•November 22, 2020 • Leave a Comment



Aboriginal Law

was half-Calendar,

half Map,

stitched together

along Songlines/

Using Kangaroo bones

& tendons,

Melodies were woven

throughout their World

the way bulrushes are made

into baskets.

Before there was

a Letter of the Law

the Spirit Sang/ for

Music embodied the Law

in pre-literate Society,

even if you couldn’t

throw the Book at them

you could still

have Transgressors

Sung to Death.

Sharp Thorns tattooed the tribal totems

in Ash across the Skin,

your Permanent Record

& I.D. Card

rolled into One

for All to see.

Better than a Barcode, baby!

You knew your place

in the World

back then.



The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet,

Secretary of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity Inc.,

and an Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism.

Good for him!


81; I Laughed at the Moon

•November 15, 2020 • 2 Comments



I laughed at the Moon

as She wobbled over the Horizon,

all huge and yellow and round,

like some big, old cheese-wheel

hanging in the cobwebby window

of an ancient delicatessan.


“Lady, you so Fat!” I giggled drunkenly,

“You so verrry Fat!”


Offended, She hoisted Herself

higher in the Sky,

trailing her damp skirts behind her

through the clouds.

I shouldnt have offended her,

I thought later, now

She’ll probably sulk or

go on one of those crazy Wonder-Diets,

you know the sort of thing;

Lose weight in just Fourteen Days!

Become a Shadow of your former Self

and be the Envy of your Friends!


Of course then we’ll probably get

the usual Buleimic Bounce-Back

and so by this time next month

She’ll be back where She started from,

and though She says that really

She just retains Fluids,

I say, Tell that to the Tides!


But hey! It’s probably best to say Nothing.

You don’t want to see her Dark Side.




The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet,

Secretary of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity Inc.,

and an Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism.

Will eat own Poems for Money.



•November 8, 2020 • 2 Comments



The Truth will set you Free!

Well, it’s either that

or it will kill you

the moment

you turn

your back.


Coming Soon!  The Rev’s latest Project;

Back Yard Wildlife

(of Brisbane & Beyond)


In Celebration & Support

of all the Creatures that share our Space!



The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet,

Secretary of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity Inc.,

and an Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism.

He just keeps rolling along.



•November 1, 2020 • Leave a Comment



You should learn to appreciate

the Aesthetics of Decay, I told her.

Everything feeds on Corruption,

Doncha know?

Like happy Mushrooms feasting in the dark

on rotten wood & bark.

In the Perfect System

there is no room for Life.

That’s why I hate these Modern Cities;

the sealed, arrogant Facades/

the well-maintained

laws & lawns/ the neat Signage

(so helpful and yet

so intimidating)

the choking acres of Concrete & Bitumen

suffocating the Earth in every direction..

I like the little Towns

that are a bit tumble-down, where

the sign on the corner store

could use some paint perhaps

but they leave it there because it’s still good

and wearing well

the warm, worn patina of Use.

I like it when thistles rise unbidden

through the first cracks

in some bastard’s perfect pavement.

I like it when possums

find their way into the roof

and raise a Family.

I like Grand Mansions

that have been abandoned,

Vacant Lots lush with weeds..

I like the little creatures

that exist at the Edges,

beeping & creeping,

extracting sustenance

on the narrow margin,

the Feral Hopes & Furtive Futures

that somehow manage, against all the odds,

to continue to Survive,

and give me the Heart

to do like-wise.


“If you’re not living on the edge

then you’re taking up too much room” – Trish Flowers



The Reverend Hellfire was a practised Performance Poet in the Before Time.

Now he is clothed like birds with wings

and sits in the House of Shadows. There

Dust is their Food and Clay their Meat,

only the Poets remember their names.



•October 25, 2020 • Leave a Comment


I awoke to a strange sense of Anti-Climax.

Is it too late, I wondered?

Had It already happened,

I asked myself?

I didn’t even know what It was, but still

a nagging sense of Uncertainty haunted me.


The Light seemed strange also.

The Air had a weird hollowness,

like it was waiting to be filled.

It was like the brooding Atmosphere

that acts as Herald

to the pre-buildup stage of

one of those big Summer Thunderstorms we get here;

Sure the Sun maybe shining, but in your bones you know

somewhere some filthy stem cell is seeding

an innocent, fluffy, white cloud

and before the Sun sets on you

a Watery Armageddon will be sluicing out of the Sky

to the accompaniment of the sound of thunderous Drums.


So, yeah, it was just like that,

but there was no Storm in sight.

Perhaps I’d had a mini-stroke, I worried

or late onset epilepsy? They say

that just before their seizures

Sufferers sometimes had weird

olfactory hallucinations of things like

the odour of an electrical short-circuit,

or melting plastic

or burning toast.

