Which is why you want me to sign your Balinese divorce papers I suppose”, I countered.

“The wedding wasn’t even consummated”, he insisted, “the helicopters interrupted.”

“Oh there was plenty of consummation”, I assured him, “it just took place before the wedding. Miley has very old-fashioned attitudes in that regard.”

This went on for quite a while, till I started noticing a weird vibe to the proceedings. Well..weirder than what you might reasonably expect from this sort of situation.

My interrogators seemed nervous and strained to me, they avoided many of my questions, stuck religiously to their ridiculous script and..Ah!

I had a Flash.


“Miley’s listening to this right now, isn’t she?” I suddenly put my Insight to them.

Their faces went rigid, but a tiny, involuntary flicker of the eyeballs directed me to a video camera located in the upper right corner of the room.

“Hi Baby!” I waved at the Camera.

Our love was too pure to be contaminated by sordid money squabbles

Our love was too pure to be contaminated by sordid money squabbles

“Don’t Baby Me, Jerry!”, I heard her muffled voice screeching from behind the flimsy office walls, “You never really appreciated me!!”

“Are you in the next room?” I asked.

“NO!”, she shouted and thumped

the other side of the wall for emphasis.

Eventually I persuaded her to continue our conversation with both of us being in the same room, and we left the lawyer to gnaw his immaculately manicured nails and the security guys to pop their knuckles and practise “tough guy” poses in the mirror. Meanwhile we discussed the finer details of our upcoming divorce, like two civilised human beings.

This apparently involved snorting copious amounts of cocaine.

But despite the obviously enormous expenditure she was willing to make on recreational powders, nonetheless, I felt,

she was being unaccountably stingy to me.

“I want you to be happy”, I Weaseled, “Don’t you want me to be happy too? Having lots of money might help make me happy. Well, as happy as I could be without you, of course, Sweetie”.


But my smooth talking blandishments were getting me nowhere. Possibly the presence of her new Intended had a dampening effect on my pleas. Not that he said anything. He just stood in the corner, shaking slightly, his black enormous eyes fixated the whole time on Miley. He kind of reminded me of a neurotic chihuahua. I had to fight the urge to make “Ksshh!” noises whilst cracking an imaginary whip.


After some listening to her shrieking a stream of non-sequiters and denunciations, I decided to try another tack..

“Yeah”, I murmured,” PINK said you’d be like that..”

WHAT! What did you say!”, Miley shrieked, eyeballs rolling like an old war-horse suddenly hearing the bugles’ strident call, “That Pink Bitch said Whaatt!!?

“Oh nothing..forget it”. I demurred..”though she might have implied you were too cheap to pay me off properly”,

I insinuated.

“That PINK bitch called me Cheap?! “she shrilled,

totally outraged.

“Well, “cheap whore” I think was the actual phrase used, but yes, the emphasis was definitely on your cheapness“.

Miley-Cyrus-smokes cigar

Well, invoking the name of her old show biz bete-noir PINK, for whom she had a deep but unaccountable hatred, proved to be a winning stroke that shortened negotiations considerably and soon found me a richer man and Miley married to someone else, whose name, for the moment, still escapes me.


And so Miley walked out of my life for the last time,

trailing in her perfumed wake her hapless new husband.

I looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. Poor bastard, perhaps I should say something encouraging, I thought.

So as he scurried out the door like a well trained poodle, I caught his eye and smiled in my friendliest fashion.

“Bye.. Jerry“, I called.

He gave a little involuntary shudder then, I was pleased to note.

It was starting to look like a beautiful day.


Earlier posts on this subject can be located at the following links..


brain teaser Jpig


reverend profile red

The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet and whilst generally a gentle man, he is currently grinding his teeth and fantasizing about taking a chainsaw to the tree-killing bastards  infesting his neighbourhood at the moment of writing. 




•April 3, 2016 • 2 Comments

scary clown



Remember when everyone was getting into Anger?


Yes, it was the latest, most fashionable

drug on the Market,

extracted from the pineal glands

of a rare, Amazonian Lizard

it gave a lordly rush like Speed,

but with an afterglow of self-righteousness

and nervous agitation

that made for a nice little excitable cocktail

of lethal emotions.


Ah, Anger! That ancient devil drug

from the depths of the reptile brain,

putting the entire frontal lobe in lockdown,

as efficiently as

a wasp paralysing a spider with its sting.


Habit Forming?

Well, what do you think?


loony tunes mouse


Sorry about that. A slight relapse,

I’ll call my sponsor later.

But that’s how addictive it was,

the occasional indulgence on the Weekends

lashing out at family and friends

would turn into week long binges.

As the User got a taste for it,

the Cravings grew for that animal warmth

flooding the blood,

throbbing thru arteries and veins.

Snorting like an old war-horse,

the Heart awakens and answers the Chemical Call,

yes and before you knew it,

it’s, “High Ho Silver! And Awayyy!”

and the User was Up riding their High-Horse

while trampling Down all before them.


