•November 29, 2015 • 4 Comments

Casual Guy



Suddenly Happiness

snatches me like a thief,

puts me in it’s pocket

and walks away whistling..


sunny day wave


Magic jpig


November 2015 handbill final with flsame border


tai chi hand strawberry circle

The Reverend Hellfire..

..what more needs to be said?


MIND CONTROL (in the 21st Century)

•November 22, 2015 • Leave a Comment

MindControl for fun and profuit

Mind Control (in the 21st Century)


Sure. We can get inside their heads.

Program & Prime them all

with Chemicals & Conditioning,

till they’re barking for lamb-cutlets

like Pavlov’s sheep.


But it takes a lot of work.

It’s a labour-intensive process

that’s just not cost-effective

when you scale it up

to the mass-manufacturing level

required to meet the growing demands

of today’s Modern-day World.


Yes, in the end it proved

that Mind Control, sadly,

wasn’t economically sustainable.

Better by far We found

merely to let the ignorant rabble

think what-ever Rubbish they will,

and then just make them

do what We want.


And give them a shiny apple

when they’re good.

A shiny, clockwork apple.


Clockwork- Integrated Apple


Check up


November 2015 handbill final with flsame border


reverend profile red

The Reverend Hellfire is a practising

Performance Poet, 

President of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity Inc.,

and an Ordained Minister

of the Church of Spiritual Humanists

AND the Church of the Universe.

Look on his Works ye Mighty and Despair!



Build a Better Mouse-Trap

•November 15, 2015 • 1 Comment

loony tunes mouse

Build a Better Mouse-Trap


Nightmare Dream-cops

cruel as cats

come swaggering into my room

grinning like they own it.

Go pawing thru my cupboards,

pissing in the corners

to mark their territory.


A game of Cat & Mouse ensues;

They pretend they’re thinking

of letting me go, “We like you.

Make a run for it,” They say,

“We’ll look the other way!”

but I play Dead.

Dead, Dumb & Blind.

Then They try to get me to squeal but

“There’s no rats here!” I tell them,

“No dogs either”.


Thwarted they exeunt with flourish,

scowling like vaudeville villains,

spitting and meowling,

We’ll be Back!

all the way to the gate.


Later, Stimulus & Reward has me

running ratlike thru a maze of streets

chasing Cheese whilst

unblinking predatory cameras

note my Progress.

Somewhere cold clinicians

bearing clipboards

measure my responses,

whilst mild-mannered statatatitions

with speech impediments

shake and bake the Facts

down to a simple Algorithm

of Control.

Then the engineers can come

and build a better mouse-trap.


cat wkaye spider


cat attitude


Fault lines 5


November 2015 handbill final with flsame border


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.

 Money Orders only.



•November 8, 2015 • Leave a Comment

syrian refugee camp



I had a Vision

where every city in the world

looked like Kabul;

Bombed out cities of Dust and Ghosts

where every shrouded shade is a woman.

Local Custom pours petrol

over twelve year old girls

and sets them alight. The

hideous scarring encourages

their acceptance of the Burka.


But here the only howling heard

is that of the wind

for the dogs have all been eaten.

And don’t you find it funny the way

crumbling masonry has its own

peculiar aroma

that cannot ever, it seems, be forgotten.


The Soldiers of all Nations

patrol the alleyways,

Seeking the Invisible Enemy.

They do not see the ghosts.

Or the Opium fields, the only things

still growing in the crater strewn desert.

But almost in the distance they can see

an old man on a white horse

(white robes, white beard of course)

 riding towards the jagged mountains

at the World’s Edge.

Behind him the silent poppies

nod knowingly in the fields.


Poppy fields 200 yards from Britihs Afghani base, Camp Bastion.

Poppy fields 200 yards from British Afghani base, Camp Bastion. Note camp perimeter fence in foreground.


Fault lines 4


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 Humanists

AND the Church of the Universe.

