CAT TRAIN FEET BRAIN

ISSUE ONE
JANUARY 2010

Written and illustrated by Corey Biscoe-Marwick

INTRODUCTION
I’ve been writing two short poems and drawing one free
association drawing every day for the past 11 years or so,
(that’s only a guess, it could be longer), Cat Train Feet Brain is
my way of sharing them with people, I hope you like it.

Before moving on though I’ll just let you know that these
writings and drawings are not supposed to be high art, some of
them I’m forced to rush through because a particular day
doesn’t afford me enough time to really sit down and think,
others I’ve spent a little longer on. I’ve decided to include them
all though, not just the ones that I think are any good, because
you would probably disagree with me, and because their might
be some sensible flow to them if read together in order, even if
some of them are not as good as others.

I also need to include a language warning, there’s not a lot of

swearing in my writing but occasionally I use it because it feels
right, because I’m angry about something or just frustrated or
putting it in there for a laugh, (for some reason I find swearing
funny sometimes, I remember I had an Aunt who swore a lot
and when I was really little I just couldn’t stop cracking up
when I was around her, it was very odd).If such stuff offends
you then I apologise, but you could probably spot it and avoid it
pretty easily.

You’ll also see some ’s, these are where I’ve taken out
people’s names to respect their privacy etc, and protect myself
from their unwarranted wrath.

If you read the following pages and like them, and want to
subscribe to my little e-zine, then email me at
clo5dimly@gmail.com, and I’ll send you one every month, free
of charge. I also welcome feedback or questions.

One last thing:

c Corey Biscoe-Marwick 2010, all rights reserved.
01/01/10
Made Out Of Paper.
Promises on paper are no more bound to happen,
For an entire year my whiteboard has attempted to hold me to promises
I can’t possibly keep,
To myself,
To a million other people.

In danger of drowning,
We’re made out of paper.

Hangings and Rifles.

Sit still and be quiet,
Like mice in confession,
Bring a warm plate and some alcohol,
Sit on the sidelines with old men and uniforms,
Laughing at drowning,
And hangings and rifles.
02/01/10
Bird Seed Bell.
Rushed out by painted eyebrows to a crowded entrance,
If the building is on fire we want to burn too,
And two already burning.

An entire city full of overprices beatings,

On a meagre mouse salary,
In a bird seed bell.

Buttons and Glory.

Next week,
Thursday,
Sit me down with two blank faces,
Post me in an orange sack to Santa.

One day next week,

Buttons and glory.
03/01/10
It’s You.
Your new leaf is beautiful,
Let’s hope it sticks to the tree forever,
You’re living light,
Perfect pitch,
You make me crazy.

But no more bottled blanks,

Cork topped and acid eating glass from the inside,
No more afraid to ask.

It’s you I want,

It’s you I have.

Gold In My Pockets.
I’ll make my advance like a one man army,
Simple and clear,
To the rainbows beginning and through to the end,
With gold in my pockets on the way back out,
To spend on the people outside.
04/01/10
Leave The Trash At Home.
Don’t waste your pages,
Your grid line trees,
Entire chunks of New Zealand’s beautiful lumpy face are drowning in them,
All the same size,
Planted by machines.

You’d better use your deepest insights only,

And leave the trash at home.

Underground Car Park Glow.

What attractive is is not sure lines and fury,
Is not thin waves of anxiety and a tight neck.

Attractive is your own personal personality,

Monkey clown acrobat circus in a fleshy cage,
The blue lights of white summer.

Attractive is a wife,
Everyday new,
All the time different.
05/01/10
The Crashing & The Burning Even More.
These we say are not too human,
All the lines are burning crossed,
Melt your soles,
A pit of oily nowhere.

Spill it on the road and watch the crashing and the burning even more.

Home Again Home Again.

I’ll take my much less than an hour,
And not feel guilt or the physical pain of guilt suppressed,
Or shame,
Or recognition.

Be bleached stony ghost,

With a bottle of yellowy white,
Be some 70’s early 80’s punk-ish bit of sarcasm.

Let me go home again,

Lay still and die.
06/01/10
Just Like Jericho.
Unsure how pug nosed I appear,
The mirror will be first stop,
Second to the knife,
And third a little swagger,
Just like Jericho,
And in come the invaders.

Low Battery High Beam.

Younger people look out for themselves,
More and more,
So that their younger people may have to do the same,
Too early,
And be angry hungry citizens,
A shirtless angry cursing fatty banging on the glass.
07/01/10
Sober Drunk.
Christmas destructo bot,
White face,
Red lips,
Open cut mine.

Your face is sober,

Your body drunk.

All One.
My baby,
My gigantic heart,
My hard day,
My peaceful sleeping still.

