•May 28, 2017 • 2 Comments



Time carves the hollow, fluted bone

and leaves it standing on it’s own

a testament to that which lasts

after Times running sands have passed.


See how little there remains,

the flesh scoured clean by granite grains,

like ancient poets, whose works fragment,

..lines are lost..the meaning meant?





The Reverend Hellfire..

gets paid for being himself


THREE TRICK LIMMERICK (with introduction)

•May 21, 2017 • Leave a Comment


Ah, is there any form of Poetry easier for a lazy Poet to spout out on a laid-back Sunday afternoon than the humble Limerick? Perhaps it’s just the diluted Irish Blood trickling through my veins, but that old 5 Line/AABBA rhyme scheme just seems to write itself once you’ve introduced your Subject Matter into the First Line, reduced, of course, to the sing-song 8 or 9 syllables required by Tradition.

The Second Line is generally a further development of the Subject Matter introduced in the First Line, forming a rhythmic & Rhymic Couplet. A classic example is the old favourite; “There was a young man from Nantucket/ Who married a girl with a bucket..” etc.

Going all Hegelian here, if the opening couplet is the Thesis, then lines 3 & 4 are Antithesis, and it is here that complications, logical corollaries and plot developments from the initial Proposition arise. By shortening these two lines length to 5 – 6 syllables each, a sense of Urgency is engendered that propels the Limerick to the inevitable Synthesis of the Fifth Line where the plot lines come together and resolve. The return in the Fifth to the longer line length of the opening lines, also gives the Listener a satisfactory sensation of both rhythmic and thematic closure. The humour of the Fifth often takes the form of wry understatement, or an Anti-Climactic Conclusion, perhaps undermining the pretensions of the protagonists, an in-joke shared between Reader & Limericist at their expense. The revolutionary potential of this form of seditious subtext is obvious and was often exploited by Feudal Poets to undermine the Medieval Paradigm.  Feudal Tyrants as a result greatly feared the Power of Satiric Poetry, and at times the Limerick was banned. Such Prohibitions, naturally enough, only made the Limerick more popular

From these few preliminary words, the thoughtful reader will no doubt swiftly come to the realisation that the much despised and disparaged Limerick, is as complex and disciplined a minimalist poetic form as the much over-rated Haiku.

Indeed, the Limerick may prove to be more versatile, for example, how often have you heard a Haiku that made you laugh?

No, Haiku are always full of themselves, pompous and Po-faced,

while the Limerick, tho generally light-hearted, is also a comfortable vessel for Satire, and the Laughter of Satire, is after all, naught but a Shield against the Tears of Tragedy.



There was a young soldier called Stan,

Who went to Afghanistan,

He took so much Smak

That when he got back,

He went straight on the Methadone plan.


Stan thought about things for awhile,

And then with a shrug and a smile,

He used his contacts

To import lots more Smak,

(Well, that’s what they said at his Trial).


So Stan hired a Lawyer from Hell,

His court case was going real well,

Till the Cops played the Tapes,

And now he gets raped

Every night in his Prison Cell.

Afghani Opium Fields next to Britain’s “Camp Bastion”





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.

Cheap at the Price.



•May 14, 2017 • Leave a Comment



This one’s for the Bad Seeds.


This one’s for the Motherless Sons

and Daughters.

Yeah, this Poem’s for the Disinherited,

the Despised and Rejected,

all the Outcasts from a Hearth

that gave no warmth.

This poem’s for the kids

whose mother never wanted them,

dumped in an Institution

or kept but never loved.

This poem’s for the kids

whose mother blamed them for

the Failures in their own Life,

always projecting their Disappointment

and Frustrated Ambitions in a thousand insidious ways.


This poem’s for the kids who spent their childhood

in Boarding School, frightened, alone and brutalised.

This poem’s for everyone on Mother’s Day

who suffers thru the cloying, pastel coloured

marketing ritual, while wondering what’s wrong with them

when really it’s just that their mother

was a cold-hearted, unfeeling Bitch

who left them damaged.

This poem’s for Grendel, alone and misunderstood.

This poem’s for Woody Allen

and every other Jewish/Irish/Italian/

Matriarchal-Peasant Mother’s Son,

whose self-Esteem suffers Death by a Thousand Cuts

in the Movies for our amusement.

Laugh till you Weep,

or Vice Versa.

