•December 4, 2016 • Leave a Comment


The Pimps of Progress


The Pimps of Progress

met in conclave aboard the SS Australianus,

a hub-bub-bubbling, troubling

brew of bad haircuts and expensive suits.

Land speculators, Politicians, Off-shore Bankers

and Think Tank Economists, Hedge Fund Brokers,

Mining Magnates and malleable Media Mouthpieces*..

Yes, all the Crooked Crew were there,

and if nothing else,

it had to be conceded that,

considered as “career criminals”,

they were, one and all,

Paragons of Professionalism.


The Prince of Pimps Himselves

ascended to the podium

and addressed the crowd

with a stirring oration;


Our Pathway to PROSPERITY!”

he declared.

“You can’t stop PROGRESS and if you try

we’ll squash you like a bug..

That’s why it’s so imperative

in today’s changing, sorry, I meant,

challenging economic climate

that we have NIMBLENESS & AGILITY..

for example..which thimble

is the pea under now?”

he taunted the crowd whilst

rapidly moving the three thimbles

on the table before him.


One delegate demanded,

the prince stop

hiding the thimbles behind his hands,

but the Prince explained that, as he never allowed

his left hand to know

what his right hand was doing

it was a matter of Trust and thus

the whole process was completely

Transparent and above board.

“The Ship of State is making good speed”,

the Prince maintained. “We can’t allow those

Climate Change Hippies and Greenies

to damage our Economic Integrity” he shouted,

tho he struggled somewhat to be heard above the sound

of splintering timbers and buckling steel

as the Ship of State ground into an Ice Epidemic.


“Nothing a Royal Commission can’t fix!

Be assured my government is prepared

to make the Important Structural Changes required

to assure our Prosperity into the next Century”,

the Prince said in soothing tones,

as he organised the Survivors into sub-committees

to start rearranging deck chairs.






These must be our Watchwords!”

cried the inspirational Prince

as he hastily stuffed wads of cash

into a sturdy suitcase with a gaily coloured

“Welcome to the Cayman Islands!”

sticker stuck to its side.

“Believe me my Friends!”, the Pimply Prince

assured his agitated audience,

as he tossed the suitcase over the side

of the ship and started to climb over the guard-rail.

“There has never been a more exciting time

to shift your Assets to an off-shore, tax-free Jurisdiction”.

And with that the Prince of Pimps disappeared from view.


Later, after the good Ship of State Australianus

had disappeared beneath the waves,

all that could be seen on the Ocean’s face was a tiny

rowing boat bearing two tiny figures.

Wheeling in like a sea-bird, we find on closer examination

that one of the figures is no less than the Prince of Pimps

Themselves, perched on the cash stuffed suitcase like a petrel on a rock.

Rowing the boat whilst it puffed on a cigar

was a squat, leering, hunch-backed figure,

who resembled no-one so much

as Quasimodo in an ill-fitting suit.

After awhile it spoke..


“Which island should I row for Marrsster?

The Caymans? Hong Kong?”

The Prince shook himself out of his lordly reverie.

A smile played gently around his noble lips..

“No Joe,” he said kindly, “the only island we’ll be passing

is Ellis Island! Yes Lady Liberty herself, Joe!

Pull for New York Joe! Pull for New York!

In the US They respect an Economic Refugee with a suitcase full of cash!”.

“You can stay at my place if you like Marrssterr”, lisped the Hunchback.

“The Embassy? Why thank you Joe”.

“As former Prime Pimp it’s only what you’re entitled to, Marrsssterr..”.

“That’s true Joe, very true. And while I’m in Washington

I think I’ll visit the White House (Now that it is WHITE again you understand).

I want to see a Man there about a Dog-Whistle”.


*a profession formerly known as journalism





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.

Has trouble opening packaging.



•November 27, 2016 • Leave a Comment


Meditation on a Banana


I am in my supermarket

looking at a banana

that’s come all the way from China,

just like that song by Leonard Cohen.


It was picked green/


snap frozen/packed

& loaded into a metal shipping container

with thousands of other bananas

and shipped over the sea and far-away.

Once in my country it is unloaded/

trucked to a distribution centre/

chemically snap-thawed/

and trucked again to my supermarket

where they slap a sticker bearing a koala

on the banana and arrange it artfully on a shelf

painted black, so that the banana will look yellow,

instead of that sickly, greyish-green hue it assumes

when exposed to real sunlight.