My man of iron and giant lungs,

My brave and perfect boy,
My loud and rude and messy son,
My dirty face,
My miracle.
08/01/10
Never Did Finish, Smart Enough.
One word sound,
Another stand-off-ish,
And messy placation,
The perfect sturdy rumble.

Rocky rough skin,

Soft patch of brain,
Distillery clean,
A perfect day for laughing at strangers,
And dangerous insolent talk.

Leave The Steady Hillford Home.

Clap your frog hands,
Post your cut off ears all dried and flaky,
To famous friends and blank faced po’s.

Dry ice and industrial fans,

Paper snow and plastic tears.
09/01/10
Not Even.
My mum is a broken pencil,
Sharp points stick in the blade,
Skin shaved and flakes in the carpet,
Little brick thumb hands.

He wants to write the blackboard full,

The patient stop sign.

She wants to be away,

Pretending that she doesn’t.

Agent Orange.
Your jokes about Asians are way out of line,
Three against one,
Some passed on placatory madness,
Still fuming and beating the walls on the inside.

Born into money,

Won’t feel a thing.
10/01/10
*John Connor Is A Dick Head.
Maybe Schwarzy was right,
Not sure who the terminator was,
Pulling all the plain fist punches,
Ridiculous grey suited amoeba man,
Forced accent,
Terrible timing.

You can’t be redeemed from a break that bad.

Still On The Other Side.

There were clear lines,
They were thick and black,
And calming the folks with their calm straightness and dense
impenetrability.

Please don’t step on my dead cat,

The beaches are blue in the early morning,
The nights are late,
The sun sits still on the other side.

*Terminator Salvation was a bitter disappointment to me.

11/01/10
Dull & Amphibian.
You don’t understand the rancid monkey,
A colour wheel straightened,
A bottomless pit.

Your avenues of escape are growing ever tighter,

Dull and amphibian,
Crawling up out of the water.

Martian Rock Snakes.

Be clear,
Be clear as a glass bell,
As the levitating head of a martian rock snake.

Sick weeks to mars,

One second back.
12/01/10
Turn Faster.
For all your high intelligence,
A far less complex answer,
There is a God.

This God there is,

All knowing and perceiving,
Though you would like *him to be offended,
Is aware of your attempts to turn him down,
And need only wait till you die.

Sam’s Dream.
His dreams are cartoons,
Dark edges and squealing,
Large robot tin soldier,
Keeps picking me up,
And we hid over there,
And it wasn’t a dream,
It was just was just when I were watching my Batman movie.

*I don’t think God has a gender, it’s just common to refer to him as a him, tradition I
guess, not equality based tradition but tradition nonetheless. Also, if you don’t believe in
God try not to be offended by my beliefs, I’m not offended by whatever yours are, despite
the fact that many who say they believe in supposedly the same God as me are not only
offended by but offensive towards people who believe in other things. Those people suck
arse. I know the poem sounds like a believe or turn to dust thing, but it’s not underneath.
13/01/10
Tedious Action Sequence Number 6.
Sherlock stains her with insight,
Jude shifts in eternal circles,
The danger,
The grave danger will drive him down.

It just isn’t enough to be watching,

There needs to be so much more.

Cup Cakes.
Can’t pass on the papers,
They’re all tied together,
And inside refrigerated rooms a mind will squeeze tight shut and fall
backwards.

Half an hour till good news,

Let’s be optimists,
Let’s carry red balloons in a giant floating net made from orange string,
To the door of the house at the end of the street where the cereal killer
shut in is watching Days of Our Lives,
And masturbating,
Let’s bake him some cup cakes.
14/01/10
Dog Man Down The Park.
His enlarged and drooping rubbery head sag,
Over the back of his wheelchair,
Night vision green white eyes,
Speaking samples,
Twitching and squirming,
The horrible noise.

Swap brains with a dog,

Be a man dog,
Walk your dog man down the park.

Old & Almost Dead.

Twenty four,
Old and almost dead,
Children are harsh critics with sharp sticks,
With broken branches,
Still in a hurricane.
15/01/10
Insult Number One Hundred & Eight.
Sitting around all day with a visible sweaty nipple watching science fiction
on a small black cube is not fashion,
Is not beautiful,
Will not lead to higher or greater ways.

Tomorrow’s employer wants a sharp brain and nimble fingers,

Not a fat slob in a stripy tank top.

One Picture.
One picture,
Hand drawn,
Took maybe thirty seconds,
Has engulfed an entire day in its not working,
In its working my brain to still pictures with tweezers plucking,
Life’s classroom is a mud pit in Surrey.
 A QUICK NOTE

At this point I received an iPod touch which I’d been saving up for in order
to go paperless, as I write and draw a lot and like the idea of my writing and
drawing not taking up any more physical space, (I have enormous piles of
the stuff). The drawing from now on has been made using

Sketch Book Mobile by Auto Desk,

and the writing heavily assisted by Write Room, which was made by a
guy whose name I can’t
remember, but he made it alone,
so the man is a genius.