 I’ll laugh with you, Brother,



This poem’s for the Stoned,

that the Builders rejected.

Go now. Show them,

that you are to be Respected.

Build a Mighty Temple out of Spite.

Polar Bear eats own young in Zoo. Click photo to link to article. Happy Mothers’ Day.




Hey there Friends and Followers. Yer ole pal the Rev has been nominated for an award in recognition of his many years of selfless labours in the service of the Muse! Gosh!

In fact it’s the 2017 Paul Sherman Community Poetry Award, no less, “in recognition of individuals who have significantly contributed to Queensland’s current poetry culture.”

The Rev’s nomination it appears, is due mainly to his work with Community Arts group KICI (Kurilpa Institute of Creativity Inc) & the Kurilpa Poets, whose activities can be followed at..

The Prize is decided by Public Acclaim, apparently, so if you want to show your support for the Rev’s work, go to the link below to register your vote. The Reverend thanks 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 Humanism

AND the Church of the Universe.

You really get your moneys’ worth.


Re: EMAIL from a Master poet

•May 7, 2017 • 2 Comments

EMAIL from A Master Poet

Being a few thoughts on the Creative Process, Habits & the Dangers of Passive Smoking to the Third Person Singular..


And so another Sunday Afternoon is upon us,

and finds your humble correspondent and narrator,

the notorious Reverend Hellfire no less, locked once more in deadly combat with his traditional Adversary, Sunday’s Sermon.

For it is a rare Sermon that flies from his pen (or stumbles dyslexically from his keyboard) that is produced without the requisite amount of artistic angst, anxiety, self-doubt and, not least of these attendant corollaries, Creative Vacillation.

Such Vacillating is of course, a necessary part of what (swapping deftly here from the Third to the First Person) I like to think of as “the Creative Process“. Oh, it may look like procrastination, laziness, lack of focus, ADD, brain damage, hangover or a drug stupor to the untrained eye, but really it’s just the Amazing Brain, running through it’s many algorythms, lining everything up just right, like a billiard player trying to pull off the impossible shot.

Of course all this takes Time, which has to be filled in somehow, but fortunately I’m easily distracted.

Thus today, for example, I’ve managed successfully to procrastinate my way through the entire morning without writing a Word, by eating biscuits and watching old movies, even though the Guilt and associated Cognitive Dissonance, grows with every minute, and even some residual Work Ethic is threatening to kick in, if I don’t justify my existence on the planet for another week and freaking write something NOW!

Yes, all seems quiet, but the Psychic Tension of Things Undone has been building all day, like a bank of Thunderclouds looming on the horizon, and now has almost reached the Critical Mass where, in a torrential down-pouring of words I will actually write Something at last (or crack up completely and gibbering turn myself into the local Psych-Ward.)

It’s about here Procrastination makes a Last Stand

and I start sending random people aimless emails

instead of doing the work to hand..


Oh, “Hi“, by the way, and “how’s it going?”

Did I say that before?

No matter.

Introductory Salutations are out of Fashion anyway

in this Era of Blunt Utilitarianism.


Ahh! I really love my “Creative (coughs) Cycle”, the giddying Highs! The terrifying Lows. The Manic Obsessions, the Dissociative States! Yes it’s as powerful as any Drug and I’m quite addicted to it in a twisted, masochistic sort of way, for I am, after all, a Creature of Habit/s. Almost as good as Sugar. Or Tobacco. Speaking of which, I wish I had some now. (here pauses to inspect under fingernails for tobacco residue..spots a deposit and starts sucking feverishly on the nicotine stained digit).

I babble but its mainly cos, if I can stall a little longer, my Dear Daughter will be sticking her head around the door, demanding her daily driving lesson and I’ll be busy being bullied by her into taking a white knuckle ride thru peak hour traffic. Hmm should I take the car with poor brakes and steering, or the one with the worn clutch and the gears she can’t operate properly?

Decisions, decisions.

I think as a responsible Family Man

I’ll take the car with the brakes.

The price I’ll pay for this deferment of the pointy end of the writing business, will no doubt be another lecture on the evils of smoking, et al.. My daughter alas, not understanding the role of such things in the Creative Process, is a gullible shill for the Anti-Smoking Industry, and is forever badgering me with their ever proliferating propaganda campaign on the dangers of 2nd, 3rd, 4th, & 7th to the Third Power-Hand Passive Smoking. It’s getting to the point where my mere existence somewhere in the Universe will be having a detrimental affect on her health.