“I agree that by not reading this endnote,

until it was pointed out to me,

I have implied consent to the concept

that I owe the Reverend Hellfire $45 AUS.”



•November 1, 2015 • Leave a Comment

We celebrate Halloween/Samhain with this classic sermon from the vaults..

dead inside

Who Killed the Zombies?


I was both angered and saddened this week to discover that one of my favourite events on the “Forgotten Festivals” calender, the annual Brisbane Zombie Walk has been killed off and is now a thing of the past. Ironically it has been bludgeoned by its own success and strangled with bureaucratic red-tape, and Life will be the duller for it.

Some folks perhaps might disagree with me that the Zombie Walk is dead. It still lives and walks amongst us, they whisper. But they are in denial. The truth is, its not really the same ZW that we knew and loved anymore, its been taken over by malignant entities and coporate sponsors and is now no more than a shambling simulacrum, a ghastly parody of itself, a zombie’s zombie. It has been made safe, dull and tame.

Zombie Reverend Hellfire  amongst his rotting flock

Zombie Reverend Hellfire amongst his rotting flock

Happily some of my younger parishioners had made me aware of the existence of this gloriously shambolic event in its early years when it was still fun. The basic premise was simplicity itself; dress up as zombies and stagger through the streets of the CBD disturbing and freaking out unsuspecting citizens.

At this stage it was still a wonderfully informal and barely organised celebration with a minimum of consultation with the Authorities. I don’t think there was even a formal application for one of QLD’s infamous “march permits”. It all just happened. Word of Facebook and Mouth spread the news and amateur zombies, bespattered with fake gore, crawled like cockroaches out of the suburbs and the sewers.

Ah I remember the excitement of my first Zombie march. In those days we gathered in Albert Park on the ridge above the city. There we milled about checking out people’s make-up and costumes, taking copious photos and video footage, comparing notes on make-up and latex adhesions. You really had to admire the work some people put into their costumes. There were special-effect miracles of carnage there created by dedicated amateurs that a film studio would pay professional make-up artists good money for. Ah, so much unsuspected talent.

Eventually the mob would reach critical mass and with the traditional rallying cry of “BBrainsss!!” we spilled down Albert Street and into the unsuspecting city below.

Once the march itself got under way you could see that people were prepared to put as much effort into their “performance” as they did into their costumes, happily staying “in character” for the rest of the afternoon. Thus they shambled, they limped, they staggered stiff-legged and wry-necked, they gibbered and moaned and howled, they clutched severed heads and limbs and gnawed on raw sheep-hearts. They carried their intestines in their arms or draped them around their shoulders.

zombie sex slaves

It’s a funny thing, but lurching down the street like an animated cadaver, surrounded by your fellow walking corpses really made you feel good to be alive! I couldn’t help comparing this jolly crowd with the usual alienating experience of moving amongst the so called “living”. The blank-eyed, unsmiling city-crowds, rushing, and pushing, grim and tense and harried; the human shoals battering and buffeting their way. There is no point of human contact, no connection, no empathy. We are strangers sharing a planet. Indeed, urban society depends on ignoring others around you and being ignored in turn. Looking at people too closely is bad etiquette. You may as well be invisible. You may as well be dead. Certainly there is no mechanism for expressing your alienation as an anonymous member of the mob.


But not today! Today I moan and howl my Discontent! Today is the Return of the Repressed! We are the Dead and We are back!

We congregate for a while outside City Hall. The City fathers have drawn and locked the concertina like security gates at the doors. Yes there is a Zombie Mob is at the gates of City Hall! We shake and rattle the gates and roar in unison our unconditional political demand:

Brainnss!!” we cry in chorus, “BRAIIINNSS!!!”