But I had woken up that morning

and could smell no coffee burning,

nay, nor toast neither.

But all morning the Ominous Feeling,

that it was too late, that I’d

forgotten something important hung over me

like a cobwebby shroud.

What had I missed?

I scanned the Headlines & News feeds for clues.

Perhaps I wasn’t alone in feeling this way,

perhaps I was merely picking up on the Human Vibe,

a Manifestation of the Collective Sub-Conscious?

Had some Momentous Event occurred un-noticed

somewhere on the Globe while everyone was distracted

by their own petty Hopes & Fears,

and now I, like everybody else, was haunted

by this Sense of Anti-Climax, that It was all over

and we’d missed it?

So I thought I’d ask people at random

as I went about my daily travels.

Mostly they just laughed at me,

muttering some meaningless platitude or cliché

and shied away, but their eyes were rolling

like fear-struck horses as they did so.

I felt I was striking a chord somewhere.

They just didn’t want to admit it.


Finally though, I asked an Old Lady

in the Coffee Shop, sitting at the next table,

filling in the cross-word puzzle

over her Devonshire Tea.

“Is it too Late?”, I asked her,

leaning over conspiratorially

“Have we missed our Opportunity?”

“Yes Dear,” she said placidly,

and took a sip of Tea,

“but I’m Old so it doesn’t really matter

that much to me anymore.

Just try not to think about it too much,”

she concluded soothingly,

“You get used to Disappointment.



Tune in Next Week for the Rev’s latest Project

Back Yard Wildlife

of Brisbane & Beyond


In Celebration & Support

of all the Creatures that share our Space!



The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet, Secretary of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity Inc., and an Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism.

He is Humanity’s last, best Hope… Uh oh..



•October 18, 2020 • Leave a Comment



A Long, Hot Summer sets

the whole, smouldering Country ablaze;

from Burning Man

to burning Portland,

Flames consume the entire West Coast

as the Cities burn like Forests

and the Forests burn like Coal.

Meanwhile, a fatal build-up

of the Political Fuel-Load

sees Fever-Fires break out in the White House.

The President himself succumbs

to Spontaneous Human Combustion/

It’s all a Joke! A Hoax!” he croaks,

as he ignites & lights the Night.

Attending the Scene,

First Responders spontaneously

break into Song;

“Oh say can you seeee..

By the Rockets red glare!!”


Holding hands they form a circle

around the burning Hulk,

as the Fire-Chief wipes

a sentimental tear from his eye;

Stand back and Stand by, Boys..”

he tells his Team,

voice trembling with emotion,

“Stand back & Stand by!”

And all thru the Night

they kept Watch

on the Home Fires burning.




The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet,

Secretary of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity Inc.,

and Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism.

You want Fries with that?


86; Silverfish and Moments of Grace

•October 11, 2020 • Leave a Comment


& Moments of Grace


Now is the Time

to give up Hope,

They tell me,

the Ones who ought to know/

the Experts crunching numbers,

tracking Trends.

Even if we change our ways


it’s all too late, they say,

the Damage has been done,

Fireball Earth

here we come.

Only Science can save us Now!

they assure me,

the Techno-Optimists,

the Sensible-People-

with a nice Pay Packet,


comfortable in their cushioned

Suburban Niche,

heated towel-racks & toilet seats.

Surely we can keep all this

and have a Future too?

All we need

is a bigger, better band-aid.

It’s all an Illuminati Hoax,

they tell me, the howling packs

of Self-Appointed Spokesmen

for the White Master Race/

lurking like Silverfish beneath

the frayed edges

of America’s rotting Social Fabric/

Crank-Crazed Hill-billies with bad teeth

carrying cheap Kalashnikov knock-offs

outside their local Court-House,

or planning the Overthrow of the State

between beers down at Barney’s Bar & Grill,

as they await the Call

to do Other People’s dirty work..

This is all

that is left to us now,

it seems to me,

as we each retreat into our own

familiar corner of the World

to deal with the “Terrible Truth”;

Small fleeting moments of Grace,

snatched from the midst

of the Chaos that surrounds.

Each a timeless Treasure,


as a lazy, golden afternoon,


as bird calls on the breeze.



The Reverend Hellfire is not only a practised Performance Poet, Secretary of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity Inc., and an Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism, but also Humanity’s “Last Best Hope”

Yeah, things are that bad.


87; This week in politics; Oct 2020

•October 4, 2020 • Leave a Comment

This week in politics; Oct 2020


It was a week of Sickness and Static/A Carnival Ride of Retribution & Revenge as the Cities burn like Forests & the Anarchist Hordes lie in wait/ The Post Office is weaponized and issued with a fleet of armoured “crowd control” vehicles to ensure “ballot security”/ In the chaos Fox News runs amok in the Ideological Hen House, demanding that the President issue a statement “Unconditionally Condemning Evil!” hopefully dispelling any remaining ambiguity, or perhaps in a feverish attempt to clutch onto a few shreds of their Sense of Self-Worth. The White House has yet to respond, but they may have other things on their minds..

