•February 18, 2018 • Leave a Comment



Did you know that King Midas, famously the most fabulously wealthy Man of his Day,

was also notorious for having the ears of an Ass?

Of course you know. Everyone knows that.

The whole world in fact probably knows the story of how

King Midas came to be gifted with the ears

of a common Ass (Equus asinus.)

But have you ever thought about how it is you came to know the story of Ass-eared Midas?

The Story itself is quite straight forward.

Midas, of course, wasn’t born with Asses’ Ears, and neither was he the monstrous offspring of some unnatural coupling. No, his parents, though King and Queen, were otherwise unexceptional people, and he himself was born with a normal, and not unsightly, set of very human ears.

In fact, as young Prince Midas grew up, his ears earned him  the reputation of being somewhat of a Musical Connoisseur. An enthusiastic amateur musician himself,

his hearing was said to have “perfect pitch“, he would sometimes invite famous Musicians over to “jam” at the Palace, to the dismay of Royal Security. He attended every Concert and Opera, every Choir performance and Symphony

every Barn-dance and Hoot-nanny. In short every musical event.

Indeed, so great was the fame of this gifted amateur,

that the Gods themselves once came to seek his opinion

and settle a dispute between the Immortals…

For Pan and Apollo had one day fallen to drunkenly arguing over who was the better Musician; Goat-legged Pan with his haunting Pipes, or golden-haired Apollo with his famous Lyre.

Gods being Gods, neither would yield and the argument grew so vexed that it threatened to start landslides and earthquakes rocking Mt Olympus itself! So Zeus, ever eager for a quiet life in which to pursue inappropriate office relationships in the guise of Barnyard animals, told the squabbling Deities to back off. There would be a divine Competition between the two, He decreed, and Zeus made them both promise to accept the Judge’s ruling.

But who was to judge? At first they asked the Muses, but they wisely demurred, as did the Graces and so the Gods ultimately settled on the mortal but gifted Midas.

Midas was King by this stage and you would have thought that would be enough for him. But no, his Vanity urged him on, Hubris was at the wheel, and so he unwisely accepted the Gods’ invitation to act as Judge in this Heavenly Talent Competition. Perhaps if he’d recalled the strange fate of the renowned Poet/Prophet Tiresias (to be related in a Sunday Sermon coming to you soon!) when s/he got involved in the Disputes of Gods, Midas might have re-considered. But as I said, Hubris was at the wheel, and we all know about his driving skills.

So they gathered, the Gods and Midas, in some Sylvan nook, and Apollo began to play his Lyre and sing;

lovely melting melodies, swelling tones and echoes swirled & reverberated through-out the woodlands. The wild creatures came out of the wood and sat at the Apollo’s feet, entranced and entrapped. The trees themselves wept.

The wild birds came down out of the skies and sat upon the singing God’s shoulders, and they did not defecate, as birds are wont to do, so captivated were they by the Immortal’s Music.

But then Pan impatiently stamped his hoof, 1-2-3-4! and started playing some way-out tune, pulsating and rhythmic and wild, like someone was playing Inna-Gadda-da-Vida and Toccata & Fugue all together at once on some mighty, old-world Cathedral Organ with massed rows of pipes towering like tree-trunks to the vaulted roof.

Then the birds shat on Apollo’s shoulders and took off into the air, careering in dizzying loops above the Great Goat-legged Pan as he danced and played and strutted and stamped. Indeed, everyone, Gods, beasts, Midas himself, all felt compelled to dance when Great Wild Pan was playing.

Finally he stopped, and Midas, who always loved a good knees-up and was swept away by the excitement of it all, recklessly declared Pan to be the greatest musician amongst the Gods!

Well the crowd of Gods went Mad with Mirth

and Pan led the whooping, mocking Gods off on a riotous, drunken Victory Parade. Apollo however, never a good Loser, stayed behind to shirt-front Midas, grabbing him by the neck of his Tunic, twisting it and lifting the gasping Royalty off the ground to ensure his total attention while he was being cursed.

“Ass! You have the musical taste of a Donkey! And an Ass like you should be properly equipped to listen to the goat “music” you love so much!” bellowed the Angry God, and saying thus he bestowed on Midas a long, luxurious pair of black and hairy Asses’ Ears!

When Midas saw his reflection in a stream he was convulsed with embarrassment. The Royal Dignity could not cope with such a thing! How could he be King if everyone was laughing at Him? He’d be deposed! Or forced to abdicate. There was nothing else to do but to try and hide his predicament.

