•October 16, 2016 • Leave a Comment




Daytime TeeVee

sucked me into its yawning maw


Voracious as a vacuum cleaner on Valium

it swallowed my day wholesale

whilst the Vacuous banter of marketing whores

hawking their wares/

wearing too much make up,

lulled me like a Librium Lullaby

into a semi-comatose state

of passive acceptance.


This happens sometimes to you

when the psychic batteries are drained

desperate for distraction you

flop on the couch/flick the switch

ride the alternating currents /just another channel Serf

you drift into the Nets

of the World Wide Web of Consumerism

indifferent as krill being processed

in a South Korean cannery

you numb out to the cavalcade of cartoons/

talk show celebrity lesbians/Matlock/ Riots in

Romania or is it Pittsburgh/

Donald Trump on High rotation/

groping his way through/

a gun-numbed Nation/Get Smart is still a moron/

(no surprises there)/Judge Judy gesticulates/

a documentary Orangutan ululates/

Parliamentary Question Time Ministers scratch

at their flabby buttocks (really scraping

the bottom of the entertainment barrel now)

as they stand for a minutes silence

to mark their indifference to the death

of a bejewelled and be-medalled military Stick-Insect

generally designated the King of Thailand./Oh

Politics! Oh Humanity! Oh

for Star Trek and a better future!


But that’s not till 5.00pm meanwhile/

a stack of cups

and plates & ashes

builds up around you/

crumbs on the carpet/ the crumpled newspapers

outside the birds are singing

in the sun


you go out to join them.






See the REV and the Kurilpa Poet crew running wild on the streets at this fabulous Folk Festival of the Free!!



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.

What’s your excuse?



•October 9, 2016 • Leave a Comment

1893 --- The Scream by Edvard Munch --- Image by © Burstein Collection/CORBIS



Maybe it’s only the Westerlies,

but I just can’t answer the phone today.

It’s shrill, shattering tocsin of sound sends shudders of anxiety cascading through my entire neural network.

Indeed, I have no concentration at all. So deeply am I in the Grip of Doubt that I feel beset by mental paralysis, frozen into a sort of ambulant catatonia, unable to answer an email, or write this week’s sermon or continue a project or undertake any task that requires more than auto-pilot..

Yeah, maybe it’s just the Westerlies, I tell myself consolingly,doing their positive-ionic, chaotic thing,

disrupting neurons/blowing dust in your eyes/

tossing the paperwork about and in the process

scattering my brain to the far flung corners of the globe.


Ah, the Westerlies! A mad Festival of wandering Windstorms, harsh, hostile and desiccating. They have travelled from the frozen wastes of the Antarctic and crossed Western sunbaked deserts to reach you here, and it shows in their character. The colour of the dust they throw in your eyes tells you something of the path they ochre from ancient dried up creek beds/taste of brine from the great salt pans/radio-active grit from Maralinga..

This annual Brisbane phenomena appears around the time Winter is turning into Spring. This in practise can be anywhere between August and early October, they are notoriously erratic both in appearance and behaviour. Thus whilst in the regions up above the general direction is indeed from the West South-West, down on the ground they break up into buffeting, irregular gusts that can come at you seemingly from any direction.

Then foliage is torn from the trees, lips crack and split, cold sores erupt, eyes redden and weep, whilst the cascading currents of fractalizing ions disrupt all electronic communications whilst scattering brain function and de-railing the normal train of thoughts. To people like Poets and Psychotics – (sensitive biological antennae to the Great Currents that sweep through all our lives, for the most part as undetectable as gravitational waves) – the Westerlies can be particularly distressing.

As an animist, I realised of course that the Westerlies are Sentient Beings, just like the Mist Spirits that dance at night above moonlit paddocks, or the greedy, orange Bushfires, that once unleashed live brief, hungry, raging lives, guzzling the landscape and shitting it out black.


And the Wind penetrates the crevices of your mind,

whispering disconcerting thoughts through the cracks, undermining your self assurance and confidence until suddenly you recognise with a sickening clarity,

yes, you know in your heart

that the Wind is just an outward manifestation

of the Chaos of your own Mind,

the Shambles of your own Life,

and that this rough beast is shambling unshaven towards his inevitable Disintegration..