I feel these programs deserve a plug as I am completely in love with them.

Please excuse the clumsy-ness of the first few digital drawings; I had to
learn how to draw with my finger)
16/01/10
Glass Thumbs.
No paper any more space bar,
Plenty of unintentional capital letters,
The occasional froghdybdb,
Maybe?

This is as good as I expected,

I only wish I had glass thumbs.

The Better Plan.

Yesterday was free will,
Tomorrow fuck knows,
Probably more pointless swearing at relative strangers who
somehow find their way into my home.

My instincts were right,

Guthrie had the better plan.
17/01/10
A Featureless Man.
Take a long walk holding hands with a featureless man,
It'll make you feel better,
And probably him too.

Bastard.
You stole my hard work,
I gave you love boundless and frigging whole cage free eggs and the whole
supermarket,
You gave me a hole to sit in and think,
I did,

I hate you.
18/01/10
Buried Table.
This genius machine,
Five entire hours seeking fun for nothing,
And grey hole eyes inverted like a negative image,
And grey dry mouth and always this horrible heat.

Today plain sympathy has dried up,

No point pretending to be some kind of heart with legs,
Bloody mess maybe but not from crying,
No carry on,
No sharp stakes,
Sand in a cup,
Buried table.

On A Hot Day.
Maybe if I don't ask too much I won't get too little,
On a cold day the sun's a warm heart,
On a hot day you'd sooner send a missile than love somebody.
19/01/10
The Wild Squirrel.
Could never decide and then follow through,
Was always decided for,
And making long shadows from short sticks,
Too afraid to ride the wild squirrel I wondered the mirror maze instead,
With painted popeyes and little kids running into themselves.

And I cried afterwards,

For my enormous loss.

Drag Your Skull.

Drag your skull around days,
With scratch marks and rusty fortunes,
Hag faced belly laughers,
Alcoholic mid-wives.

No precedent to lean your sorry self on,

No believable excuse,
All miss spelling and miss giving and two word sentences,
A sharp mind blunted by a sudden rush of guilt.

There were bleak damp places with rusty iron doors that only a sure fire
winner could survive,
That you walked into knowingly,
With a losers ugly face.
20/01/10
A Real Life Australian Woman.
He's woken and shaking with shock tears and bigger eyes,
Little shaven occa head and blue stripy one piece.

His mother could stop you from passing in pretty much any hallway in
the world,
With her bulky voice and ample latitude.

She's a real life Australian woman,

Rusty and offensive.

Grey & Slightly Darker Grey.

Holy shit I'm tired,
I'm so tired you can probably see the drag lines forming behind me,
Following me around like I was some kind of walking pencil.

This two toned rainbow doesn't lead to any gold,

Grey and slightly darker grey is all.
 21/01/10

$
People Who Are Not Silent.
Inane dripping,
And loud breathing and peanut crunching and gulping bubbles,
You sound like a rotting corpse having fun with a sharp rock.

It's a matter of personality,

And my complete lack of patience with people who are not silent.

Floods & Battles.

This table out at sea,
Sharks circling,
That awful churning madness,
Psychedelic pirates wielding multicoloured singing swords,
All clamouring to be heard,
All bad tunes and out of key,
And misery songs that make you cry.

You won't get a word in,

Its floods and battles always.
22/01/10
My Intricate Jesus.
My natural state is slumped over a toilet bowl,
Breathing in heavily yesterday’s lunch with a fowl mood hung over and a
dark eye for anyone.

Only my Lord and my Saviour,

My intricate Jesus can save me from turning you blind.

The Cut Of Your Obviously Deformed Jib.

Nobody knows the worth of anybody,
I hear my neighbours down-sizing complete strangers at length,
Horrifying and endlessly long conversations about randomly observed
individuals in the shopping centre car park,
What they wore,
The way their children smelled,
The cut of their obviously deformed jib.

It makes me cry,
If I really sit and think about it.
23/01/10
Full Of Holes.
Take a fist full of hurt man,
Give up on your abstracts and holies,
We know what you are,
You are what you eat,
And I saw you looking closely at their gaps and numbers.

Everybody sees it,

Your eyes are full of holes.

Every Bodies Friend.

Your attempts to understand and know,
Have only led you backwards,
Back to hell,
Back to loss and falling over.

Every friend you have is sure to know,

You could never really care like you say.
24/01/10
Sing A Little Filth.
Gladly basting my brain in urine,
Handing the top of my skull to the chef.