As the drug raged like an Epidemic

thru the Nation

no-one seemed immune

to the whole situation,

even the Prime Minister was said

to indulge heavily in Anger

after Cabinet Meetings,

one former Staffer claiming,

“I’ve never seen someone

have that much before!”


Naturally Families were torn apart

whilst Sociologists struggled to discover

if there was a direct correlation

between Anger and Violence.


Alas, like all good things in Life

a tolerance to the drug’s charms

soon built up.

Hunger for more Anger,

took heavy users to desperate measures

to try and bolster the drugs waning effects;

Listening to the Bolt Report.

Picking fights on Facebook.

Driving slowly thru peak hour traffic..


Naturally they also turned to drugs

to try to reinforce or replicate

the chemically induced state

of their favourite inebriate;

Sculled surly beer by the bitter barrel-full,

blasted barbiturates by the brutal bucket,

shot steroids into their arms

like they were a football team,

stuffed amphetamine suppositories by the ream,

Skated on thin Ice and on Coke,

used every other drug in the Pharmacopoeia

to try and cope,

but in the end

they just became

permanently disgruntled.

Because all they wanted,

all they really wanted,

was more Anger.

dead tired clownm


packaging Jpeg



The largest of Australia’s fresh-water amphibians, the Reverend Hellfire is usually found hiding amongst the reeds in ponds and slow flowing streams. His distinctive call can often be heard on hot Summer nights.



•March 27, 2016 • 1 Comment

To celebrate the election to the Brisbane City Council of Green Party Candidate Jonathan Sri, the first Performance-Poet ever elected to represent the local Kurilpa Enclave, Sunday Sermons unleashes the Imp of the Perverse and presents this up-dated Directors Cut of the classic iconoclastic Reverend Hellfire screedThe Chariot


Or just make them register their vehicle and apply for a driving license like everyone else?

The Rev explores the options..

Brisbane’s roads can be Hellish as local drivers well know. Pot-holed, erratically laid out, possessing a frustratingly

asynchronous system of stoplights, and every month crammed with ever greater traffic numbers, driving here can be a hazardous and stressful enterprise.

But in recent years there has been a growing hazard and annoyance blighting our roads. I refer to that two-wheeled pest, the Bicyclist!

But wait”, I hear the puzzled reader cry! “Reverend, we thought you were a tree-hugging, sandal wearing vegan left wing hippie type! Surely you should spout the party line and rabbit on about the necessity for clean-green-alternative-transport, fossil-fuel eschewing bicycles and their joy!”

Yes, well, I never did march in step..


The bicycle may seem like the ideal mode of transport when you’re young and going to Uni. You have strong legs and plenty of time and energy. Later you get older and have busier schedules. You have kids. You have to commute. You get older still and a bit frailer and the idea of risking your brittle bones on a busy road is even less attractive. But arrogant young alternative bicycle enthusiasts never consider the needs or frailties of others. For it is a sad Fact of Twenty-first Urban living; many of us depend on a car to survive. Personally I’d prefer to have a horse or even a goat-carriage but the Council won’t even let me keep a couple of pigs, so I have had to adjust.

I must say I sometimes suspect that a lot of the Alternative/Left’s love affair with the bicycle has as much to do with nostalgia as it does with the environment. A hankering for romantic images from the past, an earlier, simpler time. Visions of the bicycling masses in Workers’ Paradises that never were. Castro’s Cuba in the sixties or China’s Cultural Revolution. The bicycling masses Defying Evil Capitalism despite their lack of an industrial base.

Yes, the Left has a fetish for proletarian modes of transport, like some sort of a leftover symptom of Maoism.

Old socialists love their Proletarian Transport

Old socialists love their Proletarian Transport

Be that as it may, there are certainly more bicycles on Brisbane’s Roads in recent times, and every day hardly an hour has passed when I see some clown on a bicycle recklessly endangering their own or others’ lives. Riding the wrong way down a one way street. Ignoring traffic signs and lights. Failing to signal. Riding at night with no lights. Riding without a helmet. Talking on a phone. Etc, etc, etc. Much as they annoy me with their stupidity, I still don’t want to be responsible for running them over them.

design flawWborda

As for the minority of bike riders who do display some sort of road sense and riding competence, I still have to question the wisdom of their decision to ride a two wheeled, unmotorised vehicle on major arterial roads.

Part of the problem may be due to inexperience. Many bicyclists in my area are young, and I would suspect that the majority of them have never driven a car. Thus they have no idea about road rules. They also have no idea how much effort and care car drivers have to take to ensure the safety of bicyclists on the roads or how much stress they cause drivers.

Many’s the time I’ve seen one driver swerve to avoid a bike, causing the driver in the next lane to have to swerve, causing the driver in the oncoming lane to swerve, causing the driver in the far lane to swerve. Thats four lanes of traffic taking evasive manoeuvres to accommodate one bicyclist wobbling slowly up the steep slopes of Gladstone Road.

Safety! Ha! I wish the Bike Boosters would take some responsibility for their own safety. Most bicycles these days don’t even have mirrors, which I would consider a basic safety requirement for any vehicle. They don’t have a bell either and the last time I saw a bicyclist actually make a hand signal to indicate direction I almost had a heart attack from the shock of such an unaccustomed sight.