Yes, yes, I mutter like a madman.. My Life in Shambles.. The State of the House around me

seems at this moment to accurately reflect the State of my Mind itself. (No big surprise there folks!)Untidey, messy, chaotic..

Around me everything is flopping and flipping

and scattered, or tumbling across the floor, as the winds enter through a thousand crevices

and cracks, under doors and down chimneys

paperwork everywhere shuddering and flapping,

like pinioned birds desperate for flight, every instinct straining to fly away. The house creaks and groans and strains..surprised it doesn’t entirely collapse into a tumble of untidy timber..


The Winds of Chaos clap their cheeks and Blow, Man, Blow!! like Mad aethereal Coltranes!

Tree branches scrape across the roof with threatening persistence,


Commitments tap insistently at the window/ send

me emails/ leave long, incomprehensible messages on the answering machine..

I cower on the couch, gnawing my fingernails..Why did I promise to do anything? Did I seriously think I was capable of meeting commitments? Why do people expect me to actually turn up for appointments/conferences/coroners reports? Can’t they see I’m suffused with unreliability?


I haven’t been so afraid to answer the phone since my good ole drug addict days. Of course, it was different then. Back then it was just Debts and People I Didn’t Want to See Because They were Such Bad News chasing after me. Now it’s all “Responsibilities” and “Commitments” and concern for Worthwhile if Hopeless Causes bothering me,

aggravating my vestigial sense of Social Obligation.

I break through the Inertia of the couch and go outside to run through my Tai Chi Set & Sequence of movements,

that ancient discipline, half dance/half martial art

cycling through the centuries to eventually sweep me along too in the currents of its archaic momentum.

So taking my usual stance beneath the silky oak tree,

I take in a deep lungful of air and commence.

Above me the uppermost branches of the silky oak

neurotically rub their bony knuckles together, as though concerned at the actions of the gyrating human below.

Usually this unfolding martial dance “Centres” me;

calms the mind, stops it’s chatter and shifts focus to the Contemplative Core at the still Centre of Sentience.

But not today.

Instead of Centering me,

today the wind rips my Soul out of it’s moorings

and joyously flings it about

up amongst the tossing branches above

in an exuberant  whirling of leaves.

The Winds drop me suddenly and landing back in my body,

I laugh with a sudden, loud Exultation of Happiness!

Yes I roar a barbaric Yawp of Delight at Living,

that frightens the neighbours and sends a flock of parakeets screeching into the distance.

I laugh again and in that precise moment the wind drops in sudden swallow-swoops and dies away completely.

Oh it will be back soon enough, the mad bloody Beastie! But for now we have an Understanding it seems

and the Sun shines it’s Royal Seal upon the Deal.


Shuffling and crackling through the blanket of fallen leaves

covering the ground in a shroud of chlorophyll

I make my way then back into the house

and there I sit at the keyboard

and start to write these words..






The Reverend Hellfire..

“Thar he Blows!!”



•October 2, 2016 • Leave a Comment


Confessions of a Thought Criminal


Dreamt I was a Thought Criminal

living my Life always

on the margins of Society,

flying under the radar,

hiding in the shadows,

slipping gratefully through the cracks.


Learnt the rules of Survival;

Never stick your neck out,

Never make eye contact

as you walk past the Police,

pray your thin veneer of Normality

lets you pass by unobserved.

Practise your Invisibility,

learn to merge into the background/

Once you could travel in crowds

and put your trust in “Minnow Theory”

(move with a pack and most of the time,

statistically speaking,

it’ll be somebody else the sharks eat) but now

there’s Social Engineers studying flow charts

and statistics, analysing sewage water to see

what chemicals people are excreting,

tinkering with the Algorithms of Control.

Sometimes it’s better just to piss in the bushes

and make your decisions by rolling the dice.


Plan anti-intuitively; travel off-peak,

be somewhere they don’t expect you to be

or better yet, don’t be where they

expect you to be/ take alternative routes/

always pay in cash/ change your phone number

frequently and never mention names online..

As we moved deeper into the 21st Century,

there was still a little wriggle room,

but I found myself wondering

for how long?


In the end I just called myself a Poet

and of course “They” stopped listening

straight away. The fools!

It was the perfect crime!

Allegory and Ambiguity

became my Ammunition

whilst every single poem I wrote

contained a secret code,

with sedition in every Sonnet,

 word bombs in every Ode.






