MINJERRIBAH MUSINGS ONCE MORE

•April 13, 2025 • Leave a Comment

Minjerribah Musings ONCE MORE

*

Returning to Minjerribah Dreaming once more,

slow down for the Land that Forgot Time.

Leave your watch behind on the Mainland, Stranger/

it will only get slurped off in the swirling Surf

or swallowed by the ever-shifting Sands as you drowse,

basking like a dugong in the Suns’ animal warmth.

Here Nature is Natural/ not viewed via videos/

captioned & commented

(click Like & Subside)

Nature is my Neighbour here & every time

I open my door/ the crew of

politely kneeling Curlews

with their backward bending knees

surrounds my cabin/ and

the begging beaks of Kookaburras

are lined up on the verandah rails.

Swinging from side to side

with his long, lazy gunslinger’s stride,

old man Goanna emerges from the undergrowth/

the curlews skittering from his path..

Slender youths and seagulls

festoon the Rocks that jut

into the spray and crash of Surf/

Overhead a sea eagle hovers/

flash mobs of Seagulls strut & fret the Sands,

all Self-Importance & Gossip/

Stand on the shore and face East.

You can almost forget

the whole Continental Catastrophe

that’s happening behind you.

And even now there are beaches here still

(which I will not name, lest feral Tourist Infestations

appear, hunting for tik tok Moments)

where you can wade out into the Surf

up to your knees and turn around

and look at a Scene which has not changed

since old Mathew Flinders drifted by

in his little boat/ still

the long, low line

of empty beach fringed with the ghostly,

match-stick trunks of the swamp Tea-Trees

standing in their dark oily lagoons/

the olive grey ridge rising above/ shaded by the giant

wind-gnarled limbs of ancient gum trees/

Stands of She-oak & Breadfruit adorn the rocks/

flocks of brightly coloured Parrots

feast noisily amongst

the strangely perfumed flowers,

the unknown & archaic trees.

****

***

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***

The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet,

an Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism,

Mouthpiece of ancient Alt/Pop, Post/Punk Musicalists; THE TAPELOOPS.

Only Survivor of the National People’s Gang.

***

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POOR POOR PITIFUL ELON

•April 7, 2025 • Leave a Comment

Poor pOOR pitiful ELON

*

I know.. I know. But I just can’t help it.

I can’t help feeling sorry for Elon Musk..

He’s such a Sad Case.

All the Money in the World and no-one loves him but a dwindling band of basement-dwelling Fan-Boys who keep expecting him to pull Robots & Hover-cars out of his arse, and even they will turn from him once they eventually realise that his Science Fiction Future, due for release sometime in ‘July next year’, probably, was just a Lie to boost his Company’s stock prices.

Nobody ever loved Elon, not even the racist, bullying, sociopath Father he so much resembles, though to be fair, Errol Musk did give Elon the Money to start buying other People’s work and claim it was all his own Work and that he was a Genius.

No, nobody loves Elon, not even his thirteen test-tube children. That’s why he was so ecstatic when he was up there onstage with Trump during the Campaign, exulting in all the applause, his face ecstatic as he danced gracelessly on stage with his blubbery, dough-like belly flopping out of his too small T-Shirt. Ecstatic because for a moment he could bask vicariously in the warm glow of Trump’s Popularity. He could pretend all that cheering & applause was for him.

But now, mere months later, the World has turned on him and poor Elon doesn’t understand why.

“Why has the World no Empathy for my Suffering“,

blubbers the richest man in the World, lower lip trembling like a three year olds, eyes red-rimmed and watery..

Where is People’s Empathy?!

whines the man who last week sacked thousands of hard working public servants whilst sternly warning the bleeding hearts that Empathy was a disease that was destroying Western Civilisation. Still, you can’t expect consistency from a Genius! They are the Wind!

But there’s something wrong with Elon. People know this just by looking at him, even before he opens his mouth and dribbles a series of nonsensical, non-sequential syllables in gloops & glops like a chicken with diarrhoea as he tries to explain his Vision of the Future.

Frankly, everytime I see his pasty, raddled face I keep expecting an enormous Centipede to come bursting out of his forehead. It’s the sort of science-fiction face you’d expect to be attached to someone possessed by Demons, or perhaps a Radiation Victim, all oozing sores and with the grey flesh sloughing off like old wallpaper, or even just someone who bangs up Ketamine four times a day.