It is the funniest sight I have seen for a long, long time.

zombie crowd

But there are no brains in City Hall, and so, disappointed, we drift off like good Australians to spend some time in the mall. On the way I got to thinking about all the political marches I’d been in over the years, that had walked just this route, and how little they’d achieved. I also thought about how joyless they were in

the main and how many old style humourless Leftist hacks wouldn’t for the Life of them be able to see just how revolutionary in essence the Zombie Walk was.

An old Raoul Vaneigem quote kept popping up in my mind…


People who talk about revolution and class struggle without referring explicitly to everyday life, without understanding what is subversive about love and what is positive in the refusal of constraints, such people have a corpse in their mouth”.

Somehow it seemed appropriate.

zombie nurse8

We lurched thru the mall, buying nothing. Zombies have no need of material commodities! Zombies bad for business! Ha! We run thru our routines for the onlookers. I liked to slam up against immaculate shop windows of highclass boutiques, and stare blankly at the staff for a looong silent moment, before lurching on and leaving a trail of bloody-red smears on the glass

as a memento of my call.


I was impressed with the sheer variety of zombie types. It seemed every profession and calling was represented. There were zombie traffic cops and zombie butlers and zombie brides and zombie priests (of course) and zombie dogs and zombie children and even a Zombie Jesus. Not to mention the zombie Easter Bunny. A non-zombie Lara Croft clone, looking suitably athletic and well-armed, stalked the crowd, accompanied by a boy in futuristic full  body-armour with the latest hi-tech zombie-killing weaponry. Oh and of course, there was my favourite category, Zombie nurses.

zombie nurses 2

Now, call me a pervert but there’s something about a cute girl dressed in a zombie nurse outfit that gets me everytime. Particularly if she’s on roller-skates. A quick look at Google assures me that I am not alone here with my interest.

zombie sex

We swarmed towards the Valley, bringing Life and Laughter to Brisbane’s staid streets, ultimately ending up beneath a statue of Robbie Burns in a little park. (Zombie poet?) A bucket was passed around for a brain injury charity and the zombies gave generously. Zombies agree on the importance of braaainnns!!

Sorry.. Forgot myself there for a moment, where was I..oh yes. Afterwards there was a party in a nightclub for those

who wished to see another dawn.

And a good time was had by all.

This year though, the Zombie “March” is a commercial event held in the RNA showgrounds. You have to pay to get in and the “march” is merely a chaperoned stroll around the RNA grounds. It is all safely contained and commercialised.

From a grass-roots, free, underground event, in the space of a few years it has been transformed into just another gig in costume. The same thing happened in Rio to the Mardi Grass. How sad. The Dead walk no more.

'It burns!" a rare shot of the Reverend in the Day

‘It burns!” a rare shot of the Reverend in the Day

But in a final ironic twist, September 2014 saw the streets of Brisbane invaded by a different horde of soul-less Undead creatures, who feasted and waxed fat at the expense of the luckless citizens. These same citizens found themselves herded like cattle thru barricades and checkpoints by an army of visored faceless automatons, menacing minions

that unquestioningly serve their Master’s Will.

Some sort of post-apocalyptic Zombie police state, you ask? Perhaps they’ve dug Johannes Bjelke-Peterson up from the grave? No, it’s merely the G20; that all-expenses paid holiday for upper echelon Bureaucrats and politicians so they can swan about and pretend to be statesmen while we feed them and provide every conceivable luxury. Parasites the lot of them.


Meanwhile the police this week demonstrated their inability to keep abreast of events by announcing they won’t allow the Zombie March to occur during the G-20, a somewhat confusing stance considering that this event no longer even takes to the streets. Our strangely named Mayor Quirk, now that Zombie Day is a recognised commercial event, was eager to leap to it’s defence, but who cares, it was already dead.

zombie burlesque


2016 editors note; rumours that the Dead will walk the streets once more have reached the Vicarage. We eagerly await further developments..


Fault lines 3 jpig


reverend profile red

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 Humanists

AND the Church of the Universe.

Get one free in every pack.