So from that day forth Midas would only appear in public with an elegant, bejeweled turban wrapped around his head to hide the bestial ears that brought him so much embarrassment.

Not even his wives and children knew his secret. He would wear his jewel-encrusted turban even in the royal chambers. At first he only removed the turban when alone in his private quarters, and no-one knew his secret. But his hair and beard kept growing, and as it was beneath the dignity of a King to do his own grooming, he was forced to take his barber into his confidence. Still, the fellow was but a lowly servant, he could be forced into silence.

The Barber was shocked when Midas revealed his enormous Asses’ Ears, and paralysed with Fear when Midas explained all the terrible things that would happen to the Barber and his Family if he should ever be so unwise as to hint..Just HINT, mind you..that their All Powerful, Wealthy and Respected King.. to ANYONE, I said..had the ludicrously elongated Ears of an Ass.

So the barber would cut the King’s hair and pretend not to notice the two hairy Asses’ Ears, and he never said a word about it to a Living Soul.

This went on for many years, but the pressure of having to keep this enormous Secret to himself was driving the Barber insane. So one dark night, making sure he wasn’t followed, he went out into the woods and dug a hole next to a lake. Looking around cautiously he ascertained there was not a creature stirring as far as he could see or hear.

“My Ears are Burning!”

So the barber knelt down next to the little hole that he had dug by the side of the lake,

and he whispered into it,

just once,

ever so quietly,

“King Midas has Asses’ Ears!”

Then he filled in the hole with sand again,

smoothed it over and made it look as though

a hole had never been there.

Then he went home and slept soundly for the first time in years, now that the terrible burden of carrying this Secret had been relieved.



..there were seeds in the hole where the Barber had whispered, who knew the secret now and they grew into reeds waving in the breeze by the lake, and the reeds told the breeze and She told her four  Sisters and they spread the ludicrous gossip to the far corners of the Earth..”King Midas has Asses Ears!

Soon all the birds and beasts were whispering and chittering about it and finally even the stupid humans, who are always slow to pick things up, came to hear about it too.

Thereafter Midas only ever appeared in Public once,

and when it became clear  from the sniggering and smirks that everyone knew about his embarrassing Ears, he went and locked himself in a Tower for the rest of his Life, issuing his Royal commands and orders through a slot in the door.

ENVOI; People usually expect you to tack a moral onto the Tale at this stage, but I think that really it speaks for itself.

So I’ll just say this;


It’s all a matter of taste really.




The Reverend Hellfire ..

His Achilles Heel is his Feet of Clay.




•February 11, 2018 • Leave a Comment

There were many worthy themes available for Sunday Sermons to pursue this week; the Government has removed codeine from the shelves as part of their

visionary program to inflict more pain on the Australian Public, the long awaited sequel, “The Great Magician Part 2” still yearns to be Complete (much as a Magicians’ Assistant who’s been sawn in half but not yet re-joined might yearn for closure), not to mention last week’s Big Asteroid that nearly destroyed us all, etc  etc et al. But at the end of the day, we just couldn’t resist having a kick at Barnaby while he’s down.



It’s been a great week for train-crash ghouls
and rubber-neckers this week,as the spectacular disaster
that is Deputy Prime Minister and National Party Leader Barnaby Joyce’s political disintegration, continues to provide entertainment in glorious, slow motion techni-colour and 5.1 surround sound.
Even your humble narrator must confess to a certain amount of Schaden Freude at seeing this ignorant, red-neck bully and blusterer get a bit of come-uppance after enduring years of soundbites of his self-serving bullshit.

Curiously, whilst they are no doubt indulging in a bit of off-stage gloating, the ALP Opposition have opted to go soft on “Barnyard’s” philandering and hypocrisy. Rather than roasting him on any of the questionable aspects of this sexual relationship with a now-pregnant office staffer 20 years younger than himself, they have focused on a narrow legalistic approach, merely scrutinising the books to see if any of this was carried on at Public Expense. Meantime they make sanctimonious mutterings about the sanctity of Politicians’ Private Lives and isn’t it terrible how intrusive the media is these days?