He looks at the greyish pink curve of my thinking and smiles a little deviation,
Sings a little filth.

Barely Any Jesus In Me Now.

Little insignificant noises,
The sounds of a young family nice,
Of a small child consistent,
Of every day early and every day late.

What you don't understand is anything at all,

There's barely any Jesus in me now.
25/01/10
Like Plastic Bags.
Why every sound is some small explosion,
Why there's grit in my teeth from the flesh of my family,
Why irrational angry,
Ridiculous face,
Why a crab man with lop sided heads breaking windows.

I saw him burst open like plastic bags.

And Prison.
I'm not learning,
Not even cataclysm and blind insanity would do it,
A shovel to the head,
Sideways,
And prison,

Maybe then.
26/01/10
Murder In The Morning.
Last night was this morning,
This morning was murdering tree men with ragged sharpish beards and itchy
skin.

I came at them with giant scissors,

I cut them down with grumbling love,
Black boot extremity,
Large robotic gestures that could take out your eye.

To Be Fuck All and Take It.

Ripe for abuse,
Small crouching thing with an unsteady pace,
For some reason slowing and slower the breathing,
When surrounded by men with any excuse,
With plenty of friends.

It's just because you piss me off,

It's you who chose to be fuck all and take it.
27/01/10
State and City.

Gladly sat by talking blonde boy,

Fire skies,
New bodies with old words and alcoholic tendencies,
This is my state and city bold and covered in family fun,
This is September glue and January forgotten,
My small men are blind to brainlessness,
For this I praise my state and city.

So Feeble To Find Them.

A lopsided brain,
Slightly heavier in the front,
Will always make you look dissatisfied,
No matter how hard they try to keep you well,
You'll only get sicker,
And thinner,
and plainer,
More able to climb through the gaps in sound arguments,
That can't really exist without someone so feeble to find them.
28/01/10
Invisible Fortunes.
What late nights bring,
Are early mornings,
Are flaking brown edged paper backs depicting modern times with absolute
clarity,
The absolute facts are always in place,
Life and death,
Babies and old men and young men and widows,
All victims of a yawning earth,
Non-seekers of a non- god to not save them,
Blind carriers of invisible fortunes.

Only An Arm.
12.30,
The clock looks slightly burnt and a strange silent dog has let a fly inside.

The sound of buzzing is like a drill,

Creating a tiny third eye like in the comics,
And the olden day surgery,
And the witch doctors old muddy tent,
And the graveyard.

Through this one I see myself sleeping,

But my head is a hand,
And my body is only an arm.
29/01/10
Can't Lay Eggs Anymore.
You can't squeeze an egg out,
No matter how hard you try,
Unless you're a bird or a reptile or some other egg laying creature
you're wasting your effort,
It's like trying to swim in a puddle.

You can't be some golden boy genius when you’re nearly thirty.

Sleep Is Evasive.
Sleep is evasive,
Like I'm forcing a confession,
Like old women with dark dripping teeth are leaning over my wife
with sharp knives and forks,
Like there's always a body in the shower.

It's especially bad when you've just eaten cheese,

Or gone camping.
30/01/10
You Cannot Walk Into My Church.
One stale man says to another,
I will kill you and be blameless,
I will take you outside and shoot you in the chest and not a single man or
woman will deny that I did well.

Because you cannot walk into my church with murder in your blood,
You cannot walk into my church a liar.

Some Sort Of Almost Nothing.

There was a gap in his face,
His left side when turned towards you would lag behind his right,
And in between them was a grey sort of blur,
Some sort of almost nothing that you couldn't quite place,

And when his features would finally settle,

The gap would slowly close,
But still it seemed that half of him could drift away at any second.
31/01/10
Minotaur.
Throwing apples from your angry chair,
Stock piled in a red plastic bucket,
Fools dreams of loose change providing quality footwear have left you
sore headed and unbearable,
Red wheels and fire stripes,
Faster than walking.

Large & Fucking Ugly Creatures.

Sure fire plans will be ridiculed,
Form dust piles in rusty kitchens where ogres wash enormous dishes
from wooden trolleys that are growing moss,
Wheeled in by minotaur’s with grunting disdain and hardy back cracking
voices that sound like war.

Sure fire plans are most likely to fail,

It's better just to rush at things before you see their undersides,
Better to avoid the hard reality of large and fucking ugly creatures.
OUTRODUCTION
Thanks for your time, and again, if you want to subscribe, email
me at clo5dimly@gmail.com and let me know. Also, feel free to
pass copies of this to anyone you think might like to read it.

You can also Email me with comments and questions and I’ll
answer them in the next issue, at the back here.

Thanks again,

Corey Biscoe-Marwick.