Back in Victorian times the Alienist* would have just written him off as a chronic masturbator and have him straight-jacketed and water-boarded in the name of Therapy.

A hundred years before that they would have confined him in an Institution and put him on Exhibition on Sundays with the other Inmates for the Public to gawk at. Price; One Shilling.

A hundred years before that they would have burnt him at the Stake.

Yes, in the Past malcreants such as Elon Musk would have been pilloried, placed in the Stocks in the Market Place & exposed to the Public’s Ridicule and Contempt. Alas, in these woke Modern Times

the Pillory has fallen right out of fashion,

and I’m told that investment in the Stocks is right down too.

Thank God therefore, that Social Media still exists to expose today’s Social Pariahs to the aforementioned Ridicule and Contempt which they so richly deserve.

I could go on, but we’re approaching 1,000 words and I know what your concentration spans are like these days, so by way of Conclusion I’ll just mention that Elon Musk appears in the Book of Revelations, that ever popular prophetic volume of the Apocalyptic End Times featuring the appearance of the Great BEAST 666.

Now, the Beast 666 is today generally acknowledged by all the most reputable Biblical Scholars to be none other than 47th President of the United States, Donald Trump. But did you know that there was also a secondary Beast predicted? Also called the False Prophet it is the Servant & Agent of the Great Beast from whom all of its Power & Authority derives.(REV 14.11)

Now Donald himself has been identified as the Beast by numerous signs;

His “haughty & blasphemous mouth” that utters many Lies, his disruption of the the World Order, his Persecutions & Cruelties, but the identifying Clincher was after the Assassination attempt, when it was remembered that it was foretold that the Beast would survive a mortal wound to the Head! (REV13.3)

With this Identification made, it is clear that the “False Prophet” servant to 666, is non-other than Elon Musk. All his Authority comes from 666 and thus empowered it is foretold that Elon would, “work Great Signs, even making fire come down from heaven to Earth in the sight of men” (REV 13,13) to impress the rubes!

Also foretold is Elon’s role in starting PAYPAL and his dabbling in Crypto Currency, with the ultimate goal being that; “none can buy or sell without the mark of the Beast”(REV13.17)

But don’t worry folks! After a chaotic reign of forty-two months, the Forces of Righteousness, possibly led by Bernie Sanders on a white horse (the text here is vague) will defeat the MAGA Army of Darkness and good old God Himself will lend a hand to toss the Beast 666 and its Servant the False Prophet into a Lake of Fire filled with burning brimstone, there to burn for Ever and Ever.(REV19.20)

I love a happy ending.

*

*An alienist is a physician who testifies on the mental state of people in court.

The term comes from Latin and implies that the mentally ill person is a stranger to himself.

***

***

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***

The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet,

an Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism

and Lead Blatherer of esteemed Post-Punk, Alt/Pop Primitivists; THE TAPELOOPS.

He’s a careful man. They can’t prove a thing.

***

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ART OF CONVERSATION Redux

•March 31, 2025 • Leave a Comment

Art of Conversation

REDUX

*

Some may not think this poem/ PC,

but sometimes/ it seems to Me

that/

Women use Words

and Language like a/

Needle and Thread;

Sewing everything in Life together

on one long strand of Talk/

like Beads on a String

while/

Men use Language like

a Carpenter uses their tools;

Everything is very Cut/

and Measured.

*

In Fact/ I’ll bet it was a Man

who invented Punctuation!

Hammering Home

their Exclamation/

Explanation Marks!!!

Deep into the Conversation.

*

***

***

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***

The Reverend Hellfire is a Man of Few Words..

..That’s all you get this week..

***

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OF CRASH TEST TOMATOES & HUNGRY GHOSTS

•March 24, 2025 • 1 Comment

OF CRASH TEST TOMATOES

& HUNGRY GHOSTS

*

In the Supermarket called Prosperity

(Growth’s Golden-Haired Child)

Everything on Sale is Illusion/

Brittle as Plastic/ it’s all

shiny Surface

& hollow, like a balloon

they keep blowing air into/

“Look the Economy is Growing!”

they pant enthusiastically between puffs/

Inflating house Prices

thru a reusable plastic straw/

But oh Captain my Captain,

the Augers warn,

the Structural Integrity

can’t take it much more!!

But they don’t listen/

they’re addicted/

and they can’t Stop/

Till one day it goes Pop!

