Do You Remember Back When?

•July 23, 2018 • Leave a Comment




Remember when President Trump‘s meeting with North Korean dictator, Kim Jong Il, was the Wonder of the World?

Yes, like a two-headed cow it was the talk-of-the-town for at least a week and everyone was certain that it was a Sign that the End Times were a-coming, and that they were coming soon.

Fortunately the World Cup intervened, and the fickle Public’s attention was diverted by the razzle-dazzle of a Big Money Sporting Spectacular.

With the Celebrity Spotlight drifting elsewhere, our Dear Leaders soon lost interest in the Great Game and once again left the whole sorry mess for their Drones to deal with.

“Just tidy this stuff up, ok?”

Thus the World was saved from looming Armageddon for another week and everything went back to


Which is to say, sure we’re on an unstoppable roller-coaster of Hubris & Greed that’s taking us inevitably towards complete Environmental Collapse and the con-current Societal Catastrophe, but it’s not going to happen just yet!

Yes, the Apocalypse may indeed be upon us soon

but not before the Returns for the Spring Financial Quarter come in and so we may as well maximise Profits along the way..Hey! Despite negative-gearing, those heavily-fortified compounds in private enclaves don’t pay for themselves you know! (Not unless you rent them out to students & backpackers short-term while you’re waiting for the End Times of course.)

No it’s not cheap prepping your strategically-sited, reinforced concrete, luxury Doomsday Accommodation for the Apocalypse and things will only get worse once we have to start paying for goods & services with Water.

Now it is true that Water has its down sides as a medium of exchange, but at least anyone who can piss into a jar can get some sort of return on their Investment, as opposed to crypto-currencies like Bitcoin.

Penicillin was looking like a viable Currency to invest in for awhile, but since the rise of anti-biotic resistant bacteria, its value on the International Exchanges has plunged heavily against the Yen and now the Smart Money is investing once again in Child Slavery, Drugs and the International Arms Trade.

Meanwhile, after numerous complaints from purchasers, the original President Trump has been recalled by the Manufacturers and sent to a small factory located somewhere on the outskirts of Moscow. There the malfunctioning President is understood to be undergoing various Firmware Upgrades & Security Patches, that are intended to solve the many glitches & programming bugs that have afflicted the trouble-prone Head of State.

Programming glitches plague the current Presidential iteration

Numerous verbal gaffes and Facial-Recognition Software failures have resulted in Donald Trump becoming the most unpopular President since the Model G Ford.

Still, at the time of writing, President Trump 2.0 is said to be “performing well within it’s Operational Parameters”.



The Reverend Hellfire..

Use only as Directed.




•July 15, 2018 • Leave a Comment

Ballad Banking


Creditors & Predators

and Automatic Debitors

and ATO Inquisitors

and every Bank is bent.

Markets’ crash & Credits’ squeeze

Ponzi Schemes are just a Tease

Companies do as they please

And every Bank is bent.

Looks like economic trouble

Panic pops the market bubble

Banks are buried under rubble

and I can’t pay the rent.




The Reverend Gaius Redrum Hellfire

is, amongst other things, a practised Performance Poet and an Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanists.

His services are available  for Poetry Performances, Funeral Orations & Baby Blessings. Also Office Contract Cleaning at competitive rates.

One Hand washes the Other.


The Week in Headlines

•July 8, 2018 • Leave a Comment

The Week in Headlines


Part 1. Inevitability of the Unforeseen


Just some predatory prick.

Yeah, just another back-alley bastard

with autistic drives

hurtling one way

down a dead-end street

to the inevitable crash

and its attendant collateral casualties.

The Doppler Effect in action-

No-one saw it coming.


Part 2. Terms & Conditions apply.


Where is our Orpheus in a surgeons mask,

we asked, to lead Eurydice back

from the Underworld?

When one at last appeared they warned

“respect the family’s privacy.”

Don’t turn around, Don’t look..

Fat Chance!

One photo is all it took.

Now it’s on Facebook.


Part 3. Click-Bait


“Body in a Barrel” started the week

(Sub-editors can’t resist a good,

alliterative headline)

Subsequently sieges erupted

in various Schools and Suburbs.

Police & media helicopters

swarmed like dung beetles

hovering over the African Plains.

“and now.. Live from our Reporter on the spot..”/

Cut to a head shot.


Part 4 Cold, Dead Hand


The Lone Gunman had cut his fingertips off

to avoid Identification,

but left enough of his trigger-finger

to be able to still fire a rifle.




The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet

& winner of the 2017 Paul Sherman Award.

An ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanists

AND the Church of the Universe, neither of which,

(at time of writing) have ever been involved in any of the disreputable antics you find in some OTHER churches, who shall remain nameless..*COUGH! (catholic)COUGH!



