CAT TRAIN FEET BRAIN

ISSUE THIRTEEN - JANUARY 2011

Written and illustrated by Corey Biscoe-Marwick

ISSUE FOURTEEN - FEBRUARY 2011

Written and illustrated by Corey Biscoe-Marwick

INTRODUCTION
Hello readers,
February's well and truly gone, and for me it was quite the odd
month, some insanely overdue mental sweeping has gone on
and life is much better for it. I don't think the pages of this issue
will tell you anything about that though, just the same old
random ranting and odd little drawings, but maybe towards the
end they're a little happier I hope. Maybe not? But I am
anyway.

I caught up with some old art friends the other day and I thank
them kindly for their words of encouragement and for the fact
that they remember my drawings from way back, and I hope
they like these new ones as much as I do their work, which is
bloody good stuff.

In other news, unfortunately, no song with this issue, but I'll

see what I can do next month, and also, if you need to face up
to some mental sweeping for yourself, don't put it off, all that
dry dusty stuff and the old newspapers and the like, those are
fire hazards, clear that thing out before you spontaneously
combust.

If this is the first issue of Cat Train Feet Brain you’ve ever
received and you would like to subscribe to this free e-zine
then contact me at: clo5dimly@hotmail.com and let me know. I
can also send through back issues.

c Corey Biscoe-Marwick 2010, all rights reserved.

01/02/11
1-The Two Pains.
Sadly glad to melt in the bright sun blare of sky whale
explosion,
Like the dirge she wrote on her piano just before it cracked
right down the middle and spilled it's wiry guts,
Little children tripping on her notes and felted hammers.

Leave victory to the Spartan man,

Failure is so much easier.

2-Spray Can Fraternity.

Run through it again bending down to the microphone,
Whispering lights that are all kinds of colours through wired
in ears to dilapidated brains,
Paint them graphic images and colour on the lungs,
Spray can fraternity,
New baby girl.
02/02/11
1-Give It Away.
Trade your thin voice,
Your long cat like body and mousy face for handing plates of
peace to the poor,
For quiet shoes,
High pants thrown like caution to the wind and standing in
the water throwing jokes like ugly men will jump in front of
trains.

Give it up,
We know your game's a crooked one with munted little
pieces made of straw and lacky bands.

2-No Comedy Gold, Just Mud & Shame.

Forecasters throw up their arms at the implicated blame,
Flood levels are steadily rising still as the storms we expected
grow larger and throw at us entire oceans.

Nobody wakes with a fish on their head,

Nor an octopus,
Some people die,
Others watch.
03/02/11
1-Staked & Burning.
My collection of pink woollen bagged dice is resting on it's
elbows,
Head in the table sunk like a battle ship,
She curves persuasive arguments towards a bending rule,
She would that I were staked and burning,
I wore those white forget it pants and slunk my corner
gracefully in silence.

2-Hairy Henchettes.
Deliver us from the evil one,
He is salty dog potato handed cutter out of contents pages,
He winks at blind animals,
Suggestion is a binding force that makes them still and
ponderous,
And with a fearless gait walks forth to conquer,
Gaining speed from all the jeers and sneers and surreptitious
double takes.

Deliver us from sexual politics,

From Lasse Brown and all his hairy henchettes.
04/02/11
1-Money Money.
She admits there were several hung parliaments before the
swaying dog was cut down slapping you in the face,
A tattered rope and he is mud,
A giant bottle of iced tea.

She swings and round-about's like any other ape and howls
for mercy,
Her old old friend of twenty years is common lost and buried
gassed and bottled.

We salute you,
Money money.

2-Flint Rocks.
Flint rocks,
Listening to each other's sparks,
Lock down and bottle neck,
Straight tune flying man lifting the sun,
Names sake blunt nosed snow flake,
Too embarrassed to be magnified,
Primary school class,
Canadian alps,
Big yellowed poster of Smokey on acid.
05/02/11
1-No Collars No Dogs.
Two oil soaked wooden legs and a double eye patch,
Skull and cross bones screaming red vengeance from bloody
beards,
Rainbow beads and cheeks on fire.

You are a man in a maze made for mice who smell cheese
through their sewn on ears,
Who hear the word of God in each others scratching paws,
The lines they leave,
You are a man in a book who is reading himself,
There are holes in your plot,
No even spacing lines to hell,
No dogs collars,
No dogs.