*

(This is what the Market calls

“a Correction”)

In the Supermarket of Prosperity

they’re selling us the Ghost of Food.

For Display purposes the Form remains

and the perfect shiny Surface

to tempt the Consumers’

waning nostalgic appetites.

But really there’s Nothing left

of a Tomato nowadays/ no Flavour/

no Nutrition/ just Water mainly

& Pesticides (Taste costs extra)

The Roses have no Scent

left either/ they may as well be Plastic.

All the Flowers are like that now,

the only way that

you can tell they’re Alive

is that they Die.

*

***

***

The Perfect Soundtrak for the Apocalypse!

CHECK OUT THIS RARE ARTEFACT  ON BANDCAMP,

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***

The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet,

an Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism,

and Head of Advocacy & Engagement

for Alt/Pop, Post-Punk Primitivists, THE TAPELOOPS.

“No-one can count the Dead, so we divide the Living. Go forth & multiply“

***

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RAVEN’S BREAD

•March 17, 2025 • Leave a Comment

RAVEN’S BREAD

*

Once Upon a Time a young man wandered into the Desert,

to live alone and become a Hermit.

Concerned for his Welfare, and perhaps a little curious,

Friends & Family would visit the new Hermit,

and, strangely perhaps, despite their initial apprehensions, they often found themselves impressed by the magnificence of the Desert Wildscape & the Tranquillity of the Hermit Lifestyle.

Word spread amongst their associates and soon it became a Fad amongst the fashionable Bohemian types to speak wistfully of their pining for the Desert and yearning for the Serenity & Simplicity found in a Solitary Lifestyle. A magazine called “Raven’s Bread” was started to spread the Hermit Word and publish the Editors’ poems.

Inspired by the Hermit’s example, Others soon followed in his footsteps, setting up their hermitages at a respectable distance from each other at first so as not to impact on the Solitude too greatly, but still close enough to be within reach in case of emergencies. (Hey! We’re Hermits, not Savages!” explained one.)

But as Time passed, more and more people were moving into the Desert to escape the Hurly Burly of City Life and join the Hermit Movement, as it was now called. Indeed it had become a mainstream cultural phenomenom and many of the Bohemian Set who had first colonised the Desert now found themselves being squeezed out by the Forces of Gentrification.

But Lo! A Plague of Self Appointed/Self Entitled

Spokespersons for “the Community”

(Ken’s & Karen’s to a man)

descended upon the Land like Locusts.

Holding Forth & Holding High

the Legendary (some would say; “Imaginary”)

Big Book of Community Values

& Intrusive Council By-Laws,

they laid down the Law as They,

“the Community” and,

apparently, God, saw it.

Yes, there were many Voices vying,

crying aloud in the Wilderness

and each read from a different Page

and a different Book/ their

many competing voices struggling/ straining

for Lebensraum & Airspace. Tall Transmission Towers arose

to broadcast the bountiful Babble/ whilst all the while

the Glory of the Desert Stars at night were lost

in the glare and the glow of street lighting.

Then the Local Council announced plans to Subdivide the Land to cope with (and cash in on) the expected Population Boom and many Old Timers announced that that was the End of the Wilderness as they knew it.

But when the News Crews were sent out

to do a “Passing of an Era” piece

and interview the Original Hermit,

they discovered that He had gone

and no-one knew when He left,

or where He went.

*

***

***

The Perfect Music for the End of the World!

CHECK OUT THIS RARE ARTEFACT  ON BANDCAMP,

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***

The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet,

an Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism

& Vox/Spokescreature of Post-Punk/Alt-Pop Primitivists; The TAPELOOPS.

What if the World/Saw Itself thru my eyes/How disappointed

It would be.

***

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SHAGGY DOGS & IRISH ROVERS

•March 9, 2025 • Leave a Comment

SHAGGY DOGS & IRISH ROVERS

*

There’s something about a rainy day that just brings out the Nostalgia, don’t you think? One Memory after another arises from their soggy graves to remind you of forgotten Floods & Storms from long ago and next thing you know you find yourself telling long, damp & anti-climactic Shaggy Dog tales, as you stare out at the rain streaked windows, a steaming cup of beverage warming your paw.