The Reverend Hellfire is..

Look! Over there! Something shiny!



•September 25, 2016 • Leave a Comment




Such sweet Stigmata,

like pretty flowers,

Like poppies and nasturtiums

in the rain.


Used her Stigmata,

To paint the Martyr,

Please be careful and make sure it

doesn’t stain.


Kiss my Stigmata!

Then cried the Martyr!

I said, Baby I think you have

gone insane.


You’ve been watching,

too many Movies,

Now I think it’s gone and affected

your brain.


And your Stigmata,

these bleeding punctures,

are just water-colours running

in the rain.


So be careful and make sure it

doesn’t stain.


Yes be careful and make sure it

doesn’t stain.






The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet,

President of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity Inc.,

an ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism

AND the Church of the Universe.

He’s just that kind of guy.



•September 18, 2016 • Leave a Comment

The Reverend has been invited to appear today as guest performer at the “Rock Against Poetry” event. In the interests of Equal Opportunity, he will naturally be Versifying against Rock in the process. To celebrate this un-natural event, one from the vaults..


The Air is Tired Here (Redux)


The air is tired here,

from all these hi-rotation repetitions,

From the hum of electrical discharge,

The hammering/ the distortion,

The furious pounding against the

No-where door of Nothing.


The air is tired here

From these instrumentalities,

Each Frailty a Fatal flaw

amplified into Bombastic bullshit

by bullying Blowhards

Bludgeoning at our weaknesses,

groping for our wallets and groins.


A fester-ville of futility,

A drunken garbling

Of inarticulate catch-cries

cliches and slogans,

Posturing in endless mirrors

A sewage stew of lumpen gray

That does not sparkle/ has no wit

A sodden mass of cardboard,

Rags and ashes, slogans scrawled

And music stirred with a fork.





reverend profile red

The Reverend Hellfire is..




•September 12, 2016 • Leave a Comment

I was asked the other night by a well-wisher why I wasn’t Famous. At the time I was lost for words (so many reasons!)  but later I realised I should have told them

 the cautionary tale related by the great Parisian poet Charles Baudelaire, entitled ;


The Three Demons


One dark, moonless night long ago, I awakened suddenly from my dreamless sleep, seized by a feeling of overwhelming excitement and anticipation, as though something of tremendous importance was about to happen.

As events were to prove, I was not mistaken.

For, sitting up in, I saw with surprise that set in the dingy wall opposite my bed was a door, where there had never been a door before. Furthermore, from around the edges of this door there streamed a greenish light that illuminated my room with a weird, unworldly hue.

As I sat staring at this inexplicable manifestation, the door slowly swung open. Beyond were revealed steps which descended down, down into a swirling viridian mist. And out of this mist came three Demons. Up the steep steps they came and through the door and into my room, and there they stood before me. And each of them offered me their gifts, if only I would give them my soul in return.


The first Demon was in the form of a jolly fat man, and his name was FORTUNE. He laughed often and when he laughed you could hear the clinking & chinking of metal, as though his vast belly were filled with silver coins. He was clad in loose shimmering robes of gold, but through the gaps in the cloth you could see that his whole body was curiously tattooed with entwined and convoluted figures.

This Demon promised me all the Wealth of the World! Treasures long buried by dead tyrants. Vaults of gold and jewels in anonymous Swiss banks. Stocks that would climb until I sold. Yes, all this would be mine, and all that such wealth could buy, if only I would sell him my soul.

But as he made his sales pitch I was staring in horror at his tattooes, for I could now discern that the twisting figures depicted the forms of starving children. Each was a picture of FAMINE; the round, staring eyes and the xylophone ribs, the distended bellies and the matchstick limbs.

I knew then how those vaults of which the Demon spoke came to be filled with gold, and thus it was with cold contempt

that I declined the Demon’s gift.


Now the name of the second Demon was EROS,

and this creature had something of the androgynous allure of the professional transvestite of the stage, but mixed with the unworldly beauty of a Hindu God.

Its skin was tinged a delicate blue and the scent of perfumes and incense hung about it and the heavy-lidded eyes were rimmed with Kohl. Dressed in fishnets and the latest pop-star fetish-ware, I thought at first it must be wearing stillettoes from the clicking footsteps I heard, but then I observed in fact

that it had hooves instead of feet.