•October 25, 2015 • Leave a Comment

bug in focus2Terror of the Tabletop


The Terror of the Tabletop,

towering over Silverfish and Ants.

Six-legged Lord of the Lesser Insects,

he is caparisoned horse

and knight-rider combined,

an Insect-Centaur clothed

in armour of segmented scales.


Like any battle-scarred Hero

he has fought his share of Monsters;

The famous Battle of the Giant Gecko,

where he lost half an antennae,

and that feat well worthy

of Odysseus and his men;

The heroic escape from the Wolf-Spider’s Den,

from which still spider-silk remains

trap-twisted round one lower limb,

a souvenir of his previous pains.


A Warrior true, he shows no fear

at the Camera’s looming,

but merely backs a little

into a fighting stance;

and stands his ground,

poised as a Samurai Lord

awaiting the enemy’s onslaught.

He waves a warning claw around the air,

and tilts his head at me as if to say,



Now in this unequal combat

it was clear that one must yield.

So feeling dwarfed by his courage,

I bowed and retired from the field.


bug in focus2


Fault Lines2



October2015 handbill JPIGWBorder

Featuring Reverend Hellfire as Master of Ceremonies.


reverend profile red

The Reverend Hellfire is a practising Performance Poet,

President of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity,

and an Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism

AND the Church of the Universe.

The only survivor of the National Peoples Gang.



•October 18, 2015 • Leave a Comment

From the vaults this Director’s Cut of a classic sermon..



I awoke to the smell of a bitter, black smoke

assailing my nostrils and lungs.

Hmm, smells like burning literature”, I thought.

For from experience I have found that a burning book has a fairly unmistakable, pungently chemical odour to it that, once experienced, is subsequently immediately recognisable thereafter. And indeed, as events were to prove, on this occasion my suspicions were not unfounded. With watering eyes I stumbled thru the haze to investigate. Although I didn’t know the What or Why, in my heart I already knew who the Who would be.

“It’s gotta be those damned Christians”, I muttered.

For it was the humour of the Fates to decree that a small fringe group of nutter Christians should move into the house next door and be my neighbours. They were kind of a mini-Children-of-God type outfit, you know, an informal ministry of former alchoholics & acid-casualties who’d seen the Light. Now they ran their own ‘street ministry’ by turning their rented house into an

Open House” for scamming street kids and criminal dregs

on parole with nowhere else to go.

the rev burns

Ironically, I knew their Founder and supposed spiritual leader “John” from his earlier Life, before he apparently  saw the error of his ways, back when he was “Jamie”.

Back then he was an ecstasy dropping, fag-boy guitarist with Alternative pretensions, and played at practising Crowleyan magick..

He was locked in a tight little relationship with another gay-boy musician, and together they played the “Couple Power-Block”

card in every band they joined and inevitably destroyed.

Although a competent guitarist, he had an inability to communicate which he hid behind a mask of hip arrogance.

In retrospect he was clearly one of these wildly unstable characters you come across, who suddenly swing wild 180 degree turns

and thus have extremely varied careers.

One moment they’re ultra-decadent art-psueds or hard core Rastafarian, then one day they suffer a personality collapse, repudiate everything they said they ever believed in, flip over and run away to join the Hare Krishna’s or the Police. Finding God is a popular option for such desperately-seeking-Personalities.

Sometimes you can see them coming, like say when you get some new, wildly enthusiastic recruit to the Anarchist or the Socialist or whatever cause. Their enthusiasm has something false about it that you pick up instinctively. “They’re just passing through”, you think to yourself, “just a Tourist”.

And so it apparently was with Jamie/John. Clearly he had a deep well of hidden guilt inside him there. All that magick & gay sex and drugs and rock n roll the devil’s music etc. eating away at him. Possibly he had a Catholic upbringing. That’ll often do it, create these conflicted personalities. Perhaps he had a bad trip that brought it all to a head.