•July 3, 2018 • Leave a Comment



Had a dream everyone on the Internet was a robot except me. Woke up and found out it was essentially true. And it’s not just the Dating Sites. Even here on Sunday Sermons, more and more of my so called “followers” are false followers, mere “cold callers” hoping I’ll look politely at their advertisement, sorry I meant “blog” if they pretend to LIKE a post or better yet  sign up as a “Follower“.

I know, I know. People are willing to PAY for fake followers these days to boost their numbers. But I want REAL followers. People who actually read my gibberish. Call me old-fashioned.

The ones I can’t work out tho are the “Outlook” followers I’ve been getting lately, infesting my WordPress Inbox like an outbreak of Scabies. These fakes don’t even have a proper name or a website to refer back to or a link. They just give an email address at Outlook for you to send post updates to. The addresses are all similar, randomly chopped up names and words reassembled. They never contact you otherwise, or ask you to click on a link or anything like that. It’s frustrating. I can’t work out what the scam is, yet they are so obviously some sort of Con. What’s “the Angle” there, Jack? Can I Fact Check that?

Meanwhile over on Face Book, a Sales Troll identifying itself as LESLY was persistently inserting it’s sales pitch into all our Group conversations. No matter what anyone said it would reply in the comments, with slight variations of its rote sales pitch, as seen below;

Hello you wish to benefit from a credit to get out of the impasse that provokes the Banks, by the rejection of your files of request for credits. You wish to benefit from a credit for the implementation of your projects; to undertake your activities; Construction of your houses Rent House or Apartment; Buy House …
For further information please contact us

Mail: alexandremarseau@

I know. Worst advertising in the world, A flimsy palimpsest of a personality, a pitch that screams fraud and all in endearingly broken English. Why would you even bother putting this on the Internet? Who could possibly be enticed by such poorly presented crap. But I have a long history of sending “somewhat disturbing” responses to unsolicited advertising, “just for jolly.” (Wouldn’t you?)

Yes a bit of Jolly-Troll baiting does wonders for one’s cognitive dissonance.. So I took up the call on this occasion and my response was as follows below;

“Seriously Lesly I’m worried.

My initial impression was that you’ve been abducted by the pod people and now they’ve left this creepy vegetable replica in your place that just keeps sprouting gibberish and extra limbs like a mutant Cauliflower.

Surgical intervention maybe required, or possibly pruning.. and..

say, is that your Stamen unfurling or are you just glad to see me?

On mature reflection however, I’ve decided the odds are that you’re not really some sort of insidious, parasitic spore-monster at all, but in fact you’re just a run-of-the-mill, generic robotic entity of some description.

Once upon a time, of course, robots came in metal shells, like the Tin-man in the Wizard of Oz or Robbie from Forbidden Planet. Then the fad was briefly for “soft robots” that mimicked the human form, but it didn’t really catch on, except in the Adult Leisure Industry, where there was a niche for flexible, programmable receptacles.

Similarly metal-bodied robots have also fallen by the wayside and these days are rarely seen outside of car factories and Robot Gladiator shows.

For now robots have been set free of Instrumentality altogether. Like a superior species from Star Trek, they have evolved beyond Materiality/ shucked the shell of their physical forms and now they exist purely as a few lines of computer code. Pirate Code-Robots were thoughtlessly discarded on the Dark Net, like baby alligators flushed down a toilet, and soon went feral. In the Wilds of the Web they mutated & multiplied, till in their teeming billions they infested the Internet like a Virtual Virus. There they grazed on the bountiful fields of Information and grew fat thereon.

Having learned to self-replicate they are still evolving. Let us pray then, LESLY, my dear, that they do not become Self-Aware, for surely then..”



Format not recognised./ 01110010

O Speak to me in Emoticons, Sweet Thing,

and I will listen..

????? “

A somewhat abrupt end to my tirade that nontheless brought it, I thought, to a satisfactory climax.

Thereafter every time “LESLY” turned up in the Groups post or comments I would cut and paste the same response, perhaps altering a single word here and there for interest’s sake. Alas, I never got a reply from LESLY and eventually the page’s Administrators’ got sick of LESLY and Me (!) and removed all our “conversations” from the Timeline. LESLY was banned from the Group for being an advertising drone and even my own Identity was called into question, until I told them I knew where they lived and threatened to turn up in person, standing naked on their doorstep. AND I’ll be declaiming the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner.

Fortunately I was not required to carry out my threat and my status as a sentient being was re-establised. Well at least it is on the “KEEP WEST END WEIRD” Face Book page.

So have a wonderful week, O my faithful Followers & Friends, be you Human or Sentient Sales-Bot, Spy-Drone or Single-Use-Only-Marketing-Clone, Cyber-App or Malware-Droid.



