Reflections by the Tortoise Pond Pt.2

•May 24, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Reflections by the Tortoise Pond

tortoise ponf reflections green border

Pt 2. Oasis

I was feeding strips of red, raw flesh

to the Tortoise Pond’s ancient inhabitant

the other morning, and reflecting,

as I like to do for a minute or three,

on the peace and tranquillity

of my humble back yard garden,

an untidy Oasis in the suburban Landscaping,

a Feral Eden in the Cultural Desert.


Above, the Sky wore her winter-robe

of deep azure blue

The Trees in keeping with Tradition,

were garbed in the green and gold livery of their Tribe.

Below, the sun-dappled ground was a shifting mosaic

of jet and gold, through which there stalked

a scattering of bush-turkeys,

solemnly engaged in their ancestral pursuits.

A bright-eyed Butcher bird, a quick female plumed

in grey and brown,

perched on a wooden stake nearby,

eagerly awaiting the occasional bloody gobbets

I tossed her way.

Above me a raucous murder of Crows

voiced their disapproval

of the whole tortoise-feeding process

and what was clearly a wanton waste

of the Food of Crows, owed them

by Ancestral Privilege due to the Nobility of their Line.

Unlike the opportunistic Butcher-birds though,

they are far too cautious to ever approach

any human, even me,

and thus they must wait until I leave

before they can flap down and retrieve

the Offerings I carefully place

on branches and in the sacred forks of trees.


Meantime the Crows register their disapprobation

of the delay by dropping sticks and twigs upon me.

In the pond’s mirror surface

I can see these glossy cynics hop and dance

far above me, silhouetted high against the sky,

each crow a villain straight from Shakespeare

in their black stockinged leg,

like a Richard or Macbeth

for Life too proud to beg.

tortoise in shade sharpened

Lounging nearby the pond,

lying indolently in the sun,

a scarred, orange Tomcat ignores the activity.

A former stray and savage hunter of birds,

he has been taken in, fed and “civilized”

for the sake of the local wild-life.

Now no longer a mere “feral” cat,

hissing and skulking at human approach,

but now aware of his status of Companion,

and assured of his food

he forbears to hunt anything,

other than the occasional rat, for sport.


Still, it is early days in his rehabilitation,

I wouldn’t trust him too much out of my sight,

So I take care he is fed regularly and well,

so that most of the time

he’s busy sleeping off his last meal.

Yes, the Peace of my little Eden is bought,

subsidised you might say,

much as the PAX ROMANA of the mighty Roman Empire

was bought, that is; not so much by force of arms,

but by the regular feeding of the Hungry “Barbarian” tribes,

perched on their borders, with donatives and pay-outs

bribes and incentives.

tortoise foot and mealy worm

Indeed, most of the “Barbarian Invaders” of those Centuries,

ie., Those who are held to hold much of the responsibility for

the “Downfall of the Roman Empire“, were not so much

“Invaders” intent on looting and burning, but more like what some Politicians would today call,

“Economic Refugees”

who were merely looking for somewhere to live.

No, these Invaders didn’t want to overthrow

the Roman system. They just wanted to be a part

of it’s Prosperity and shelter within in it’s relative Security.

Much like, for example, the many Mexicans and South Americans

today tunneling under the USA borders, or the multitude of Africans/Afghanis/Indians/ etc., desperately crowding onto rusty hulks/junks/dinghies to take a gamble at crossing the Mediterranean/Indian/Pacific/etc Sea/Ocean/River, or where ever the arbitrary Line in the sand is drawn, the Line that defines

 the Invisible Economic Boundary between what is known as the First World nations and the Third World nations, or if you prefer, the Rich countries and the Poor Countries.

Roman Hi-definition Entertainment was second to none in the ancient world

Roman Hi-definition Entertainment was second to none in the ancient world

Things were muchly the same in Roman times. Constructions like Hadrian’s Wall were built as much to regulate Trade, Tax and Migration as they were to “stop the rampaging Barbarian Armies”.

The Roman immigration policies were so sophisticated they could even handle “mass migrations” of whole tribal groups at once,

moving them en masse to areas depopulated by plague or war

or to open up new land for development.


The system started to break down when King Theodoric wanted to move something like two hundred thousand or so fellow Goths, (basically his whole kingdom), across the Danube and into the safe, prosperous Roman Empire and as far away as possible from the ever growing menace of the Huns.