*

Perhaps that’s why I started humming a few bars of a long forgotten Popular Song from my Childhood, a jolly sing along tune “The Unicorn” by a folk-rockin’ group called, The Irish Rovers. It’s an amusing Tale about Noah’s Ark & the Bible Flood & why there aren’t any Unicorns anymore, and was high on the list of Songs kids would sing back then on rainy days such as this, or on a bus going on a Field Trip to some soggy destination.

*

This being the Age of the Internet, it was no difficult task to call up a live rendition of this long forgotten song on YouTube and have a jolly old sing along with it. It’s still pretty funny.

Interestingly, though neither my Personal Assistant nor myself had heard that song for nigh on Fifty years, we still remembered every word! Especially the Choruses which we joined in with Gusto!Those Musical Earwurms had burrowed down deep into the Cerebral Cortex of our tender, young brains, and there they had lurked, like a Herpes Virus, waiting for their opportunity to emerge.

Actually this song seems to have brought ‘the Irish‘ staggering out of my Genetic Heritage

(the roots of my family Tree have been described

thusly, “it’s all Blackfellas & Bastards on one side and Horse Thieves & Bushrangers on the Other“)

for I found myself being reminded of yet another Damp Day, when I had been waiting for a lift outside of local rebel Radio Station 4ZZZ.

*

At that time there was a little Bar/Club type Venue, that used to exist underneath the Triple Zed Studios. As I recall it was called the Green Left Club or something like that?) Sadly it no longer exists. Not a big venue just a small stage for local musos, a bar & Stout on tap, a few big tables. It had a nice vibe, and I did a couple of gigs there myself. But this was a Sunday so it was Irish Folk music Day, which was a regular gathering of a dozen or so shaggy, bearded folk musos and assorted Irish riff-raff jamming on fiddles and pipes and mandolins and Tambors & maybe a couple of guitars thrown in for luck.

So yes there I was waiting outside the back carpark for my lift. with my steel string guitar in hand (It was my; ‘Wander around the Streets & Coffee Shops with a Slide Guitar & Mirror Shades’ Stage)

It was a damp day with intermittent squalls, much like today, the cars hissed by sending up sprays of water like reverse waterfalls. Meanwhile I could hear the endless round of Irish folk tunes drifting up the Stairs. Idly I plucked a few notes, trying to work out what key & Scale and so forth they were playing in.

*

Suddenly a drunken Irishman appeared, red-faced and good humoured; What are you doing up here all alonesome. Come down and join us with your guitar. I’ll buy you a drink!

He would not be dissuaded. To my pleas of waiting for my friends to get my lift, he just insisted they’d just come down the stairs and find me. (That’s what you had to do in the Age before the Mobile Phone Kiddies, show some initiative & Independence.)

Well it was wet, the Girls were late with my Ride, so I went down the Stairs with my new friend and joined the big circle of damp, shaggy, slightly steaming Irish Folk musician types who were all drowning prodigious quantities of Guiness & Ale as they sawed enthusiastically away at one endless Irish Reel after another, each seemlessly merging into the next.

*

I absolutely knew nothing about this sort of Music or what I was supposed to do, and there was nothing in the way of conversation, but my new Friend had bought me a big Jug of Stout, the Others had smiled encouragingly, so I just chose a Key & Scale that seemed to fit

and joining in, plucking industriously away. Occasionally the song died down for a bit, people would quaff their drinks, and then it would start up again. Was it the same song? A different one?

I couldn’t tell.

The star of the scene was some Lass with the Irish Genes working overtime, all pale skin & long auburn hair tied back with a black velvet band, who had the air of being one of those people who think they’re a real musician cos they went to the Convervatory to get a Music degree. If you live in Brisbane you would have met some. But she was into that tune big time and would have played it all night & thru to the next.

No matter, someone bought me another jug and we went back to sawing away at that bloody endless Irish reel. They’re probably still playing it down in Hell somewhere to torture Englishmen.

After awhile I looked up and noticed that my Friends had in deed come looking for me and were even now standing at the door & scanning the room. They looked puzzled and left again. One of them came back, had another quick scan and left again.

So I drained my mug & made my apologies (no-one noticed, they were too busy trying to finally nail down that ancestoral melody to everyone’s satisfaction) and dashed out the door and up the stairs after them. I caught up with them as they stood outside the car forlornly looking up and down the street. Boo, said I.