Hunting Spider or Banana Spider (Cupiennius salei) sitting between Bananas, native to Central America

I look at the banana

with something like wonder.

Somehow it was more “economical”

to ship this sad specimen half way around the globe

rather than to try and grow it here.

Does that sound right to you?

It’s not like there’s a famine on or

that I live at the South Pole

or anything like that.

Used to be you could drive out of town

twenty minutes in any direction

and there’d be a banana farm.

Of course, it takes you longer than twenty minutes

these days, to get out beyond

the seemingly relentless urban seep,

spreading like a stain across the land,

housing estates sprouting on rich, red soil

where used to grow strawberries,

paw paws, pumpkin, beans,

a rich profusion of market crops

surrounded the city, now

replaced by a concrete and gyprock rim

of dormitory suburbs.


Perplexed, I took my banana to the cash register.

The checkout girl then patiently explained to me

the economics of the banana;

“It’s globalisation, innit?” she said and popped

her chewing gum,

“Rich Fuckers grow stuff or get stuff made

in Third World countries where they don’t pay

the peasants proper, then ship it over

to fat fuckin’ First World countries like this dump,

where they can undercut local products,

then they ship their money

to any shitty, little island that’s got a bank and no taxes,

all nice and legal and above board.

It’s called Free Trade, Darrl,” she concluded

“and that’s $3.90 for the banana.”


“Three ninety for a fuckin’ banana!” I shrieked.


“Well, what do you expect, ” she yawned,

and started filing her nails,

“it came all the way from China.”








The Reverend Hellfire;





•November 20, 2016 • Leave a Comment




Don’t pretend to be my Friend

you lying, two-faced piece of Shit

you are the type

that turns and burns

the rescued snake that bit

the hand that rescued

and that fed.

Oh Creature of the Pit!

Back-stabbing Hypocrite!

Behind the thin, polite veneer

there always lurks the secret sneer!

Unclean! Obscene!

You will Depart this Scene!

I order thee to quit!

I order thee to quit!

    I order thee

    I order thee

I order thee to









The Reverend Hellfire..

prices as advertised



•November 13, 2016 • Leave a Comment

And so like everyone else in the World, the Reverend Hellfire reflects on the recent election of Donald Trump, and considers the historical precedents..



History, so it is said, repeats itself;

the first time as Tragedy,

the next time as Farce.

It was perhaps with this thought in mind that the Kitchen Brains’ Trust, found itself in deep debate as

to which historical figure President-elect Donald Trump most resembled.

Donald Trump, Adolf Hitler, Benito Mussolini  and Josef Stalin

Donald Trump, Adolf Hitler, Benito Mussolini and Josef Stalin; historical precedents abound!

Hitler, of course, was a strong contender. “It’s the Weimar Republic all over again!”, one advisor declared, shaking their shaggy, greying locks sadly,

“with Hitler/Trump making Germany/the USA ‘Great’ again by focusing on racial or religious scapegoats, Mexicans and Ay-rabs this time instead of Jews and Communists.

Hell he’s got a mob of good ole boys that are clearly eager brown-shirts-in-waiting..the KKK will be his SS. This will probably be the last election America will have, there’ll be a fake crisis..some fool will try to burn down the Reichstag sorry I mean the White House or something, and like Chancellor Hitler ‘Emergency Measures’ will be declared suspending normal democratic Institutions. As President he’s Commander-in-Chief so all he has to do is cut a deal with the Generals. I tell you Krystal Nacht is just around the corner”.


“Nonsense”, replied an inebriated advisor, “the man is Mussolini come again! Look at the way he struts and pouts his hour upon stage.. the arrogant jaw, the sneer of cold command..It’s uncanny!

And Mussolini was a big believer in rebuilding the Glorious Past too, in his case it was the dream of re-establishing the Roman Empire, which led to grandiose projects like raising the wreck of Nero‘s giant pleasure cruisers from the seabed, and invading Ethiopia.


And lets not forget the overt machismo! The sexual aggression! Mussolini was notorious not only for his many mistresses but also for raping a female reporter who had gone to interview him”.