The Huns it should be noted, were real raping/burning/pillaging/eating raw meat style Barbarians, with a fondness for scarification and skull deformation, unlike the Goths who had been living next door to the Romans for a couple of hundred years by now and had picked up some table manners in the meantime. They were also by this stage some denomination or other of Christian, apparently not the right sort, according to Orthodox types, but still..

The Roman Emperor of the time, a non-entity whose name escapes me,

was not at first against this mass migration plan of Theodoric. Plague had ravaged the Balkans so the Goths could be used to quickly repopulate the ravaged provinces, and it was agreed the young men would be drafted into the Roman Army, (split up and spread out amongst the Legions so they don’t become a problem), and be granted citizenship upon discharge. It was a win/win situation.

Science Magazine

Alas, the deal broke down. The Roman Governor in charge of supplying the migrating Goths was corrupt and in debt, embezzling much of the denarii supplied for feeding the Hungry Horde,

and charging extortionate sums for the little grain he did provide,

seizing property, selling Gothic children into slavery,

and in general, robbing the lowly, contemptible barbarians blind,

whilst writing letters to the Emperor complaining how ungrateful and troublesome these Goths were.

There was much grumbling and it was only with difficulty that Theodoric maintained control over his people.

But matters deteriorated further when it became apparent that many of the young Gothic men had not turned in all their weapons at the border as agreed, and retaliated by killing an obnoxious Roman functionary or two and looting a grain Warehouse while they were at it.

Next thing you know there’s a rampaging Gothic Horde on the loose

within the Empires borders, leading to a series of pitched bloody battles and Unfortunate Events that changed the course of European History forever.

Soon the Western half of the Roman Empire was the Gothic Empire,and several other promising, emerging Tribal Confederations

are thinking of pursuing a similarly aggressive business plan. The Vandals will begin their long trek to find somewhere warm under an African sun, the Franks are already starting to act snooty and french and about the only thing everyone in Europe agrees on is how barbaric the Huns are.

tortoise ponf reflections green border

But these turbulent reflections are a world away

from the placid waters of my pond,

on whose mirror surface I can see myself reflected,

and through which now pokes the pig-like snout

and the curious, calm, yet somehow smiling,

jet & golden eyes of my gentle, reptile companion.

tortoise waiting below surface


a square peg Jpig


May KP Handbill w Mad MaidsJPIG


rev one eye

The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet,

strangely President of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity Inc.,

and an ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism

AND the Church of the Universe.

He is but a  Jellyfish upon the Tides of Life.



•May 17, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Yes kids, it’s Karaoke-Poetry Time! Todays’ poem can be sung to the tune of Jefferson Airplanes “White Rabbit“.

Here’s the backing track

monkey and i pad in bath



One pill makes you larger,

and one pill makes you small,

and the ones I got on E-Bay,

don’t do anything at all!


Go ask Google,

or that Doctor at the mall.


And if you go, chasing child porn,

and you know you’re going to fall,

When they get hold of your meta-data,

then the police-man is going to call


They’ll ask Google,

if the girls were too small.


When the Trolls on Facebook and forums


and there’s Conspiracies on You-Tube

and clips of Adolf Hitler in your bed


Go ask Google.. or Wikpedia instead..


When Logic and Proportion

are replaced by Marketing Schemes,

and every link you’re sent is a phishing hook,

yet you still feel compelled to look,


what the Rev-er-end said,

“Read a book!”

“Read a book!”

Cheaper by the LB! The Revs PA has some heavy reading ahead


news cycle Jpig


reverend profile red

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.

Yeah. That’s him. The crazy guy with the hat.


Reflections by the Tortoise Pond

•May 10, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Reflections by the Tortoise Pond

Garden view from the Reverend's back door

“Lovely weather we’ve been having Reverend..”

Pt 1. Sitting in the Rain.


I was sitting in the rain feeding my tortoise.

He was being fussy.

“Hurry up you retard”, I cursed, “I’m getting drenched here.”

For tho I was dressed in a full length, Ned Kelly style, oilskin coat and a wide brimmed hat, I was still,

 nonetheless , soaked to the sodden, super-saturated skin. Brisbane had conjured up one of it’s classic, late-summer storms, and above me the tree branches were being tossed about by bursts of near cyclonic-strength winds, in between torrential downpours. The frequent lightning strikes weren’t conducive to my mental state either, leaning as I was against a metal fence post.