2-Talk About The Clock.

Ten string minutes,
Banjo Patterson,
Ride that fictional horse down spit on women hill and jump
that crush the infidel gate,
Impeccable invasion,
Perfect hull that rounds the hill and moat,
The pirate ships and crocodiles.

Captain soak me lime the barrel,

Crouching in a hole,
We hike to heaven heavy boots and talk about the clock.
06/02/11
1-Leather & Web.
It's leaving,
The inability to make an incision between us that does not
seem contrived,
That is not a cause for concern,
When it shrinks back into itself like a time captured flower
will eventually step into reverse.

His back yard full of friends who build their confidence from
vitamin D and not being mentally ill,
From never being medicated heavily enough to see their
faults,
Is throbbing like a giant heart,
They build him a home from tin and electric fans,
They build him a skin out of leather and web.

2-Salty Skin.
Ten minute wait,
A salty skin from sitting in the sea,
She wears her young Australian Female Christian voice like
every other girl,
And he has an adam's apple that could take out an eye.

The closer you get the lighter their eyebrows,

Their faces are floating like flags to the ceiling,
And spiders are clutching their brows.
07/02/11
1-Not Civilians.
The spiritual machine is crunching oil solidified,
I hear him counsel someone else,
I wonder if that other guy heard me,
Is young enough still,
Can be saved and believed in.

This is an organized war,

We are not civilians.

2-Moon Baked.
Skinny little baby hands,
Will eat the dirt and weeds will spill,
A black bird take your head and plant it in a moon baked
field,
Let the late night children kick your thoughts around.
08/02/11
1-Hideous Ghosts.
There was a fire here,
You can tell by the hideous ghosts,
Some are still burning,
Some grimace and mouth silent words,
At the bus stops and libraries,
Inside the pubs and the public pools.

Only the very astute will observe that not all of them are crying,
Some are unaware that they have died,
And seem to be convinced that they can still drive cars,
And eat,
And drink,
And sing.

2-Either Or,(Damned If You Do).

Comfort is essential for the artful mind,
A man who hunts for food cannot extract a soul,
Will never drain the pain from a sad sunk man by placing him dead
centre staring,
At paint flung ecstasy,
At things that don't exist.

A man who kills for meat however,

Can sing,
And will gain entrance into heaven for his trouble,
While the poets stale hands burn,
And the painter starves.
09/02/11
1-Her Head Fits In A Wine Glass.
Smart machines are shrinking with us,
There's a rare kind of Pygmy that barely grows,
But unlike a dwarf will always be blessed with correct
proportions,
And only lives to 33,
Eventually these will be the only kind of people,
At 26 you'll make your will and weep,
At 31 be ready for the grinder.

2-Sound Arguments.
Roll your sound arguments up like a sleeping bag,
Take them out camping,
See how comfortable you are wrapped up in all that kicking
and screaming,
In that overtly self promotional barrage of undiluted under-
studied fiction claimed as fact.

See if the stars keep their promise to wankers who wail like
the ocean,
See if the moon has a face full of fist just for you.
10/02/11
1-Trucks.
Still with a hint of their English decent,
Like a clean cut grey haired bulldog man who reads the news
from 1956,
The national theatre still running on repeats of "this is the
water you'll drink and it's poison".

Change is inconceivable,
Like wild animals suddenly deciding to start up a factory,
Producing luggage from the skin of their aggressors.

2-Autographs & Hugs.

Only rehashed Tolkien fare with barely a plot to hang dogs on
will keep the people happy,
Shallow motes and genius acting from the eyebrows.

The boy can't even catch a train without a mob of over

stimulated break neck apes surrounding him for autographs
and hugs.
11/02/11
1-Bag-o-Rats.
Palindrome day,
Say holy holy,
Punch the air,
Rare creatures brave the public,
Wear your colours inside out and take the pain.

People need to see and be confronted by your Rorschach

stains and dented armour,
Pale faced humble boys need matches from your pockets,
And gasoline and bags of rats to rile up with a stick and shove
their hands in.

2-Scribble & Mud.

Medicated thinking,
Huge bloody holes in it.