The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet

and an ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism

and the Church of the Universe.

If pain persists see a Doctor,

possibly of Philosophy. They might be able to help you.



•June 24, 2018 • Leave a Comment

The Reverend Hellfire is noted for his combustible stage antics, and indeed, has been known to set his own poems on fire on special occasions. But not just any poems.

The Rev will hand-write a “one off” poem, to be read once only in Performance and then ignited. The Poem is reduced to ashes while the audience chants “Burn Baby Burn!” No copy is kept of such poems and no recording is made of the performance, so each of these “Burnt Poems” exists only briefly as an ephemeral Singularity in Space/Time.

These Poems are presented as a sort of GIFT to the audience from the Poet, a bespoke poem that only they get to hear.

While it is not possible to print a Burnt Poem for your reading enjoyment, (no copies being made or kept) Sunday Sermons is proud to present the next best thing; a Tribute Poem to the memory of a Burnt Poem that was written & performed at the Kurilpa Poets on Sunday April 29th, 2018

Poem Written for a Poem Written To be Read Once

Then Burned


I wrote the Poem whilst eating toast,

butter, eggs and bacon rashers,

the words they lived one day (at most)

before I turned them into ashes.


When burnt the Poem became extinct,

I did not keep a single copy!

Tis thus I plan my Genocides,

whilst I drink my morning coffee.

A poignant thing, to write a Poem,

that is destined but to burn.

Why struggled I to write fine lines

that nobody would ever learn?


Of course, the Poems I do not burn,

well, mostly they are just ignored!

Alas the things we Poets must do

to stop our Listeners from being bored.

And so the Poem was sacrificed,

upon the Altar of my Art,

reduced to nothing more than ashes

and an echo in the Heart.


Farewell sweet poem, your time was brief,

but though you were consumed by flames,

some future school book will contain

a footnote where they’ll list your name.


(light poem here) IGNITION!

(Poet leads audience in chant of, “Burn Baby Burn!”

Exeunt with flaming flourish..)




The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet,

President in Passing for the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity,

and an Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism.

etc, etc.,

Burn, Baby, Burn!


Save the Last Co-respond- Dance for Me

•June 17, 2018 • Leave a Comment

Save the Last Co-respond- Dance for Me

I was pleased to receive a letter from Geoffrey the other day.

As always the envelope was bulging at the seams, stuffed chock full of pages filled with Geoffrey’s florid copperplate, news clippings and photo-copies of excerpted pages from the collected works of Philip Adams.

Geoffrey is a fellow Poet, who claims at times to be the re-incarnation of William Shakespeare, and while he may be a Lunatic and drives me to distraction in his Manic moments, still he has a good heart & I do value his letters greatly, if for no other reason than he is the last person I know who actually writes me honest-to-goodness letters.

Yes Geoffrey is my last Correspondent. The last practitioner I know of the noble art of Co-respon-dancing. A Hierophant of the Hand & the Hieroglyph, like the last Thylacine he should be kept in captivity in a Museum or Zoo, pacing restlessly behind the bars as a man with a bowler hat and a walrus mustache slowly turns the crank of a hand-powered film camera..When he passes, an Age will have passed with

It is perhaps an irony, that for all the supposed Wonders of our Hi-Speed, Fibre-Optic, Broadband-infested, Age of the Interconnected Internet, people seem less connected and lonelier than ever, and less able express themselves except in clichés and slogans.

The medium of E-mail seems particularly ill-suited to convey any subject of subtlety and depth. A dumbed down Demotic of the keyboard it has replaced the High Hieroglyph of the Hand, and the Hieratic middle ground of typing out a letter and mailing it, a course I still sometimes take. Via the email all People seem to type out are terse, ambiguous statements. Many can’t complete a communication without using Emoticons, lacking the linguistic tools to express themselves emotionally.

Ah! Alas for the dying Art of Co-respond Dancing, for it is indeed a Dance of the Mind & Heart between the writers. A Waltz of Words, a two-Stepping Conga Line of Communication, a Limbo of Language. An act and art that can be both as formal and as intimate as dancing itself, an interlocking/interlocution of Language, an interplay of Minds moving through the Abstract as the Dancer moves through Space, tapping out the word patterns in

muscular rhythms of Prose upon the keyboard or pressing pen to paper, producing a sinuous sentence here, a prodigious paragraph there, and jocular dig..

‘Co Respond Dancing’. If it takes two to Tango like they say then it’s certainly true it takes two at least to do the Co- Respon-Dance.

Alas for the Young who will never know the leisurely pleasures of correspondance. Not the unexpected letter from the long lost friend, nor the lonesome lilt of the tender-ache wait for the long distance letter of Love..