Like the much anticipated “Slump v Hambone / Debate of the Century“! A walloping train-wreck of a Confrontation between two flailing, senile old men, the Spectacle sent shock-waves of Psychic Angst & Collective Cognitive Dissonance shuddering and reverberating around the entire Globe.

Witness reports of mass Fear and Loathing came pouring in from many countries, whilst White Supremacist Groups distributed lists of “Race Traitors” online, in preparation for the coming “Great Day of the Rope”.

“Stand back/ Stand by/ Militias keep your powder dry!”

declared President Hump at one point, provoking a Nation-wide chorus of rebel-yells & yahoos from groups of heavily armed, drunken Hillbillies, who always appreciate a good slogan and accordingly it soon started appearing on T-shirts, Keyrings and Beer-Holders.

More disturbingly, the Debate’s evil emanations started Evangelical Stock-brokers frothing at the mouth & Speaking in Tongues as the Market plummeted to unprecedented depths.

The Confrontation took its toll not only on the Viewers though; the Participants themselves were later seen to be suffering from severe backlash & Psychic Concussion in the Debate’s aftermath.

President Slump himself was immediately airlifted to a Military Hospital for intensive Testing and a battery of experimental treatments formerly classified as being “too cruel to try on Rhesus Monkeys“. Though the President is now held securely in Isolation, it is feared that prior to his containment he acted as a Super-Vector, and contaminated many of his closest Aides, Family, Guards and of course the thousands of maskless in-breeds who attend his rallies.

Meanwhile, Aides close to former Vice President Hambone disclosed that he had seen his own Shadow during the debate and in fright has retreated to his Basement for the next thirty days to pray and reflect on his own Mortality.

Whilst coping with his own cognitive dissonance your Poetic Correspondent was asked, by a young friend fortunate enough to have been in a Coma at the time and thus missing the Debate, to describe it. We quote verbatim his response.

“What was it like? Words fail me really..

but I’ll give it a try;

Imagine, if you will, the Scene; two civilised men in immaculate Evening Dress are locked in a room with a rabid, purple-assed Mandrill. Despite the fact that the Beast is running amok; splattering it’s own faeces around the room, swinging from the Chandelier, trying to copulate with the lectern, etc., but they ignore this due to reasons of Protocol and instead pretend it’s not happening, and that the berserk beast is  just like them; immaculately dressed, civilized and calmly discussing the philosophy of Wittgenstein.

And all around Amerika, Mandrills in red MAGA caps are throwing shit at the TV screen and howling in an orgy of Simian Triumphalism”

Ah but all this was over twenty four hours ago & the World has moved on and now political leaders & media mouthpieces alike struggle to outdo each other in sending fawning, mealy-mouthed condolences to the man they were describing the day before as a monstrous sack of shit & human offal.

But now Vice President Jawbone, dressed in sackcloth and ashes, wrends his hair before the cameras as he bemoans the tragic fate and hopefully imminent demise of President Hump. Congress makes plans to have him mummified and put on display like Lenin. Possibly in Vegas.

And so, joining the avalanche of Hypocrisy, SUNDAY SERMONS, has dispatched the following Poetic Communique to President Mumps and his family;

Please accept our;

Thoughts & Prayers..

Hopes & Dreams..

Hearts & Minds..

Cut & Paste.


And while we’re here, why not send our condolences to the Schickelgruber Family for their Loss?

Worryingly, I think I’m becoming addicted to the Trump Spectacle, hooked to the tacky display of the Trump Dynasty’s Progress through the American Dream, like an enormous Bolus of Hate’ proceeding through the elongated colon of a Boa Constrictor. I find myself

tapping into the News feeds before I’m even Vertical. The Algorithms on YouTube have got me pegged and have me hooked on a high-rotation drip feed of Amerikan Talking Heads, Pundits & Pollsters jawing over the latest uprecedented Superlative Outrage from President Crump.

But though I’ve grown to crave my regular Sugar Hit of Outrage, I’m disturbed by how much daily Media Chorus howling over Crumps latest misdeeds resembles the Two Minute Hate Sessions in Orwell’s 1984.

I think I’m going to go Cold Turkey, and only listen to the classical music stations this week and the sounds of the birds in the trees.

Time to Regain my Serenity

& Breathe.

Find once more

the Stillness

in the Heart of the Dance,

the Silence

in the Centre

of the Circle of Life.



The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet, Secretary of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity Inc., and an Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism.

“It’s not a Failure of the System, it’s a Feature of the Practise.”