Your brain will grow teeth and chew through your skull,
Fly out and take residence deep in some bleak stormy cloud,
That will talk just like you,
And rain scraps of paper with scribble and mud.
12/02/11
1-Treason.
Listen,
Always there's some kind of sound,
The sound of your ears growing endless,
Even after you die,
The sound of people thinking things that are loud,
That you can almost see manifest,
Eating their newspaper crosswords and phone books.

The almost in-perceivable sound of a hand being crushed for

treason,
Of the good Lord taking his time.

2-Gnomes Rejoice.
This is my time hole,
I have dug it in the middle of my garden,
And surrounded it with gnomes pretending to fish.

These are my two tiny eggs a day chickens,

Their always open mouths and morning noise,
I fling into the hole,
It echoes like a whale,
The gnomes rejoice.
13/02/11
1-Crush Your Love.
She cries fake puppies,
They're all green grass and curly hair,
They sprout the words "relational anxiety" in chorus and
explode like balloons.

Their scrawny kill joy faces crush your love.

2-Slap In The Triple Face.

Air-fix Nazi punk knuckle flood,
The minute she sinks you're not on the payroll,
Able or otherwise,
Exploding pistachios.

Give the regular man a pat on the back,

The odd man slap in the triple face.
14/02/11
1-One Legged Dog.
He's a clog in the hall,
Just stands there and blacks the walls like rotting toothpaste
spit,
And smells truly bad,
Like evil might smell if you could wrap your brains around it
and hold it to your nose.

He swims like a one legged dog,

It's lucky the water avoids him.

2-English Girl.
Love is a fleet of grave popped zombies,
Brand new stink of nine days dead,
She still is bursting whips of sun that burn and flake me
ashes,
She still could burst my eyes.

Her voice,
Her melt my blood and drum my brains English girl voice will
destroy me.
15/02/11
1-A Bloody Gun.
We filmed our add with soft focus lenses,
And treated the machine like a tree so you would love us,
We folded the car keys in green lumpy hands and created a
farce,
You can't storm the beaches in well scripted high art
pyjamas,
You need a bloody gun.

2-Pop The Song.

Speak your fluid mine field mind and have the people step on
it.

She's stretching the face of the card counter flat to the table,
She kisses the man with the green shadow hat,
And he bursts out in song.
16/02/11
1-Dig Lizard Dig.
This lizard can dig,
It can dig itself under,
When the questions are hard it can slip off its skin without
anyone seeing it go,
While it's woe ridden body inhales the air outside the crowd
is throwing Jaffa's at its hollow headed shell.

Give me the herbal cigarette,

And green tea,
And a peaceful meeting with the Lord.

2-Ting-Ting To The Moon.

Mew the cat,
Badly cold,
Shoot the horses,
Stack your boxes flat and sleep there,
This a concrete corner does the trick,
So long as no broad face appears to kick in heads for money,
Your teeth are like the notes on a xylophone,
They ting-ting to the moon and brush up bright.
17/02/11
1-Seven Colours.
Send me a stilt walkers smile that bears down,
The round headed desert dog lunges at men made of ice,
And they crack,
And the winning team wears seven colours,
The other team aren't there.

2-While We Nintendo.
Her weather watch eyes are like coin slots in the backs of
pigs,
Her hands are ice-cream melting and her voice is like a buzz
saw.

Nigerian Dan bangs the drums,

The kids are heavy lids in mock prayer,
Other children starve,
While we Nintendo.
18/02/11
1-Seahorse.
Chain the sub and sink the sailors,
They will fry the octopi with laser cannon,
Red button urgency,
That claws the ocean floor with rakes and all the golden parts
are filtered through.

A seahorse can re-pregnify to save his flesh and blood,

And anchor safe to seaweed in a field of black balloons.

2-Scratch Your 67.

Scratch your 67 weeks the criers flood,
She dyes her insides purple sleeves and all the rotten puppies
midnight jet;
Their longing from a cannon hand like mega-man will scream
the laughing greenery.

Gemini-man was double dross,

He was multiplied pink,
And he buzz sawed like grief in a tunnel.
19/02/11
1-Limb Magnet.
Nursing home drip,
On a long winding string that is brown and clean, And taut,
With crash test audacity,
And marks a place to push you in by pointing at the bottom.

The guidance droids,

The ambient intelligence is lifting Mabel out of bed for
breakfast.

2-Brutal Force.
Button joints for eagle three,
His navy jumper stinks of posh,
The policy,
Not the person.