The suspicion of course arises that they have their own skeletons in the cupboard which they are not keen to see set rattling by a gust of fresh air or general inquiry.

noted Labor Party root-rats

Indeed, the Labor Party have long had form in this regard. Bob Hawke was a noted root-rat in his day, while the Cairns/Morosi affair ended that particular Deputy Prime Minister’s career trajectory in spectacular fashion. Colourful Al Grassby managed to keep his Mistress of 26 years, Angela Chan, out of the papers until his funeral, whilst Senator Evans’ seduction & destruction of Cheryl Kernot is still the stuff of legend where-ever ALP staffers gather.
However, I myself have no such constraints as, in this regard at least, my conscience is clear. So, “Barnyard”..maaate. Let me put a few things to you:

If for years it suits your purpose to use your happy-smiling-family as a political prop, utilising them incessantly in electoral material and Photo Opportunities so you can promote an image of yourself as “Mr Family Man” for political gain, well then, mate, you can’t cry for “Privacy” or cop out with a “Personal Issue” plea when your carefully-constructed-for-public-consumption Image starts to crack and crumble under the harsh weight of sordid, seedy Reality.
If you’re going to push yourself as “Mr Traditional Family Values” or “Mr Sanctity of Marriage” and seek to lay down the Law as a Moral Arbiter of other people’s relationships, then you shouldn’t be surprised when the Public start taking an interest in your own failure to live up to your loudly professed Moral Code..

if only I’d kept my dick in my pants

If you’re posing as a paragon of moral virtue and occupying a senior Government position and start an adulterous affair (that’s what they call it in your religion) with one of your office underlings, breaking those oh so important “marriage vows”, then that is a matter of Public Interest.
It is especially a matter of Public Interest when your extra-marital affair becomes so disruptive to the workings of your Publicly Funded Office that staff resign or find themselves forced to take sides.
When you apparently use your influence to have a colleague create a $191,000 paid-for-by-the-Public position for your girlfriend (a job which did not exist before and disappeared after her tenure) then that is rightly a matter of Public Interest.
It’s a matter of Public Concern when it appears a ministerial shuffle of colleagues was used as an opportunity to punish those who disapproved of your extra-marital activities.

When you shack up with your girlfriend in a rent-free luxury apartment gifted to you by a Business (Transport & Property) “mate” when you say you’re staying with your sister because of the tragic break-up of your marriage, then it’s a matter of Public Interest.
If you seek to hide these facts or delay their becoming public knowledge before  an important by-election takes place, in the hope of minimising the political impact of those revelations so you can perpetuate your political career for another three years and continue propping up an increasingly shaky government, then that becomes a matter of Public Concern.
The secrecy and dishonesty with which these clandestine relationships are pursued are a matter for Public disdain. This is not about the personal problems of a hapless politician, or an innocent “Office Romance”, this is about People in Power living by one set of standards, while hypocritically preaching another.



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.

“Oh the brave sound of a distant drum!”


FORGOTTEN FESTIVALS 2018, Kerbside Cleanup

•February 4, 2018 • Leave a Comment

Despite every technological stuff up possible, the Reverend burns thru two lapstops and a desk computer to bring you todays heart-warming sermon.

Forgotten Festivals 2018-

The Kerbside



Ritual and Routine have always been the twin poles

around which human society revolves. Even the wanderings of the Nomads, apparently aimless to the sedentary folk of the cities, follow a strict observance to the seasons and the Sun, regular as the tides in their peregrinations.

So it is, if I might continue the analogy, that on the great Clock of our Life, whilst the Minute-hand of day to day-Routine ticks by unremarked, there comes a point in the Great Cycle of the Hour-hand where it comes round to the top of the clock once more, and is there joined by the Minute and Second hands. (this is an old-fashioned “grandfather-clock” kiddies, none of your rinky-dink digital readouts for me!)
On such auspicious occasions, regular tho infrequent, it is only right to mark the occasion by the ritual setting off of the “Chimes of Festivity” (and perhaps also a ritual springing of the “Wooden Cuckoo of Absurdity”).
Anyway, all this tortuous analogising is by way of introduction to the real subject of today’s sermon; the annual Council “kerbside clean-up”.

For it is a condition of modern urban life that even the poorest amongst us collect far more stuff than we can fit into the rubbish bin. “Stuff” just accumulates the longer you stay in one place it seems. Packaging, stacks of newspapers, appliances that don’t quite work, dead toys, furniture that’s been replaced but you can’t quite bring yourself to throw it away because it might come in handy one day, lumbar off-cuts, exercise bikes used once then discarded, outdated computer monitors, sentimental gee-gaws, etc., etc.
Now despite their own tendencies to anal-retentiveness, Brisbane Council bureaucrats can’t stand the idea of people living quietly in their own midden heaps, and so once a year thereabouts, a Council Collection occurs, where people can clutter up the footpath with any old piece of crap that doesn’t fit into a bin and special contractors hired for the occasion haul it all away. But before our collective detritus is safely out of sight and out of mind, a Festival of the Forgotten, a veritable Orgy of repurposing takes place!.
Now this of course is not a “real” or recognised Festival. In theory it is no more than a mundane civic service provided by a Council focused purely on reducing fire-hazards and rats’ nests. But human nature has transformed it into a sort of Potlatch, or perhaps some sort of primordial communal swap-meet.