Where were you they gasped. Downstairs, explained I, why didn’t you come over to me? Where were you? Sitting in the circle facing the door right there in front of you. We didn’t see you, they said perplexed

Upon reflection I realised what had happened. I had done a Chameleon Act & become Invisible. I had merged into the mass of Irishness in the room, been absorbed into the Group Ancestoral Musical Genome, regressed, gone native, returned to my roots, however you want to put it. It was like a kind of Camouflage or having a Secret Power;

Put me into a room full of Irish musicians,

and I disappear.

***

***

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***

The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet,

an Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism,

and Head of Advocacy & Engagement

for Alt/Pop Post-Punk Primitivists; The TAPELOOPS

Damply Thus he passes

***

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SAND & STRAW

•March 3, 2025 • Leave a Comment

SAND & STRAW

*

Waiting for the Straw

that breaks the Camel’s Back.

The World tenses,

cowers like a cornered cat,

Panic panting/pupils wide

Nerve endings peeled & pared back

to Survive,

all 9 Lives can sense

the coming Fall.

In Truth that Straw dropped long ago/

Broke the burdened beast

SNAP right in Half.

The Camel now is mostly Illusion,

a cracked & leathery Hide

stuffed full with Sand & Straw/

the two Halves

sewn together by String & Wire.

They put the Camel onto wheels

and hauled it about like it was still alive,

though it leaked like an old Egg Timer,

and the Sand was swiftly running out.

But we preferred to pretend

It hadn’t happened yet,

the straw had yet to fall/ the

Camel was still bearing it’s burden

as we nursed the secret, selfish Hope

that there was still enough time

left in the broken World

to live out our little lives.

*

***

***

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***

The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet,

 Vox/Lyricist and Head of Advocacy & Engagement

for Alt-Pop, Post-Punk Primitivists; The TAPELOOPS

and an Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism.

Now Gluten Free!

***

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THE FUTURE BY GASLIGHT

•February 10, 2025 • Leave a Comment

The future By GASLIGHT

*

As Goose-stepping Zionists

go committing War Crimes,

Whilst Zeig Heiling Technocrats

Fall into Line,

They’re pandering Pardons

to the Brown Shirt Battalions,

the Criminals & Cowards

of his Praetorian Guard.

While the Proles just ignore

All News but the Scores

of the Spectator Sport

called Widescreen Genocide,

Flip a Coin! Pick a Side!

Buy the Ticket! Take the Ride!

You go Seek! I’ll go Hide!

So it Goes.

Now Money is Talking

So Justice goes Blind,

Facts are all Flexible/

The Truth is a Lie,

The Past is the Future/

The Future a Crime,

As Gaslighting Nazi’s

go Goose-stepping in Time,

with Boot-Scooting Cowboys

snorting Crack Cocaine lines,

While the Fentanyl Cartels

are laying Land Mines

for the DEA & ICE Boys

to step on.

*

***

***

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***

The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet,

an Ordained Minister of the Church of  Spiritual Humanism

and Vox/Wordsmith for Alt/Pop, Post-Punk Minimalists; The Tapeloops.

Etc

***

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GEW GAW & GIMCRACK

•February 2, 2025 • Leave a Comment

Gew Gaw & Gimcrack

*

Prices are Rising

and Nothing is Cheap

but the Gew Gaws & Gadgets

that keep us Distracted

with the Detritus Plastic

& the Virtual Gaze/

Half Echo Chamber

and half Garden Maze

(straight from The Shining)

Is it Fad or a Craze?

Is it like Vietnam?

Is it Spam or a Scam?

Is it Movement or Trend?

O How did we get Here

and when will it End?

***

***

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***

The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet,

an Ordained Minister of the Church of  Spiritual Humanism

and Vox/Wordsmith for Alt/Pop, Post-Punk Minimalists; The Tapeloops.

Setting the Contrarian Cat amongst the Epistemological Pigeons.

***

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THE LAND/ 2025

•January 28, 2025 • Leave a Comment

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 many 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 turn from 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 against us,

Long after the Others had been led away

in neck irons to prisons, graveyards,

shanty-towns & slums.

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 felled,

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 turned 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,

“APOCALYPSE!” and “DISASTER!”

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.

***

***

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& ALL GOOD STREAMING PLATFORMS!!!!

***

The Reverend Hellfire is a practised Performance Poet,

an Ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism,

Lead Vox/Wordsmith for Alt/Pop Post Punk Primitivists; THE TAPELOOPS.

We shall not see his like again.

Probably.

***

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