Mr Sulky

Mr Sulky

Strangely tho, I found I was happy sitting there in the rain

by the tortoise pond, and hummed a little tune* as I fed

my recalcitrant reptile bits of bloody meat on the end of a stick,

and, for variety, tossing in the occasional wriggling mealworm.


It had been a hard day. A day of dealing with sullen underlings and blank-hearted bureaucrats, and a cold, uncaring world had not been kind to me, whilst my loved ones and allies seemed all to be absent or preoccupied with their own woes.

 I felt like a Failure and a Fool by the time I finally put down the phone. Frankly, I was glad to take time out from it all, the banal miasma of my Troubles to attend to the simple earthly needs of a harmless, wee, timorous beastie, even if it did mean sitting in a sub-tropical downpour to do so.

tortoise in rain

But as I looked about the sodden garden, waiting for the tortoise to size up and seize his latest gobbet of flesh, I suddenly realised I was perfectly “in Synch” with my environment! Yes, my Mood, my Life, my Career, my Luck, had all collided that day and brought me squelching to this low, sodden moment in the Tide-lands of Life, and, rather than being depressed about it, I found my mood matched the weather exactly, and I was happy, for I knew then in my Heart that I had always been a Child of the Storm, one on whom it would always be raining.

Now I was merely in my Element, you might say, and filled with a sudden, soaring, Promethean pride,

I wouldn’t have it any other way.


Surely at this moment also, I recognised a kindred spirit in the ageless creature before me. Just how Old was it anyway, when it came wandering clumsily into my life? There was no way of knowing. Like great Actresses, their Age is a Mystery that Tortoises keep to themselves.

So, just like “Mr Sulky” himself, I vowed to happily hunker down to endure whatever the Weather or the Fates threw at me, even ready if need be to hibernate till warmer, happier days come. Settle down in bed till then, with a tottering tower of books and an ornate, antique opium-pipe, like some valetudinarian Victorian gentleman, and endure the Winter months, well tucked up under my metaphorical shell.


“We shall Endure, Brother Tortoise”, I said encouragingly, as he obediently snapped a mealworm in half, “we shall Endure!”

As if on cue Lightning struck a near-by power pole

with a tremendous & theatrical CRASH!

Laughing I took a deep lungful of air into my lungs

and my Spirits soared with Exultation.

tortoise looking away in rain crop

* “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” actually.


Grey matter


reverend profile red

The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet,

still President of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity Inc.,

and an ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism

AND the Church of the Universe.

Special rates for cash-in-hand jobs.



•May 3, 2015 • Leave a Comment

rev one eye



I bought a box of Poets the other day for five dollars.


Most of them were long dead of course,

but I thought I saw a couple that might still be breathing,

and over-all I was pleased with my purchase.


Still, it was a heavy load to lug home, all the way

over the bridge across the river and up Highgate Hill,

and I sweated heavily in the process. At one point I even considered off-loading a couple of the lesser poets

on a park bench half way up the hill.

Abandon them like stray kittens

to take their chances with the kindness of strangers.

But the timely appearance of my Personal Assistant

in the Parish station-wagon saved the day,

and soon I was ensconced once more in my beloved study,

happily humming to myself as I rearranged the shelves

and plugged some gaps in the ranks.

Cheaper by the LB! The Revs PA has some heavy reading ahead

Cheaper by the LB! The Revs PA has some heavy reading ahead

The occasion had been the last day of Brisbane’s biennial

“Alumni Autumn Book Fair”,

a date fixed far ahead in the diary

of every Brisbane Bibliophile and bookseller.

For this is a far higher quality gig than say,

the mere Annual Lifeline Book Fair,

traditionally held at the South Bank Convention Centre,

where, despite the odd, overpriced “acquisition” to be found,

the general tone is set by multiple copies of

high-school editions of Shakespeare

and trashy Airport Novels.


The Alumni Book Fair’s stock however is on a different level.

Not only do you have first bite of whatever titles the QLD University Library is purging from its shelves,

but you also get the cast-offs and donations from generations of University Alumni filling out the stock. Basically you’re getting a selection of the reading material of the local Intelligentsia for the last hundred years. Indeed, one volume of Tennyson I bought was published in 1898.

The prices were excellent also, ranging from fifty cents a paperback to three or four dollars for a decent, hardcover classic, and I had already visited previously

 over the four day event  to pick some bargains

 out of the Ancient History and Classics sections,

and other areas of interest.