But I demurred, “No my friends, I disagree, although I think we were getting closer to the mark with Mussolini. I think we have to cast our memories further back.

What we are seeing is not the end of the Weimar Republic but the end of the Roman Republic, and the man we are looking at is non other than the richest man in Rome,

Marcus Licinius Crassus.


Yes there are many similarities of our own time to the last years of the Roman Republic, when a series of ‘Great Men’,

acquired such enormous power and influence that the normal political functioning became completely destabilised. These populist ‘demagogues’ arose partly in response to the various chronic Institutional Crises that the Senate (the entrenched political class of the day) had proved incapable of dealing with, particularly when their own interests were threatened. Totally disgusted by their political elite, the Roman Plebs started voting for any Big Talking chancer who promised them a better deal.

The habit of Roman politicians of maliciously pursuing their political enemies through the law courts to destroy them did nothing to ease political tensions either, something Trump might like to consider before starting an ‘investigation’ into Hilary.

Crassus was born rich and became richer through dodgy Real Estate deals. A favourite technique of his for acquiring land cheaply came through ‘fire sales’.

Crassus owned a private ‘fire-fighting’ business. He and his crews would turn up whenever there was a house-fire and he would then blackmail the owners into selling cheaply. Otherwise he let the place burn down. If they paid then the  fire would be put out, they could rescue what was left of their possessions, and Crassus added another property to his portfolio.


But Crassus wasn’t satisfied with Wealth alone. Oh no, he wanted to exercise Power as well, and so he bought his way into becoming a major player in Roman politics, a fixer and a briber. Ultimately of course he became one of the Big Three, the ‘First Triumvirate’: the informal association of Crassus, Pompey and Caesar that controlled Roman Republic for over a decade and ultimately

sounded it’s Death Knell.


The Slave Rebellion of Spartacus was going on at this time too, and after a succession of poorly led Senatorial armies failed to crush the slaves, it fell to Crassus to restore order.

He, like Trump, immediately decided to build a ‘Great Wall’ across the heel of Italy’s boot to contain and starve the rebel Horde. The slaves broke through but eventually he subdued the rebellion with ruthlessly brutal efficiency, and had captured rebel slaves hung on crucifixes lining the road to Rome for over five miles.

Yet Crassus was still dissatisfied. He didn’t feel he got the praise he was due for subduing the Slave rebellion. ‘After all’, the Senate sniffed condescendingly, “they were only slaves..not like he was fighting a real army like Pompey and Caesar, ey what?”

Yes he might have had Wealth and Power, but it wasn’t enough for Crassus. The craving grew within him for Military Glory as well.

“No-one builds a statue for a business man”,

he was heard to observe petulantly.

Jealous of Pompey and Caesar’s celebrated military Triumphs, he manufactured an excuse to launch an entirely gratuitous military expedition to what we now call, ‘the Middle East’. There he planned to fight (and plunder)the Parthians, who were based in the general area of today’s Iran and Iraq.

Ignoring public opinion and his own experienced military advisors, he marched 30,000 Roman soldiers into the Syrian desert, from which they never again emerged.

Crassus himself was captured by the ancestors of today’s ISIS, and forced to drink molten gold as an ironic punishment for his greed.

Without Crassus to balance the Triumvirate’s delicate balance of power, the rivalry of Pompey and Caesar burnt down the Republic’s democratic structure and from it’s ashes arose the evermore autocratic Roman Empire.

Will our very own Crassus lead us into the sinking desert sands in vain pursuit of Glory? I don’t know, but there’s exciting Times ahead, my friends”, I concluded, “Exciting Times ahead”.






The Reverend Hellfire.

It’s not the Heat it’s the Humidity.



•November 6, 2016 • Leave a Comment


Imperator of Crows

I awakened to the sounds of battle. Chaos erupts in the skies above. The World quakes to the sound of Conflict. Suddenly I knew what was happening and it all made perfect sense.


Sometimes I mix some magic into my meditation.

Every day at sunset I retire to the ragged circle of grass beneath the silky oak tree at the bottom of my back yard, and there I once again devote the twilight hour to the practice of the Ancient Art of Tai Chi – not only a subtle form of self-defence but also a form of moving meditation that tones the body and centres the mind. A graceful, gliding sequence of dance-like movements that energises the practitioner and reconnects them into Sync with the World’s swirling energies, the Great Cycles and Tides of Life.
Tai Chi teaches us that the Energy of Life, the CHI,

(or Prana as it is called by the practitioners of Yoga), is in constant movement circulating within the body and being exchanged back and forth with the outer world.