At any rate he did the Big Flip. Left his long time Lover, stopped using drugs, gave up music except for strumming the occasional Christian ballad on an acoustic guitar and changed his name to John. Of course it’s not enough for these extreme types just to join a religion. No, they have to establish their own.

And so it was with John.

the rev burns

He hung around the streets talking to the street kids and homeless dregs, and they used his house to hang around. They regarded his attempts at ministering as a joke but tolerated it as he clearly had no control over anything. So they used the place as a squat and ran amok at all hours, gradually trashing the house and alienating the neighbours in the process.

I’d already had a showdown with “John” over some of the street dregs calling harassing comments over the fence at my then Personal Assistant, forcing me to establish my status as Alpha Male of the neighbourhood. Fortunately, aside from the psychological advantage I possessed by knowing John’s shameful past, the more superstitious members of his household already regarded me

as a “black magician”, a reputation I did nothing

to diminish or dispell.

This reputation came in handy as I ranted and threatened dire but unspecified consequences, for as it happened, a couple of hours later a big thunderstorm blew up and knocked over a huge, dead old tree in my yard, which crashed over the fence and landed on their back verandah, a single gaunt branch extended like a skeletal finger towards their back door, like it was rapping on the glass.

They hadn’t bothered me after that.

“So what the Hell was going on now“, I muttered irritably.

I peered over the fence.

Sure enough, “John” and a couple of slack-jawed gawkers were burning a pile of books, adding just enough kerosene to keep the flames crackling merrily and give the scene a suitably sombre air.

I suspected most of the books were from “John’s” old collection. When I suggested he sell them if he didn’t want them,

he explained they were “satanic” books on magic,

and not safe to allow others to be influenced by.

I glanced at the titles on top of the pile. I spotted a couple of books on Buddhism and a yoga guide. Satanic, huh! As some were

still only slightly singed I rescued them from the flames for my Library. “I’ll have these”, I said vaguely, “Don’t worry about me” and wandered off.

the rev burns

Later though, I thought about it, and what I thought was this:

Why should nut-case Christians and right wing ideologues have all the Fun? What’s so wrong with burning books? After all, in this Age of the Printed Word, this Age of the Internet, there is not much chance of any precious knowledge getting lost in the process. Hell, the surest way to have a best seller is to get banned and hope some lunatic burns copies somewhere.

Certainly didn’t do the Beatles any harm when American Zealots burnt copies of their records. “Copies” here is the operative word. We’re not talking about burning down the Library of Alexandria after all. Really all a book burning is these days is literary criticism in the form of Performance Art. A Critical Installation. Like that Burning Man festival they hold in the desert.

Rev Right Hand cropflame frame

So I got together with David Much Free of the Anarcho-Insurrectionist sporadical THE FUTURE NOW, and we decided to have our own Book-Burning Party and publicised the forthcoming event in our mutual publications, I in my cultural review; PRAGUE SPRING and he with The Future Now.

The chance to annoy humourless lefties and knee jerk civil libertarians was irresistible. In preparation I scoured the second hand bookshops and my shelves for suitable material

to be sacrificed on our very own Bonfire of the Vanities.

On the day of the Burning, I passed by “John” as I carried

a big sack of books down the driveway.

I’ve decided to burn over a new leaf”, I told him cryptically,

as I handed him an invitation. Sadly though, he did not attend.

The venue for this august event was a rubble strewn vacant lot

in a seedy part of Woolloongabba, which had the virtue of providing much urban kindling ready to hand.

(Broken furniture, discarded pallets, tyres, bits of the fence)

David lived in one of the surrounding low rent flats, boarding houses and general dives that formed a natural amphitheater,

and many of his neighbours, artists, druggies

and the unemployed mainly, were observing

the activities from the windows with keen interest.

Conveniently there was a large trench dug by a back-hoe

in the clay which provided an appropriate fire pit.

As the sun set over the buildings about thirty-five to fifty lunatics had gathered for their own reasons to burn some books.