In theory the Council sends around a leaflet a couple of weeks beforehand telling you what date the trucks are coming down your street and instructing you to put your stuff neatly (2 x 2 meters only) on footpath the weekend before. Then the contracted Removalists appear promptly on said date, toss it all into huge trucks where it is compacted and taken away to become toxic landfill.
What really happens is that at the first whiff of a Kerbside Collection, people start hauling their old couches and refrigerators out onto the street. Someone leaves a couple of boxes outside their house, someone else sees it and thinks, “Must be time”, and does likewise. Other copycats follow suit and soon the footpaths are narrowing like cholesterol thickened arteries.
Untidy barricades of chicken wire, offcuts, and old plastic plant pots are erected outside every house. They make me want to stand astride these makeshift Golgothas, legs akimbo, waving a Black Flag and crying “Non Pasaran! Viva Anarchia!” (Yes the Spirit of the Eureka Stockade still runs through my veins).

Anyhoo, as I said previously, in theory the contracted Council trucks turn up on a certain day to remove said rubbish. In reality they just get to pick at the bones of this moveable feast, cleaning up after everyone else has finished. For the Kerbside Collection is an unofficial Festival where we all get to sort thru everyone’s rubbish to see if there’s anything we can use. Because a lot of the time the stuff isn’t actually broken, people have just upgraded and this is their way of sharing. Indeed, in my younger student days many is the shared-house I lived in that furnished itself largely through the Kerbside Collection.

First up usually are the professional scavengers, cruising the streets like sharks in old Utes and battered flat-top trucks. This species follows the Collection from suburb to suburb, looking for raw materials to recycle. Some specialise in metal, some in timber. Some look out for battered washing machines to fix up or old computers to cannibalise.

The ones that really piss me (and others) off though, are the scavengers after copper wire. This species of bottom-feeder come along and cut the copper power leads off any appliance on the heaps, whether they work or not. This is extremely annoying as many people put such items out still in working order in the hope that someone else can use them. It’s not unusual thus to see a hand written sign on an old TV or stereo, saying something like:




But the copper scavengers have a poor sense of etiquette and generally ignore such signs.

You start to notice more of the neighbours taking walks, sauntering along, discretely surveying the commodities, and coming home as often as not with a lampstand or a fish-tank. The weekend before the pick-up the party atmosphere reaches a peak as the rubbish piles engulf the footpaths and everyone in the area is out and about sorting through the debris. Some are looking for something in particular – corrugated iron for a chook shed say, whilst others are just “browsing”. Some objects make their appearance many times, as first one person then another takes it home only to subsequently discard it.

One such case is a circular glass table top I picked up at a KC several years ago, thinking to use it for an Art project. Somehow the project never materialised, so this year in a fit of house-cleaning virtue I tossed it back out onto the street. The next day of course it was gone but subsequently I spied it sitting in the yard of a student-house down the street, along with a decrepit barstool that my next door neighbour had discarded.

I expect I’ll see that tabletop on the street again someday, after this lot of students have moved on.

The Council bureaucrats of course frown upon this habit of the townsfolk creating their own Festival of Recycling and do their best to discourage it. I believe they even made it an offence at one stage to interfere with the mounds of others’ discarded property. The good people of the town of course couldn’t care less and carried on regardless. Some with middle-class pretensions perhaps will wait till after dark to steal out and make their acquisitions, but

myself I’m not so proud. I see it as a virtue to re-use something that was being dumped instead of buying something new. However I do try to make it a strict rule not to bring home more stuff than I throw out.

Unless I see something really good of course. Like that old couch down the road, it’s still in pretty good nick. And those timber off-cuts next to it could come in handy too ..and that roll of chicken wire is..



The Reverend Hellfire.



My Blue Cup Runneth Over

•January 28, 2018 • Leave a Comment

My Blue Cup Runneth Over


The breeze wrapped like

a silken shawl around my shoulders,

sand & surf slipping

like satin between my toes.