Perhaps, I mused, considering my current lack of tobacco, I could find a commercially viable way to extract all the nicotine she’s absorbed passively over the years from being in my Presence, or near it, or in a room I once sat in. That’s me Folks, exuding toxins like a poison toad in a pond, befouling all..

On reflection this is far too funny for mere correspondence, I should save my “A” material for my Sermon. Or I could just bung this whole rant up sans proof reading or editing or spelchek and call it ART.

or something like that..

PS; Wish me luck for the drive .

PPS; Doesn’t the condemned man get a last cigarette?

Part 2

Re: Re:EMAIL from a Master Poet.

We’re back, alive and still talking to each other.

Yeah come over and distract me further. maybe I’ll let you write today’s sermon.


When you’re walking over here, please check out the gutters and bus stops for any good cigarette butts you see..

the condemned man will smoke recycled butts if necessary.

I know it’s been raining but it’s ok if they’re a bit damp.

I can always dry them out over a desk lamp or alternatively I’ll just boil them up into a health-some broth,

or “Bowl of Brown” as it used to be called

by country folk in the old days. Yes, nothing like a Bowl of Brown to keep you warm on a cold Winters’ morn..

Mmm. I just ate something Sugary to give me the will to go on..sweet synapses lighting up in the Pleasure Circuits of the Brain like glowing valves in an overheated switchboard

now i want more sugar!

More I say,



Tsk. No Self Control at all.

Looking forward to seeing you and the cigarette butts soon. In fact, you should leave now!

 Seriously tho, If yr’e walking from the Station, text n I’ll pick you up, even if you have no recycled tobacco products.

Now that (apostrophe)s Love! Hmm, the Sugar must be wearing off.. now i feel sad again. sighs, looks wistfully out of window.. Must be time for some Caffeine.

The Holy Trinity; Sugar, Nicotine, Caffeine



The Reverend Hellfire is..




•April 30, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Ah, what is more ephemeral than Youth?! Perhaps a Haiku?



Summer girls float by,

all slender legs and

brief skirts bright as Butterflies.




And don’t forget to join the Rev today at the Kurilpa Poets.


The Reverend Hellfire..

The less said the better, really.


TALES FOR CHILDREN; Mr Frogs Heavy Scene! {PG}

•April 23, 2017 • 2 Comments

Fresh from Sunday School, the Reverend shares

this heart-warming, family-friendly fable from the vaults.

Parental Guidance recommended.


Mr Frogs Heavy Scene


Once upon a time Mr Frog was sitting on a lily pad in his favourite swamp, minding his own business, when,

all of a sudden down swooped Mr Pelican in a blinding fury

of flapping feathers and snapping jaws!

Only by gripping on tightly to the beak’s edge,

and wedging himself in the corner of Mr Pelican’s bill,

was the wily amphibian able to prevent himself from being swallowed down whole.

“Hey Dude!”, snarled the struggling Frog,

“Why fuck my day?!”

“Look man..I’m just doing my job”, explained Mr Pelican,

as he attempted to scrape off bits of frog against a sharp rock,

“Don’t take it’s not like I’ve got anything against you People.. I’m not prejudiced or anything, but I’ve got a wife and a nest full of kids waiting for me to come home and regurgitate some predigested frog down their throats. I’ve got obligations, Froggie”.

“What a cop out!”, sneered the Frog, “using the pretext of Social Obligation to avoid accepting Moral Responsibility for the repercussions of your own individual actions. Everyone has kids! So what?  Dr Goebbels had kids, and as a Good Family Man he used Rat-Poison to fulfill his societal obligations! That’s what rigid adherence to strict societal norms will do for you. You should read some Nietzsche, bird-brain.. Ain’t you heard of Free Will?”

“Free Will don’t pay the bills..down you go Froggie!!”

“But can’t you see that this Utilitarian outlook of yours is a philosophical dead end??”

“Mrragghhh..must eat Frog..unng” the bird grunted around the obstruction wedged in it’s throat.

It was becoming clear that Mr Pelican was not a deep thinker. Mr Frog decided to change tack..