Let’s face reality people. Cars and bicycles don’t mix. The main roads of Brisbane in the Twenty-First century are not designed for bicycle traffic. This is not Amsterdam in the Nineteenth Century. This is hot, humid, hilly, busy Brisbane with its far-flung urban sprawl. It is not a bicycle friendly environment.

Brisbane City Council must take some blame for poorly supporting the proliferation of bicycles, which it has in some measure encouraged in an effort to appear ‘environmentally concerned’. Unfortunately the BCC has built few actual dedicated bike lanes, but it has turned numerous ‘parking lanes’ into ‘pseudo-bike lanes’ by painting a silhouette of a bicycle on the bitumen. Of course they’re still parking lanes as well, so when cars are parked there, the bicyclist has a bike lane width of effectively two inches.

slow down squarey

The drivers and riders of every other vehicle that use our roads have to learn the road rules, apply for a license and prove they’re capable of using their vehicle. They have to register their vehicle and prove it is in safe working order. Then pay fees to cover road maintenance and the ambulance service.

The time has come when the same rules

should apply also to bicyclists!!!

If Bicyclists want to use the roads they should abide by the same regulations as everyone else. They should pass a test, where they prove they know the road rules and can safely ride a bicycle, before they are allowed on the roads. Their vehicles should be inspected and registered before being allowed on the roads and bear a license plate. Naturally license fees should be charged and the money raised thus used to build and maintain proper bikeways away from the main road-ways..

I believe these modest measures will reduce the number of bike accidents, injuries and fatalities by a significant amount. Perhaps I’ll start a petition?

great footage

A Spotters Guide to Errant Bicyclists

  1. The Bike Nazi.

    This type wouldn’t dream of getting on a bike wearing ordinary clothes. No, they have to wear the full “Fetish” riding kit, the expensive, body-fitting Lycra uniform. It’s expensive but those tight bike pants really show off your finely chiselled thighs while your “saving the Environment”. This type’s riding style displays an aggressive arrogance. Likes to stand around in groups talking & blocking the footpath with their bikes on weekends. Their Lycra-clad God is Tony Abbott.

  2. The Hippie

    A native species endemic to West End and “hip” inner city enclaves. Never heard of road rules. Fond of wearing dark clothing after sunset while riding a bike with no lights.

  3. The Teen Age Daredevil Moron Generally male, travels singly or in packs. Often found terrorising pedestrians on footpaths when not zooming down the wrong side of the road or ignoring traffic lights.

  4. The Mother Duck of Death Despite the name, the bicycling Mother Duck of Death in fact can be a parent of either gender and is found on busy roads around 3pm when the schools disgorge their prisoners.

    The MDD’s bicycle usually has a basket over-full with shopping. Behind them, wobbling wildly on oversize bicycles they can barely control, follow 1 to 3 children struggling gamely to keep up. For some reason the Mother Duck of Death feels it is a good idea to endanger their children’s lives by leading them out into heavy traffic.

    A variant form, such as I saw the other day, is when the MDD is riding a tandem bicycle with an underage brat strapped into the back seat with ockey-straps. Then it is the parent wobbling wildly on an unwieldy, barely controlled contraption that drivers must swerve to avoid. (A further variant is the “Hippie Mother Duck of Death” who just jams their child into the shopping basket.)

  5. The Arterial Embolism

    A strange mix of arrogance and stupidity compels these fools to ride their bicycle on busy main roads (preferably a truck and/or bus route) at peak hour, despite the high risk of death or disfigurement.

    Believes that all 30,000 cars banked up behind them should be legally compelled to drive no faster than a middle-aged fat man on a bicycle.


elevated reduced


Cup FEB 2016 handbill 2.with border



The Reverend Hellfire is a practised 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.

“Never trust an internet quote.”-Abe Lincoln



•March 20, 2016 • 1 Comment

The Rev has had a very long week

so here’s something short and sweet and reet petite

surreaalist elephant tuba




Listening to Jazz.

I wait for the Saxophone,

to get to the point.


Authors note; There’s a delicious irony I think, contained in the conceit of writing a Jazz haiku, what with Jazz and Haiku being not merely dissimilar but diametrically opposed Artistic Disciplines, stylistically speaking.

Haiku attempts to distill the essence of it’s Subject into a highly stylised, minimalist structure,whereas Jazz explores in an extended (often exhaustive) fashion, as many possible permutations of a theme as the artist can come up with before they get kicked off stage. In this regard the Saxophone, rather like the “Lead Guitar” in “Rock Music”, has been responsible for some of the genre’s worst excesses.

Nonetheless, the Reverend hopes that this poem will inspire some aspiring young musicians to come up with a thirty seven minute “Jazz Odyssey” devoted to exploring and celebrating the Haiku’s aesthetic appeal.

And then the circle will be complete.




March 27th Pascalle flower handbill



The Reverend Hellfire is a small, artificial satellite orbiting Mars.

His low gravity and generous interest rates

have attracted Investors from across the Galaxy.



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