Amongst other treasures, a hardcover “Persian Expedition” by Xenophon (a classic “ripping yarn”)

and a beautifully leather-bound 1939 edition of Ovid

in mint condition had both been acquired

for a couple of dollars.

But now it was the last day, the last hour in fact, and

in an effort to clear the tables, prices were dropped to $5 a box.

A Fire Sale involving books is not always wise

A Fire Sale involving books is not always wise

The announcement sent the crowd into a final feeding frenzy,

and I dived in hungrily to join them.

Not that there was much meat left on those bones!

Despite being replenished many times over

the last few days, the book-tables were now largely depleted. Only three pamphlets (which I snapped up for my Personal Assistant ) orbited in the Astronomy section. Mere dust and bones remained in the Archeology section and the Erotica area itself was bare. Even the 43 copies of Fifty Shades of Grey, which I’d counted on the Saturday, had been sold off.

Still, I picked up a two volume edition of Johnson‘s

Lives of the Poets” and was heading towards the Fiction

section to see what might be there, when I noticed the Poetry section and it’s forlorn little mound of leftovers.

Books recent 1

As mentioned, I’d picked over the Poetry pile days earlier when it was in a far healthier condition, and now, as I cast a casual eye over the remaining crew, I couldn’t see anything I didn’t already have, or wanted or needed. (I try and keep my perverse Bibliophiliac tendencies under some sort of control. Unlike at least one friend of mind who went completely mad with book lust over the four days of the Fair, until finally he lay sated, drooling & unconscious on the floor of his living room, surrounded by tottering columns of books. Actually, now I come to think of it, I have friends who behave like that at the annual Nimbin Mardi Grass Festival, for a completely different, yet strangely similar, set of reasons.)

Be that as it may, as I cast my eye over the familiar names, a strange wistfulness whispered across my soul, (“that could be YOUR slim volume of discarded verse on the table one day!”) and on a sudden whim I decided to buy myself a box of poets for five dollars. I wasn’t sure why exactly.

Perhaps it came from the same impulse that leads people to buy the last puppy in the box at the pet-shop. Nor was I sure what I would do with them. Give them away as “prizes” perhaps. No matter. I stylishly swept an armload into the box without looking and walked briskly to the exit.

On inspection, all the “usual suspects” were there in my box, Brennan, Dobson, AD Hope, Tom Shapcott, old Red Dame Mary GilmoreKeats, Coleridge, a Judith Wright anthology, a Life of Swinburne written back when you didn’t talk about “those things” openly, etc etc. There was a hefty proportion of Australian content with a fair sprinkling of the Greats to spice the mix. If my purchase had been acquired at a Delicatessen, undoubtedly it would have borne a sign

saying something like


$5 a box.

Made from finest local and imported products.

May contain nuts”

But Truth-in-labeling has yet to reach Literature and the only label I saw that day said “Caveat Emptor“.


It seemed a sad fate for Poetry, to be sold by the box, I mused, but still it could have been worse. They could have been sold by weight, after all, like dog meat. Now that would have been degrading. “Get yer Poetry here! Five Dollars a Pound!” Of course you could still

get good quality, I reminded myself, something to sink your teeth into and Kurilpa Cup winner, Cam Logan‘s

 recent publication sprung immediately to mind!

Cams book cover

But should Poets be sold by the Imperial Pound, like Illegal Drugs, do you think, or should the book trade be all

modernised and metricised,

and deal out Literature by the Kilo?

Oh surely it’s a Brave New World we live in,

and I acquired a copy of that also, which had somehow

got mixed up with the poets and was  now

lurking sheepishly down the bottom of the box.


Well, unlike some Bibliophiles, crooning and drooling like secret perverts over the vast contents of their hidden Pornography Vaults in underground cellars, furtively fumbling and pawing their possions but never actually having the time to read the “Precious”, I myself  read everything that sits

upon my shelves.

I make a point of it, in fact.

“Otherwise”, I pompously tell my rivals, as I suppress my seething jealousy and book-envy, “it’s mere ornament doncha affectation. Like Gatsby’s Library,..old chap”.

They pretend to miss my literary referance, but I don’t care. It’s the beginning of Winter and I have a heap of newly acquired tomes stacked next to my bed waiting to be read, so I am “booked out”,

you might say, till the Spring.


Of course, I also have that box of mostly dead poets in the corner.