Indeed with every breath we draw in CHI (along with oxygen and other gases) and the body’s batteries are recharged.

To block the flow of CHI can cause Illness, Madness and Death.

And so each day at Sunset, I dance beneath the Silky Oak tree..


But as I said, sometimes I mix a little magic into my meditations. It’s never Something Nasty – a mere empowerment ritual before a Performance say, to raise the Psychic Energies and focus the Mind, or Weaving a Protective Web of Light around my Loved Ones or Myself when feeling Malevolent Forces about – these Causes I feel are Lawful and even if such rituals are dismissed as no more than a powerful psychological placebo to placate the anxious mind, still, the results they produce can often be quite startling and quite inexplicable.

At any rate, the other night I felt the need to invoke a little aid against the Dark Forces looming, and

with minor adjustments, traces of Ritual Purpose are weaved into the precise and grace-filled sequence of ancient movements/a channeling of Energies alters the Flow/

an Algorithm of Intent skews indifferent Space/Time slightly/ a butterfly changes course lands on the shoulder of a boulder been sitting quietly on the top of a slope for the last two million years and for no reason at all the World rolls down

an entirely different track..


Invoking a little aid. Yes, well, call me Paranoid but I’d been starting to feel under attack by malign forces of late. Sniping was coming at me from various quarters. The shopkeepers were sullen behind their counters, crudely attempting to short change me. Road rage breaking out everywhere around me on the road, strangers waving fists and screaming/An air of brooding hung over the neighbourhood./The neighbour seemed to be spying on me. Was he sending in reports? And to Who? Close Personal friends went mad and attacked me, they were dragged away in straight-jackets red-eyed and frothing at the lips.

Yes, I thought, whatever Dark Force was directing it’s hostility towards me, it was time to pull up the drawbridge, rally the troops, and call in the Traditional Allies.

My Magic does not invoke gods or demons or any of those wankers.

My small shamanic Magic calls on the Forces that are real to me, the Powers and Allies that I know and Love

and that Love me back.

So I call upon my Ancestors.

I call upon the Spirits of the Hearth and of this Place.

I call upon the Nature Spirits of Tree and Earth, Water, Wind and Fire that are around me always.

I call upon the Animal Spirits, and knowing me as their Ally they come, like the tiny bats that flit and blink half-glimpsed from the corner of the eyes, as they silently careen through the soft ambiguity of Twilight.

I ask for their aid to drive away the Hostile Forces.

Protect me and my Family and Loved Ones from the Malign and Mindless Hatred that besieges and surrounds. Elemental Towers and Walls of Protection arise around me. I dance my Magic and draw in the abundance of CHI surrounding me, recharging my Psychic batteries. The Moon peeps over the horizon. A chorus of frogs replaces the chorus of cicadas. Flying Foxes crash clumsily in the trees. It’s time to go upstairs and make dinner.


Next morning I awaken to the sounds of battling Birds.

The Crows are fighting in the trees and skies.

Nearly two dozen of them are brawling chaotically in the air above. Feathered Chaos is unbound and the whole World quakes.

The noise is deafening, like a squadron of fighter jets or helicopters attacking some Third World village.

It goes on and on. This is no passing brawl.

Upon investigation I quickly assess the Situation.

It appears a Murder of a dozen or so Crows from Somewhere Else had encroached upon the local Crows territory and now a furious war was being fought as all the locals banded together to repel the Invaders.

My neighbourhood is perched in what is basically a little valley and this is inhabited by a number of crow families who have settled in various strategically located tall trees in the area.


One Crow Tree is in fact located right outside my bedroom window – a big tall gum tree that has been inhabited exclusively by corvids for the last ten years. Come the Spring there’s usually two or three crow families noisily nesting in it, raising their adorably ugly children and shitting on my car.

Now it was like a castle under siege. The branches and foliage swayed alarmingly as the battle raged. Sticks and leaves and feathers littered the ground beneath.

What sounded like half a dozen “dog-fights” were taking place simultaneously, in and out of the canopy.