This Demon offered me the Love of whomsoever I desired. Any girl, any woman, any boy could be mine. Any and as many

lovers as I could desire would be mine for the asking. The most unattainable Model, the most blushing virgin. The Demon offered me a life of unending Pleasure and Passion.

But I noticed around the Demons waist a knotted leather belt which filled me with a growing feeling of dread. For from this belt hung many tiny hooks and razor blades, and also curious crystal phials filled with unknown fluids.

From some subconscious part of my brain the suspicion came upon me that these tiny bottles contained sinister potions, poisons and acids. Though I did not understand the purpose or meaning of these blades and hooks and phials, I found myself shivering, and so it was that, stammering as if from cold, I declined the second Demon’s gifts.


The third demon’s name was FAME and she carried a shining, golden trumpet.

Clad in sweeping purple robes, she had the majestic mien of a mature and noble woman whose beauty has not yet faded. She was both beautiful and familiar, like a gracefully aging actress whose fine cheekbones still defy Time.

Wasting no time with words, she merely brought the golden trumpet to her lips and played upon it a single note, and that note carried a name. And Wonder of Wonders, it was my name that was sounded by that Hellish trumpet! Ah and what a note it was! What a pure, pealing, tremendous note it was, a note of brass and thunder, that reverberated with a hundred overtones, and each of them traveled to the furthest reaches of the Universe and back, crossing and recrossing and echoing down the corridors of time.

“Hmm,” I thought,” now that’s tempting.”


Indeed, I was on the point of accepting the Demons gift, when a memory unbidden tapped me on the shoulder and reminded me of when it was that I had last seen this Lady, and who it was I had seen her with, and where. And I remembered all the others with whom she had been seen, all those whom Fame had made her pet, the whole ghastly crew. The unending line of miserable creatures she had had as her consort to strut the red carpet for a season or three. Yes and their follies and their scandals, I remembered, and also how fickle she was with her Favourites and how each had been ultimately discarded in their turn,.

“Well well,” I mocked,” A Strumpet with a Trumpet!”

The Demon winced at that.

“Madame,” I demurred with cold and formal politeness,

“I do not care to be seen with One

who keeps such company as yours”.


At this my last refusal, the three Demons bowed to me, and in serene and stately procession, passed back through the mysterious door, down the steep steps and dissappeared into the swirling green mists. After a moment the door itself swung slowly shut, and the light seeping through its edges gradually faded, till the outlines could no longer be discerned and I found myself once again staring at the blank and dingy wall opposite my bed.

I know not how long I sat there staring mutely at the wall, but I was suddenly brought back to self awareness by the sound of a cock crowing, and startled, I realised that the sky had just begun to lighten on the eastern rim of the world.

Yes at that moment it was as though I had finally fully awakened from a fitful dream, and rememberance of the night’s events flooded my mind.

Instantly I lept from my bed and flung myself to my knees on the floor. There I cried out loudly, my hands raised in supplication,

“Oh mighty Demons! Oh good, kind, wise Demons!

Please come back to me! I’ve changed my mind! Please forgive my arrogance and stupidity! I was a fool to spurn your gifts! Return! Please return! Won’t one of you return?”

But there was only silence. The door remained closed.


That was many years ago now.

And although since then I have repeated my prayer

to the three Demons every single day of my life,

they have never,



Rev meditates, traffic calming




September 2016 handbill red blue


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.

Laughed all the way to the Grave..


REV makes Ipswich a Rewarding Offer

•September 5, 2016 • Leave a Comment


the rev burns



The Reverend Hellfire will be appearing at the Solidarity Kulture Club, at 7.00pm on Tuesday 6th September. Located in the famed STUDIO 188 premises, at 188 Brisbane Street Ipswich, it promises to be an unusually rewarding evening.

For the Reverend is offering his Performance Fees for this event as a Reward for Information leading to the identification of the Ipswich Tree Poisoner, who recently killed a number of mature Fig Trees in an Ipswich Public Park.

 The Reverend hates scumbag tree killers with a passion and will be dedicating a Poem to the poisonous individual in question.

Contact thru Facebook or this web-page. Information treated confidentially.

For more information on this event go to the link below

studio 188