Naked the Sun warmed

old bones thru and thru as though

they were swathed in wool,

whilst all the while the wine dark Sea

lapped at the wide World’s furthest rim,

a blue cup always full.



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.

Use only as directed.


Once More the Land

•January 21, 2018 • Leave a Comment

Introduction;26th january 2018;

And so Australia/Invasion/Survival Day approacheth once more in this the year of 2018CE,

and once more also I ritually lay before my humble audience this prophetic lament “The Land”, a threnody of language writhing in anguish and angst, a shamanistic protest and a promise.

When I first wrote this poem thirty years ago there was little public discontent about the date of our national holiday. But slowly over the decades, bit by bit, more and more Australians are starting to question the wisdom of having ourcelebration of national unity on the date a British Empire military expedition founded a penal colony and started stealing the Land from the natives. It’s just in bad taste really. This year those who are uncomfortable with this exercise will be gathering in every capital city to register their objections, and I will be there too.

Why don’t you join us?

PROLOGUE 2008; I wrote this poem on Australia Day on Australia’s Bi-centenary,

It is, as you will come to see, a kind of prophecy,

Now some decades later, you may judge as to its accuracy..

The Land


They would not curse the Land

Though we pushed them to the edges of Extinction

in our frantic exploitation..

They loved it far too much for that.

They would not lay down trapdoor, tripwire Curses,

Or poison waterholes,

Just told us in words

We would not learn to hear

For at least Two Hundred years,

That the Land will hate you if you won’t listen..

Bad Luck to try and harm the Land.

The Land will hate you if you try!”

It WAS the Land itself that rose up,

Long after the Others had been led away,

in neck irons to prisons, graveyards,

shanty-towns & slums.

It turned against us when we tried to tame it,

Grains would not grow

where once were plains of waving grasses.

Cattle starved where once the native animals

prospered. Where trees were razed,

and cities raised the rain no longer fell.

The old paintings were not renewed

And the seasons fell apart.

We remembered nothing of the Others knowledge,

Disdained and forgot what “Savages” knew,

We went and made the Land a jail

Of rectangles and cubes,

And prison farms

To be worked behind barbed wire.

Unloved the Land curled in upon itself

And showed us only its Indifference.

Hostile as we blundered sweating

Through a landscape made of heat and dreams,

Cursing in our desperation

A Land we never tried to understand.

We ignored its Warnings, its Mysteries,

Its Beauty and were glad

to be content with a vision bland

One vast, unending suburban plan. *

Rose up against us.

Would suffer no more Indignities.

Shook the poisons from the air

with the Wind Wings of Storm,

Washed our filth from the rivers

With cleansing floods

and swept the whole Land clean

of all our petty flod-plain clutterings whilst we cried,


and cursed

the un-naturalness of Nature…

And elsewhere sheep and cattle swarmed

like lice over the denuded hillsides,

‘Til the Land withdrew its blessing

And shriveled hot and dry the hills,

Now wrinkled like the hide of some

Vast Beast of Earth and Drought.


And elsewhere ice fell

Where it never fell before,

Or sun grew hotter than white skins

could bear.

And so it went all across the Land

It seemed all of Nature

Had turned against our hand

As tidal waters washed away

Tall buildings built on sand,

(And where we’d damn a river storing

Water for ONE million souls,

We would increase with little thought

Until our numbers equaled THREE,

then puzzled at our thirst.)

So on and on and on it went,

The Land’s wealth wasted, squandered, spent,

Two hundred years of Arrogance,

Stupidity and Greed,

That finds us gathered here at last

Beneath this flag, a drunken mob of thieves,

Boastful and cruel.

Back slapping, blowing trumpets,

Celebrating, drinking beer,

We march blindfolded backwards

Towards the next two hundred years.

-26th. January, 1988.



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.

“Focus on the Next Thing,

not the Last.”

ANGER ({Redux)

•January 14, 2018 • Leave a Comment

As Brisburg sizzles in the Summer heat-wave, the Sun-maddened Residents are starting to show clear signs of mental stress; brains melt, synapses snap, psychotic breakdowns bloom like rotten weeds, whilst domestic violence statistics soar like a plastic bag caught in an updraft and road rage runs rampant.

Sunday Sermons subsequently feels it appropriate to update & re-issue this classic cautionary tale as a therapeutic measure.

ANGER! {Redux}


Remember when everyone was getting into Anger?