“But wait! You can’t just KILL me..I..I’m another person for god’sake! I have feelings and a Soul and a Mother and Hopes and Dreams! If you cut me, do I not bleed? If you swallow me, am I not fucked Big-time?”

“Come on, give me a break..can’cha go eat some Worms or something? Worms don’t even have a central nervous system yet alone a Personality!”

“Or Krill!”, the desperate amphibian continued, “How about a Krill diet? No moral conflict there, even hard-core Jains who’ve given up water in case it contains microbes and use cow-dung for wallpaper will eat Krill. There’s not enuff ‘Entry Level’ Sentience in a bucket-load of Krill

to even animate a Talk-show host!”


“Don’t go Anthropomorphic on me Frog!” Mr Pelican pompously replied, “By assigning human feelings and attributes to a lower Life-Form you’re merely projecting your own value system and romanticising the food chain.

It just goes to show how divorced from Reality you latte sipping, inner-city Socialist-greenie types are”.

Mr Frog launched his last gambit..

“Wait! Wait! If you’re not prepared to accept personal responsibility for your actions, you could at least be a Good Bloke and do me a last favour”.

The predatory Pelican paused mid-gulp, the amphibian pinned tightly in his clenched beak..

“Well.. ok”, said Mr Pelican, who was always pathetically eager to be considered a Good Bloke,

“But no tricks! What do you want Frog?”

“Thanks mate! I need to scratch this really bad itch.. could I just rub my groin up and down here against the edge of your beak for a bit? All this stress is really making my Herpes blisters bubble up again. Actually, I think one may have burst..”

Gagging and spluttering, Mr Pelican spat the virally infested amphibian into the bushes and flew away to look for some antiseptic mouth-wash.

And so, tired but happy, Mr Frog hopped home, relieved that his negligence in seeking medical treatment for his distasteful Social Disease had had such beneficial results.


And the Moral (if you could call it that) of the Story is this;






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.

Some sort of  wacko.



•April 16, 2017 • 2 Comments

Deadbeat Jesus


Twenty minutes to Midnight on Easter Saturday

and an ominous silence looms over the city.

God is dead, they tell me,

but don’t worry, he’ll be back on Sunday.

Or possibly he’ll catch up with us in Galilee

for Passover,

at any rate, certainly in our Lifetime.

He told me so himself.

He said he was just going down

to the shops for cigarettes

and that he’d be back before, as he put it:

some standing here taste of death“(Matt 16:8).

Yes, well, we’ve all heard

such excuses before. And would it really be

so surprising then, if the Big J turned out

to be the spiritual equivalent

of the “Dead-beat Dad”?

Look at his background after all,

it’s no wonder he had “Father issues”;

an unmarried teenage Mother,

a Father-figure so often absent

he was nicknamed “the Ghost”,

Poor relationship with his Step-dad

(a considerably older

man with financial problems

and trouble with the Authorities),

the Family moving around a lot,

living in trailer-parks, never

settling in one spot for long..

So like many another troubled youth

he rebelled, ditched his carpentry apprenticeship

and joined a Cult, that,

as is Standard Operating Procedure

with these sort of Outfits,

encouraged him to disown his family.

Got to the point that he even drunkenly dissed

his Mother and sisters in public,(Matt 12:48)

when they were attempting an Intervention

to get him out of the Cult’s clutches.

Last I heard he’d completely lost it;

He jumped the counter at Cash Converters and

smashed the cash-register open with a bass guitar

he’d been trying to Hock, then cast the contents of the till

out amongst the startled customers, who,

naturally enough grabbed what they could and ran.

The cops came and dragged him off screaming

how Cash Con. were a Den of Thieves

and a place of Abominations and so on and so forth.

He defended himself in court

so naturally they crucified him,

but Legal Aid got the sentence reduced

on Appeal, to 240 hours Community Service ,

after presenting a Psych Report

which painted a dismal picture

of his difficult and disadvantaged childhood.

Didn’t see much of him after that

and now it seems he’s gone completely AWOL.

Just as well he didn’t have kids really,

this sort of family dysfunction

can easily become an intractable, inter-generational

social problem (Kings 15:30)

and next thing you know

they’re all on Pensions,

with the Nanny State acting in loco parentis,

just another Welfare burden

supported by your tax dollars.


It really makes you think, doesn’t it?



The Reverend Hellfire..

he’s a bad, mad man

and dangerous to get into a conversation with.