•September 27, 2020 • 2 Comments



They sold you the Dream

and you bought it,


with your eyes wide shut.

Now you’re Invested.

You kidded yourself

that you weren’t really involved,

that you’d done nothing wrong,

but you were Wrong,

and your fingerprints

are all over it,

in Fact, before the Fact

and after it.

You were never Evil

so much as Weak..

and Self-indulgent.

Often well-meaning

You would have gladly saved the Koala

if you could have kept

your heated Towel-Racks

as well.

So now you’ve used up all your Resources,

and..Hell! you can’t afford to wake up!

Best keep sleeping then, oh Dreamer,

lest you awake

to Nightmares.



The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet, Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism and Secretary of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity Inc.

“It’s not a Failure of the System, it’s a Feature of the Practise”


89; TIMES BLOODY HAMMER (lest we forget)

•September 20, 2020 • Leave a Comment

The Reverend attended an ash scattering today, so Sunday Sermons reprints this classic screed as a memorial to the fallen..


(lest we forget)


I was sitting in my kitchen

thinking about all the casualties from my Youth.

Yes indeedy,

Times Bloody Hammer

had hammered us hard

and now I found myself idly wondering whether

I knew more people who had hung themselves,

or more who had merely O.D.’ed


In the end I was surprised to realize

that the rope kids came out just ahead

in Life’s Demolition Derby.

The Winners, as it were,

by a neck.

Of course this is not taking into account

all of those Fools seemingly set on Self-Destruct,

who ended up with their diseased and livid Livers

leaping lightly into their laps.

Or, (speaking of “laps”),

how about all of Those racing along

that were suddenly just

stopped dead in their tracks

by that last lamp-post

they never noticed.

(The alliterative headlines screaming red;

Speed King Kids Killed In Car Crash!)

Nor indeed have we considered

the random stab and slash,

that has left so many gutted and gulping

their last gasps out in a gutter.

Like “Hippie-Dave” the friendly pot dealer,

sliced open from scrotum to spleen

by a drunk customer with a blunt letter opener,

just coz he wouldn’t give any more “tic”.

Or that other Dave ( & I know, I know..

it’s confusing cos

I know dead & demented

Dave’s by the dozen)

but I speak now of “Dave-with-the Hat

You remember?

Butchered with a bottle and bled to death

at the bus-stop at closing time,

outside the Melbourne Hotel?

A little matter of twenty dollars,

or perhaps a woman’s “honour”

as I recall.


But Death’s a funny thing, or so I’ve found.

So often someone dies and no-one

seems to give a damn.

Like that poor bastard I once knew,

a somewhat seedy but kind & gentle Junkie,

and ultimately basically harmless.

He was the Caretaker/Janitor

of a run-down boarding house

where he charitably rented out rooms

to Down & Outs with a poor credit rating.

(“Working Girls” & “Users” & other friends of mine)

Of course they took advantage/ the rent

was always overdue, the girls borrowed money,

or bought drugs on Tic etc

and eventually he ended up

so deeply in debt to his gangster landlord

that he decided to blow out the back of his skull

with a shotgun.

He might have had other problems as well,

I don’t know, I don’t even

remember his name now but I do recall

that his fellow residents hacked out bits of the fibro wall

splattered with his blood and brains

to take for Souvenirs.


On Television you often have someone dying

whose passing leaves a whole Community

shattered and shaken for years.

A seemingly bottomless well watered

with self-indulgent tears.


But of course there are those other deaths,

you know..The ones that sort of

make you want to smile.

Like the joyous day that hulking,

useless jerk called “Junkie Dave”

took the opportunity

to jump off a chair

with a rope ’round his neck.

A thieving, lying, bullying Leech,

he liked to prey on gullible girls

naïve enough to believe his hard luck tales

long enough to be completely ripped off

and fucked over.

A brooding, self-pitying narcissist,

& cynical to the core,

he burnt and betrayed

every fool who ever tried

to help or befriend or defend him.


In the end I publickly Cursed him

and subsequently he completely

broke down into despair

and hung himself a short time later,

in a sordid, squalid flat,

abandoned by all, the dingy walls

covered with his last demented scrawls.

The ambulance guys, funnily enough, found him

still swinging, with a last cigarette

some joker had jammed

between his cold and lifeless fingers,

burnt down to the bone.

Now at the time, I won’t diguise

I gloated gladly at the demise

of this deadbeat whom I truly did despise.

But now, of course, years later,

and I’m older and wiser

when I stop to reconsider

I realise..

Ye Gods! It still

makes me feel good to know

that evil creep has croaked!


Well, perhaps I’m just not a nice person,

But I’ll tell you this for certain, kids,

coz I hate Hypocrisy,

There’s nothing that makes you feel better,

than having a dead enemy.




The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet, Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanists and Secretary for the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity Inc.,

This page is intentionally blank.