Oh yes, it was the latest, most fashionable

drug on the Market,

and all the cool kids were doing it.

Extracted from the pineal glands

of rare, Amazonian Lizards,

it gave a lordly rush like Speed,

but with a pleasing afterglow

of self-righteousness and nervous agitation

that really made for a nice little chemical cocktail

of lethal emotions.


Ah, Anger! That ancient devil drug

from the depths of the reptile brain!

Putting the entire frontal lobe into lockdown,

as efficiently as a Wasp

paralysing a Spider with its sting.


Habit Forming? I hear you ask.

Well, what do you think?




Sorry about that. A slight relapse,

I’ll call my Sponsor later,

but that’s just the way it was,

that’s just how addictive it was,

The User soon developed a taste

for that animal warmth

flooding the blood,

throbbing thru arteries and veins.

Snorting like an old war-horse,

the Heart awakens to the Chemical’s Clarion Call

and before you knew it,

it’s, “High Ho Silver! And Awayyy!”

and the User was Up riding their High-Horse

down the low road

trampling all before them.

As the Cravings grew

the occasional indulgence on the Weekends

(lashing out at family and friends)

would turn into week long binges

that seriously impeded the workers’ productivity.

At which point the Authorities grew concerned

and passed a raft of harsh new laws

whilst Researchers were directed to discover

if there was a direct correlation

between Anger and Violence.


But as the drug raged like an Epidemic

thru the Nation

no-one seemed immune

to the whole situation,

even the Prime Minister was said

to indulge heavily in Anger

especially after Press Conferences

and Cabinet Meetings,

one former Staffer claiming,

“I’ve never seen someone

have that much before!”

Alas, like all good things in Life

a tolerance to the drug’s charms

soon built up,

and hungry for more Anger,

heavy users took desperate measures

to try and re-invigorate the fading charms

of their favourite Inebriate;

Yes, they’d go and listen to the shock-jocks

on talk-back radio,

Pick fights on Facebook

with anti-vaccinationists

and Climate Change Denial Trolls.

They’d take long, leisurely drives

thru peak hour traffic,

but all to no avail.


Naturally some of them also turned to drugs,

the Mugs, all the ugly drugs of course.

They sculled surly beer by the bitter barrel-full,

blasted barbiturates by the brutal bucket,

shot enough steroids into their arms

for a football team,

inserted amphetamine suppositories

(pop) by the ream,.

They skated on thin Ice

and on Coke,

used every other drug in the Pharmacopoeia

to try and cope, the Dopes,

they were on a sad and slippery slope

on which they all just sort of slid

into a state of surly somnolence.

Because in the end,

all they wanted,

all they really wanted,

was more Anger.




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.

Be Kind.



•January 7, 2018 • Leave a Comment

We apologise to our readers who need closure on last weeks sermon, “The Great Magician”, but the final instalment of this ripping yarn, redolent with nostalgia and tinged with the Mystery of the East, has been deferred in order to build up audience suspense. In the meantime we present some observations extracted from the Reverend’s journal

Panic in Fitzroy Street


Panic in Fitzroy Street.

A crunching cull of the human herd.

One minute they’re

wandering all over the place like

“Brown’s Cows”,

the next bullbars are bouncing bollards & bodies

in a Bitumen Butchery, where

Pools of Blood sprout

like Wishing Wells. (A handful of coins

are scattered around, perhaps from

Unlucky Wishers

with poor aim)

Now popsicle-bodies

melt into the street,

Ice -cold in the Summer Heat,

Bystanders cluster ’round them

like Ants ’round a piece of Meat.

The News informs me that today

there’s 16 new Cops on the Beat.


But these days Fear and Shock are just

the stock-in-trade for every radio-jock

& Media-Mouthpiece with a Botox Smile,

button-mashing our Emotions

to increase Circulation, while Sub-contracting

political assassinations using pre-loaded Language.

It all smacks of Conspiracy and

Observation Bias slammed a window hintwise,

but, frankly, there’s already been

too much Shock and Awe.

Now we don’t care anymore.

So in the cool of my Comfort Zone,

I set the Selective Filter to Zero

and sit back to watch,

as a ton and a half of Amphetamines

is poured into an angry Sea.

-January, 2018



The Reverend Hellfire, the friendly Fuck-up and Failure,

is a familiar face found in the furthest fringes of acceptability,

whose Life’s Work will no doubt end up being deposited in a dumpster upon his demise.

I think there’s a lesson there for all of us.