I’ll have to find homes for them eventually, but I’ll deal with that problem when the weather’s warmer. For the moment at least they have a nice, dry room in which to hibernate, and someone to dust them now and then and keep away the silverfish while they’re dreaming.


“Such is the fate of Poets

and their Reward,

to be remembered briefly,

and then ignored”.


PS; A mathematically inclined friend assures me, that at their current expotential growth rate, the number of discarded books of Australian Poetry currently accumulating is such that, soon, like Wittenoom buried beneath it’s sea of shifting asbestos “sand-dunes”, we will be literally (and literarily) engulfed by Poetry.

Perhaps, therefore, we should consider the policies taken by the cash-strapped Egyptian Treasury in the ninteeth century, when they started exporting their vast supply of “Mummies” by the ton to America, there to be burnt as train fuel. Mark Twain reputedly once heard a train driver call to his engineer,“Toss me another King! Those commoners burn too slow!”

So let’s sell Poetry to China today to feed their roaring furnaces and vast steelworks. Hell, it’s probably better than selling them coal.

Or if you’re looking for a more PC, ecologically-sound strategy, we could follow the Egyptians other big 19th Century export industry; the shipping of tens of tons of Cat Mummies. Yes whole acres of cat mummies in fact, were compressed, ground up,

 and sold as an organic fertilizer for the fields of Europe.

 Ah! How fruitful then would those fields be,

If fertilized with Poetry!

abandoned library


flatland pt 7 jpig


The Reverend Hellfire is a practising Performance Poet,

President of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity

and an ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanists

AND the Church of the Universe.

“All houses are built on shifting sands.”- the Rev



•April 26, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Finally the awful heat and humidity that is Summer in Brisburgh has departed, and a bracing breeze from the South-West puts the Reverend in a Nostalgic Mood. To celebrate the seasons passings we reprint this updated version of an old classic..

bush sunset

Winter’s Grace

The evening sidles in a little earlier

these days,

the darkness cuddling closer

like a cat.

The doors and windows beckon burning

bright as butter flames.

The radiator hums me gently

a lullaby to sleep,

its orange glow as comforting

as snapshots of a happy childhood

moment long ago.


This is Winter’s Grace,

that it brings loved ones closer,

an animal huddling together

for human warmth.

This is Winter’s Duty,

to remind us that it is good

to have a roof above one’s head,

food upon the table

the company of a loving friends.


It is not Winter’s fault

that the Destitute wander

homeless beneath the skies.

Surely the blame is only Ours.

But it is cruel Winter’s Kindness

like a grim but benevolent Vet,

to end the sufferings of the weakest

with the soothing syrup of Sleep.

train to Hell four


flatland pt6.JPIGjpg



David Hallett handbill 2015 JPGAddress


rev going out the door

The Reverend Hellfire says;




•April 19, 2015 • Leave a Comment

abandoned library


I wish I were making this up but its true.

I saw a high-ranking education bureaucrat

deliver this speech on TV.

I took notes till the jargon jumbled my wits

so possibly there’s bits I missed,

but I got enough to get the Gist

it went;

“The new Educational paradigm

delivered by our policy formulations

will be underpinned by short-term budget imperatives

and research excellence based

on International Best Practise and efficient systems which

whilst seeking to deliver a Policy of Excellence in a volatile

and competitive International Education Industry

will produce a sustainable University system delivering results commensurate with

National political expectations.”

“Good Gods!”, I thought in shock and awe,

“These are the people

responsible for teaching our children

the English language.

No wonder Autism rates

are through the roof”.

(This is not much of a poem, but it’s the truth)


flatland 5 big JPIGtitle


David Hallett handbill 2015 JPGAddress


Answers to last weeks competition;

George Bush Jnr didn’t

park explosives in the Twin Towers basement, but the CIA did smuggle heroin

in South East Asia when George Snr was running things. Apparently the Islamic Hordes can 

claim for three wives at Centrelink but that Face on Mars is just a rock. Jackie Gleason didn’t shoot Kennedy, but he DID play golf with Richard Nixon and according to Jackie on his deathbed, the Tricky One took him late one night to a secret military facility where he was shown alien bodies floating in jars of green goo. Telephone companies and the Internet ARE, however, tracking your every move, and, according to witness testimony at the seemingly never-ending Investigation into child abuse in our schools, orphanages, churches, scout dens and ooh anywhere else you care to name really, has shown that our schools and churches are certainly over-run with people who, even if they’re not Satanists, certainly should be awarded honourary lifetime Satanic membership for their achievements. Socialists aren’t really injecting your children with Autism and the Aliens on the Moon are us. Everything else in the poem  is true. Go ask Google.



