•April 2, 2017 • Leave a Comment



I had a lot of tasks

lined up for the day,

a full schedule in fact

with a plan of attack

and lists.. everything like that.

But then the rain came down,

pouring great buckets and urns

upon the sodden earth,

dissolving my resolve

like a sugar cube dropped

in the salty, salty Sea.


Ah, stuff it! I said, as I stood on the doorstep

rain splashing off the toes of my boots,

the World can get on without me

for awhile, I’m sure.

I’m calling Intermission

from my busy, busy Life.

Normal Services will be resumed shortly.

In the meantime,

I’m going to stay home

and unplug the phone.

Listen to the rain.

Drink a coffee.

Write this poem.



The Reverend Hellfire ..

he writes this stuff.



•March 19, 2017 • Leave a Comment



It was a bad week for Poetry

they tell me.

Odes were down three points

at close of trade,

while Sonnets took a serious tumble

in the Markets.

Even the safe “Blue Chip” Love Poems,

for so long the Gold Standard,

after making allowances for

“Seasonal Adjustments” (Valentines Day),

showed a serious decline in trade.

It was a good week, however,

for Chainsaws and Lawsuits,

whilst trading in Nervous Breakdowns

broke all records,

as Investors seemed keen to invest

heavily in Chemicals of all descriptions.

People Smuggling numbers remained strong.

Adult Literacy was Down but

Gun sales were Up,

proving conclusively,

according to certain hard-headed

spokespersons for “the Realists”,

that while the Pen

may be Mightier than the Sword,

it’s no match for an Assault Rifle.



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.

Recently appointed as a recruiter

for the Volountary Human Extinction Movement.



•March 12, 2017 • Leave a Comment



Poverty sends Poets

down “where they belong”,

down to where Life

can be sold for a Song,

or less..

a Poem.



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.

Wearied wi’ bullshit and fain would lie down.


THE RIVER- A Gothic Tale

•March 5, 2017 • Leave a Comment

The Mask (detail) by Rev Hellfire

The River (a gothic tale)


“Tonight the River

looked so cool & black

She reminded me of you,”

I told her,

“The way you always slink around so slow,

those slender curves casually carving

a serpentine course

both placid and powerful

thru the landscape of my living room.

Dressed in shades of Obsidian

(the coolest thing this side of Oblivion),

your pale skin shimmers like the Moon

or the Halogen Lights reflected

on those dark and silent waters”.

She sank down deep in thought

at my strange Tribute,

her straying fingers lit a cigarette like

wavelets from a passing river boat,

the rhythmical movements

rippling along mysterious riverbanks

soft with Midnight moss.


If you sought her in the Mountains,

I thought later,

far from the city night, you would see

she is a young and silly river still

as she rills her sinuous,

curious way to the Sea.

Somewhere giggling streams arise in meadows

and glide smooth as oiled osmosis

over rainforest rocks,

manifesting rainbows in the spray,

as she inexorably winds her way

through tea-tree tinted creeks

to mangrove deltas funky

with the ripe scent of organic processes,

making toward whatever Ocean

that it is she seeks.


But for now we are far from the Sea,

and it cools the weary eyes

of thirsty travellers

to rest them awhile

on these dark, midnight waters,

and contemplate drowning in them.

Careful where you wade my friends,

here Narcissus met his end,

Broken Glass, brittle barbs

and old, discarded needles lie

beneath the black, omnivorous mud

that can swallow you slowly

or at a gulp

as the Tide turns quickly around you..

Yes, beneath the River’s dreaming, mirror surface

are hidden depths you would never suspect,

and it is here she hides her secrets;

and her silent thoughts protects..








The Reverend Hellfire is a  respected, former frontline journalist who covered the late 20th century Poetry Wars that erupted in fashionable inner-city enclaves thruout the nineties. In his retirement he has taken to cultivating and catalogueing the rare fungi that grow in his under-ground Doomsday bunker. Currently under siege for the 325th day by Federal Authorities for failure to pay parking fines, he has emerged as a spokesperson for the Mentally Unbalanced throughout the World.

Takes no prisoners.



•February 26, 2017 • 1 Comment




Where is my shaker

Where is my spear

Where is my Tribe

I’ve got no idea.

I’ve been walking

for ten thousand years,

think that I lost them

Somewhere back there.


Where is my Culture

Where is my Race

Where is my History

sunk without trace.

Now I’m a Nomad

but live in City

Half Cosmopolitan

Half Refugee.


Where is my Future

Where is my Past

Where is the Present

it didn’t last.

Where is my Ritual

Where is my Art

Where is the Dreaming

Deep in my Heart.



Come Join the Reverend Hellfire and Friends today at..






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.

He’s the sort of guy you pocket dial in an emergency.



•February 19, 2017 • Leave a Comment


The Great


How do Historians decide

which Leaders get to be called “Great”?

Yes how to measure Greatness,

how to calibrate,

which Achievements have the Gravitas

to be given such Weight?

Do they weigh the tonnes of Gold they’ve stolen

or ‘tick off ‘ the Towns in total taken,

or is it just the count of Non-Combatants killed?

Perhaps it’s a question of Volume

and the quarts of Blood that’s spilled.

(which mixed with Mud

makes up the Ink

to write the Lies with which

the pages of old History’s filled).


Still, how dull the Past without

the antics of the Great,

towering like techni-colour Giants

above the Black & White Second-Rate.

Their Appetites are huge, we watch in Awe

as they devour whole countries

for a snack,

and even their most fickle Whims

move men and muster armies for attack.

And after Their Tragic Fall they change

the very Land itself, leaving like Gods

named after them

rivers, towns and mountains.

And only then do the Whispers start

that the Great Man was Insane.

Oh Pray, my friends,

yes Pray we do not

see their like again.


Pompey the Great. Marble. Beginning of the 1st century A.D. Inv. No. 733. Copenhagen, New Carlsberg Glyptotek.







The Reverend Hellfire is

etc etc..


In Which We Meet Fire, The Artist

•February 12, 2017 • Leave a Comment


In Which We Meet Fire, the Artist


Candles and Pills don’t mix!

I warned her,

but that was before the curtains

gently brushed the guttering candles

and awoke some crazy, abstract Artist

who daubed the whole room with flames.


Her house mates woke

and dragged her outside just in time

to stand a barefoot lawn in the frosty dawn,

but she went groggily stumbling back on in

to retrieve something or other.

I don’t know what,

money, clothes, a cat..


Didn’t come back out,

Fire, the Artist,

had reduced her to a charcoal sketch.






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.

Oh! The Humidity!