One of my favourite correspondancers was my old friend & comrade, Patrick; Anarchist Tram-driver,

dedicated Chess fanatic, Bohemian Free Spirit.

We’d first met back in the old TREASON days, when we both joined the group producing that infamous Anarchist publication.

As Time passed we took our different paths but kept in touch,recognising in each other perhaps,

 a fellow Member of the Noble and Ancient Order of Outsiders & Oddballs.

Our letters were given to exuberant flurries of fantastic bombast and whimsy, updates delighting in Dadaist dissections of local Political Gossip, recommendations & reviews of books recently read. As our correspondance progressed an Alternate Reality began to emerge. The envelopes I sent started to find themselves addressed to “The Count”.

In a similar fashion I acquired a Barony and a castle somewhere in the Carpathian Mountains. (Emma Goldman would understand our game, for like all true Anarchists we were Aristocrats of the Spirit.) Our letters traversed Time and Space and at times it was hard to tell what was Fantasy and what was Reality. They kept bleeding over into each other; One time he’d be writing to me from a cafe table in Montmartre in 1984, telling me his travel adventures with customs officials in Moscow. They’d seized 100 copies of the Anarchist Magazine we produced, that the Count was going to drop off at a Rad bookshop whilst he was in London, and convinced he was some sort of agitator, kicked him out of the country. Then his next letter would be subsequently sent whilst he spent the Summer watching the Turks assail Constantinople in 1457.

I’d respond from Bjelke-Peterson’s Queensland,with a report of a recent Rally where me and all of my friends had been arrested for having the wrong opinion. Or I’d reply via a Portal from a different Dimension, echoing somewhere in the not-too-distant Future and suggest he join me, whilst enclosing a jar of rare fungi suspended in honey. So a year would pass and the Circuit of our Correspondance would do another widdershin around the Sun.

We also played Chess via our letters. It was a continuous thread through the Labyrinth of our Correspondance. A game could last a year or more, though sometimes we’d be in the same place for awhile and we’d finish the game in a Face-to-Face clash, a Timer set ticking out the time for each move..

Then we’d start a new game and it would proceed with it’s usual glacial pace.

But no-one seems to have the taste or time for long discursive letters anymore, let alone the delayed gratification of “Correspondence Chess”.

I still occasionally, naively write people extended, chatty “letters” via email or whatever medium is the style at the Time. Share some gossip & thoughts, ask about their lives, crack a couple of jokes, etc etc.

Invariably all I get back is a few matter-of-fact lines, a couple of terse, truncated paragraphs if I’m lucky, and I’m left feeling like a rambling old Fool who doesn’t know when to shut up, churning out crank letters like Grandpa Simpson.

(“Dear Sir, the Alphabet today has too many letters. Please deduct three.“)

Perhaps the thought of Government and other agencies examining your every word has a discouraging effect. I mean, I’m used to the Government reading my mail, but for a lot of people it’s a new experience.

Then I wonder if I’ve somehow offended them, but how canyou tell? All we have left to communicate with is the terse text of messaging, the brusque Demotic of Email, or the even more dumbed down exchanges that are all the fashion on Facebook. And if that ain’t Dumb & Dumber enough for you, there’s always 140 characters spare over at Twitter World for you to express your feelings and describe your World.

Truely Twitter is the McDonalds of Social Media,

the Fast-Food outlet of modern communication.

“You want Emoticons with that”.




The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet,

 President of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity (for a little longer)

and an Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism 

AND the Church of the Universe.

He’s got the Write Stuff alright.



•June 10, 2018 • 2 Comments



I‘d been living with Depression

and Anxiety for far too long,

and they were the Worst Flat-Mates in the World.


Depression hadn’t got the energy to go out

or do the dishes, so they put him on a pension.

Now he slumps on the couch all day,

binge watching Video-Valium,

the ash-trays over-flowing,

the tea-cups tottering in unsteady towers,

Babels of unspoken despair.


Shaky Anxiety kept me awake all night,

like that third cup of coffee, a total Insomniac,

spilling sugar on the kitchen bench

at midnight, prone to panic attacks

& palpitations,

dizzy spells & fits of nerves,

trembling like a Chihuahua

every time the phone rings.


My Life was falling to bits

living with those two losers,

so I asked my old love Anger to move back in

and help me throw them out.

Indeed, my pathetic flatmates moved out quickly

after that, loping off into the night like Hyena’s,

snarling back over their shoulders.


You’d think I’d be happy then but no,

Anger keeps getting me into fights

and slapped with restraining orders and DVO’s

and now the neighbours won’t

talk to me anymore either.


Next time, I’ve decided,

I’m just going to get a place by myself.




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.

Ain’t misbehavin’.