First we tossed a great stack of lumber into the hole, and with a healthy dose of petrol poured in we were ready to start. As self-appointed Minister for the Elimination of Decadent Culture I cautiously applied a match to the improvised wick.

Seconds later, and now lacking entirely in eyebrows, I added the first books to the flames that were licking the sky hungrily.

Jackie Collins was the first to go, as I recall, followed shortly thereafter by the Book of Mormon. In fact we burnt many Books of Mormon that day. Everyone seemed to have brought one.

the rev burns

I have to admit we cheated a little and burnt magazines and Newspapers as well. The Courier Mail and the Australian were represented of course but the Green Left Weekly was not ignored. Australian works were not neglected either; My Brother Jack joined the flames and burning Patrick White somehow felt good too. To show our even-handedness and complete lack of bias, David and I also burnt copies of our own publications, to the heartfelt cheers and jeers of our friends.

Later, to give the event a little class,

I tossed in a copy of the Works of Cicero.

My Personal Assistant asked what Cicero had ever done to me.

I never could stand the pompous, self-promoting bastard” I drunkenly slurred. But again I cheated readers, for I had another copy in better condition back at home.

My Assistant meanwhile was paying Shakespeare back for when she was made to appear in that embarrassing High School version of the Merchant of Venice.

It was getting dark. “The Secret of Dianetics” was burning with a lurid greenish flame that gave off clouds of oily vapour. Someone lost a block of hash and we subsequently spent a ridiculous amount of time crawling on our hands and knees in the rubbish infested vacant lot looking for it in the dim light.

After finding and consuming the errant hash we then ran a narrow plank across the fire-pit and took turns walking over the narrow path above the scorching flames. It was a funny feeling to be balancing there above the burning books, watching them curl and turn brown, then black. Every now and then one would explode softly, sending out  small clouds of sparks and ashes. The cheese yellow Moon peeked slyly over the city skyline.

the rev burns

At this stage the cops turned up, clearly confused and agitated. We all play the “Anarchist Stratagem” ie., Nobody‘s in charge. No-one knows who lit the fire. No-one knows anyone else. I was just walking past. No-one knows why books are burning in a pit in the twilight while outrageously drunk and stoned crazies with no eyebrows babble gibberish while others scuttle off into the shadows. In the end they gave it up as too hard and went away.

It was time to go anyway. We had run out of books and besides everyone was getting a headache from all that burning literature. Twenty centuries of culture going up in flames produces a hell of a lot of toxins let me tell you. So we all went home to lie down and left the flames to mutter and hiss and eventually die out by themselves.

the rev burns

Well all this happened way back in the Nineties, but I was put in mind of it recently by all the various hoo-haa and controversy going on about those Cartoons supposedly offensive to Mohamed and the case of that American Pastor (not my denomination) who burnt a copy of the Koran. But as I reminisced to my current Personal Assistant about my own long ago book-burning hi-jinks, she put it to me that the times were more serious now. In this age of Fatwa’s and Jihads, she suggested, perhaps it’s not a good idea to burn books, people are so sensitive now. No-one appreciates a Da-daist joker playing with fire. Did I not think, after all, that that American Pastor should be prevented from burning books?

Nonsense, I said, people should be free to burn books all day if they want. Thousands of books get thrown into the garbage or pulped everyday and no one gives a damn. But set fire to one of the bastards and people start acting like your forcing Galileo to recant.

No, I said, I don’t care if people burn books.

It’s when they burn the authors that you’ve got to worry.

Greetings from the Reverend Hellfire


Fault lines1 JPIG


October2015 handbill JPIGWLighhtBorder


reverend profile red

The Reverend Hellfire is a practising Performance Poet,

blue collar worker,

President of the Kurilpa Instituite of Creativity

And an Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism

AND the Church of the Universe.

He needs no introduction.

That’s why I put this bit at the end.



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