Wanting to have their five-cents-worth, the local Yellow-beaked Minor birds had joined in the fray, like fighter jets attending lumbering bombers. I think they were helping the local crows but it was impossible to tell for sure. Possibly they just attacked any crow that got separated and looked vulnerable.


The battle raged all day, up and down the enclosed valley of my neighbourhood.

Come sunset the Invaders had been fought to the far end of the valley, where a big culminating engagement seemed to be taking place.

That night the trees were full of bedraggled but hyped-up crows. Their sentries were on high alert, calling the hours of the watch with a monotonous regularity.


The Next day the War seemed to be largely over. There was still a little skirmishing going on for the next couple of days, but it appeared to be mainly “mopping up” operations. The local Crows had been Victorious! The Enemy had been driven over the ridge.

What was it all about? A fight over resources? A gang of young Crows seeking to carve out territory for themselves? A physical manifestation of the Forces I’d raised at Sunset? I would never know.


The triumphant local Legion of Crows gathers in the trees outside my back door and call for me to come out and address the victorious troops.

I appear on the back landing and the excited Crows immediately start chanting in chorus, hailing me as Imperator.

I salute them and distribute rewards

to boost the troops’ Morale – mostly offcuts from cold roast lamb. Raven-ously they devour the proffered treats.


WAAAHHHN!” they croon in satisfaction.

I salute the Cohort of Corvids again and retire to write my report to the Senate.

Victory parade over, they scatter, some to patrol the perimeter, some to rebuild nests or forage.

Only a single Crow remains to watch over the house and stand guard over the Imperator of Crows.





Check out this photo review of a recent Reverend appearance.



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.

A loan wolf in a borrowed sheepskin.



•October 30, 2016 • Leave a Comment


The Fly


Well, there is always a Fly in the Ointment

There is always a Grub in the Bud,

There is always a Snake in the Garden

There is always a Stick in the Mud.


Yes, there is always a Worm in the Apple

A Joker in every Pack,

There is always a Backseat Driver

And a Catch in every Contract.


There is always a Dog in the Manger

And a Critic in every Crowd,

There is always a Hiccup,

a Flaw that is Fatal,

Or a Thumb that is Sore

and Sticks Out.


No there is nothing straight forward or simple

When dealing with Dem-oc-racy,

There’s always some Crackpot

holding things back, but

Sometimes that Crackpot is Me,

Oh it’s True

And sometimes that Crackpot is You!






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 Humanisim

AND the Church of the Universe.

No Flies on him!



•October 23, 2016 • Leave a Comment


Tattoo’s of Crime and Punishment


Tattoo’s make quite cutting comments,

don’t you think?

Some sort of confessional/conversational

Carved in flesh with blood and ink.

Like the boy I once knew

With the Jailhouse tattoo,

All those cell-locked hours of patient pain to paint

Scenes from the Life of Ned Kelly across his back.

Central scene, Old Ned himself

in Greatcoat & iron, iconic helmet

Bailed up for his Last Stand,

with a gun in each hand

Looking like an old man kangaroo

facing off his final pack of dogs.

And above Ned’s head

the legend read;

Such is Life.”

Yeah. Such is life..

The Tombstone Words, the epitaph

for every freedom loving wild boy

Gunned down while trying to escape in a fast car.


Or what about that charming junkie girl I knew

With that subtle tattoo?

On the soft white flesh of her inner arm

She bears a Hieroglyph for Strength

Surrounded by a circle of black fire,

hiding the scarred flesh, the ruined veins.

She says; “the ink hides the needle marks, dig?”

She’s studying to be a solicitor,

She’s quite a girl.

Watch her take on the World.


Or what about the Black Girl

Who could run faster than anyone else,

Which is a pretty good thing to learn

if your black and female

in this damned country.

(All those white mongrel gin-jockeys/

dickheads in

in pick-ups-

you know what I mean.)

And on her arm like a scared charm

are written the words,

Cos I’m Free.”

Yeah, baby, that’s what she said,

Cos I’m Free!”

So say it loud girl, say it proud,

carve it on your skin in scars,

Shout it to the Crowd!

And damn it was good,

After two hundred years

of violence, oppression & greed

to see a proud, young black girl

running that fast & free.








The Reverend Hellfire..

he is what he is.