The Reverend Hellfire is..

..talking to himself again.



•April 12, 2015 • 1 Comment

moon shot


You talk about Aliens on the Moon, and immediately people look at you like you’re crazy” -Anonymous


Aliens on the Moon,

Faces on Mars,

Satanists and the Illuminati

in the Churches and Schools,

molesting our Children,

putting Fluoride in the Water.

Electro-Magnetism everywhere,

triggering a vague range of alarming

and shifting symptoms.

Vaccinationists injecting our children

with Autism & AIDS

as part of their diabolical Eugenicist plans

to eliminate the “Inferior Races”

and fulfill their Socialist-Green Agenda.

Meanwhile, the Islamic Hordes are busy too,

seeking to erode our way of Life

by rapidly breeding

and claiming for all three wives at Centrelink.#

UFO‘s and the Green Berets

are fighting it out underground at Area 51

while Richard Nixon and Jackie Gleason play golf above.

George Bush Junior parked a van

packed full of fertiliser sacks

in the car-park beneath the Twin Towers

shortly before 9/11,

while his Dad sold Heroin for the CIA.

Meanwhile, a giant Multi-National Company

has placed a GPS tracking device

in my phone without my permission,

as the Internet monitors my every move

and sells details of my personal life

to Telemarketers, Nigerian scammers

and mysterious Government Departments,

who have no name,

only letters and a number.

stonehenge on moon

And trust me, you don’t even want to know

about the Kennedy Assassinations!

george bush cropped ellipse

Oh, all right, I’ll tell you.

It was Jackie Gleason again.

Acting on orders from Richard Nixon.

“Send them ‘Straight to the Moon!’ for me, Jackie boy”

Yes, that’s just what Nixon told him,

right there on the golfing green

of the thirteenth hole at Area 51.

It’s True. I’ve seen a photocopy on You Tube

that proves it.


I suppose we’re just lucky that

that Mystery Planet didn’t appear

and wipe us out last year

like they said it would,

but I’m not sure I can continue

to live with all this stress.

Frankly, you’ve got to ask yourself;

why is there so much

suspicion and distrust

of “Authority” these days

and I guess the answer is,

when you look at Everything

thats actually happened

the Plots, the Conspiracies, the Assassinations,

the Murders and the Massacres

that have actually been known

and proved to have been done,

by our dear, beloved Leaders

over the last 100 years or so,

then, really,

you just can’t help thinking,

Those Bastards are capable of Anything!

Yes, Elizabeth of Bathory and Gilles de Rei

would fit in fine with today’s Celebrity Party Set.


Yes, They lie to us constantly, that much is True.

So much so, in fact, that not only

can you not believe anything They say,

but They’ve been doing it so loudly so long

that you don’t even know whats Real anymore.

Cognitive Dissonance sets in,

(Anything is possible when Nothing is Real)

and Complete Societal Collapse looms.

Mass Medicating the water supplies

may prove to be a blessing in the End,

for those who cannot cope with the Times.

surrealist dali

Conspiracy coils upon Conspiracy,

in an ever tightening gyre,

as the whole World goes mad

with Suspicion and Fear,

storing weapons and cans

of baked beans in bunkers,

with Crack-pipes’ glued to their trembling lips

they await the Zombie Apocalypse.

zombie nurse patrol

-written this  April, 2015 C.E., South Hemisphere, Third Rock from the Sun


# “CentreLink”-current name for the Australian Welfare Department


monkey and i pad in bath


Hey Kids! Guess how many of the Conspiracy rumours

in today’s Poem are Real*

and you could win a Fabulous Prize!


Just send your entries to;

before 9/11/2015 and you too could end up on Special Branch files!


*The term “Real” for the purposes of this Competition, applies to those acts, objects,

conversations and events that are held to be Fact by Wikpedia

or (similar reputable website)

and are accepted as such by the Reverend Hellfire.

No correspondence on the subject of Definitions will be entered into,

but if you want to go to the time and bother of making your own

Wiki entries, please feel free to do so. However, be aware that your work

will be peer reviewed.

By Me.


3. Please note, this is a “real” competition.


flatland pt4 JPIGFNL


rev one eye

The Reverend Hellfire is still 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 wonders if anyone reads this bit each week.



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