His golf club,

An extension of his inner man,
Is silver,
Shining light,
And cuts the better line to loving God with brutal force and
money.
20/02/11
1-Sock Man On The Train.
Rudder reversal,
5 men gas the Tokyo metro,
I am only 15 and probably watching a horror film,
He is steering his airplane into the ground,
It hurts,
It is cardio tragedy,
Black lace umbrella.

Train line's light the heavy blind sock with arms and legs of
bound string and a felt mouth,
He isn't frowning,
He has only slipped.

2-Can't Reach The Bottom.

Research is key,
Put down the hallowed texts and they will supply your final
blow,
Will unwaveringly state their holy evidence against you.

He pulls on the untidy knots in their veins like a man with a

brain haemorrhage,
God is decidedly shy of your woeful friend Satan,
Of his faceless fun and vomit stains.
21/02/11
1-I Told Godzilla.
I told Godzilla he looked a little fake,
He cried a little,
Reminded me with a guttural roar that he defends my kind from
our own stupidity,
On a grand scale,
And not to take him lightly.

The Japanese scientist standing beside me,

All eyes and brain,
Knew that we were doing something wrong,
But found it hard to measure or express,
Engulfed as he was in the iris of a giant laser eye.

2-Struck A Hundred.
6 weeks to set in,
Depending on your prospects maybe she could mine some other
guy,
And feel the fire ash their faces,

He will be elevated by standing ovations,

He will tap dance on a golden stair and smile like an upside down
rainbow,
Like rainbows are not a trick of the light,
But are born from his rapid fire feet like heavenly sighs.

I tried to find you something nice,

Some diamond swollen trigger,
Pull it out to break the knees of love,
Your hammer swung a dozen times and I was struck a hundred.
22/02/11
1-Poor Man's Gout.
No calming crowd of preachers peasant converts speaking
pleasantly,
Giant cups of tea,
All white,
Their dandelion gout control,
Bandages with flowers underneath.

No single minded hen to peck their minds a brand new hole,

No sermon on the mount,
No Easter eggs who covet blood to fill their heathen pockets.

Chocolate Koalas will never rule the world,

No matter how jolly and round their little bellies,
No matter how infectious their enthusiastic ways.

2-The Light Of A Dull Catholic Sun.

Seed sewn for glad sons to be eating their fill,
Take pockets of time honoured burdensome hymn and be
turning them paper m\342ch\351 into monsters that sit on
the backs of the pews and hum backwards the words there
inscribed underneath their green paint.

Take the book full of sermons and cheats and be burning it

down,
Ensure that you burn it most thoroughly good,
As the Protestant preacher should not be reflecting the light
of a dull Catholic sun.
23/02/11
1-Fat On Weetbix.
Brett Lee,
Stop looking at me like that,
I see how they've bent you in like a child so you fit at their
unholy table,
Your blue speckled photo studio tall monkey home and your
tiny little eyes Brett,
Just chuck the ball and swear at the English,
Stop daring me to get fat on Weetbix.

2-Backwards Taxi.
He collects old fans,
1935,
A boomerang harp and the glint in his eye is like acid,
She speaks like West London and lives like Freddy Kruger,
Her books are full of words that stink,
Her floor is death,
Old men mice smoking pipes and a backwards taxi.
24/02/11
1-Fat Men Bragging.
Why do they drink it so fast?
They nod like fat men bragging,
Are paid amounts to make your stomach churn and spit
cement,
To be sincerity's anti Christ,
To act like struggle monkeys ditching poo.

Forget the smiling poorly dubbed and back lit clown who
tries to sell you gods,
Take heart,
He packs it in eventually.

2-Have A Go.
Meaningful stare,
Sequential derision,
She failed,
More bathroom cutlery and deadly spores,
Don't make friends with imuno-deficient asthmatics,
Get yourself a 30 million static stare from rusting sunny love,
And give it a go.
25/02/11
1-In The Lap Of Glad Sadie.
Lipless lady dumped in a lovely car,
Disgust of lips,
A double u,
An ay,
A double ell,
An accidental lisp from losing teeth,
You whistle like a bleeding thug.

They one potato two potato,

Short skirt skipping into folky bliss.

2-Red Stick.
Don't plant the red stick in a dog,
It will grow and its roots will alert the police,
A red line will chase quarks out from earth into Gods shining
kingdom,
A red branch will gather your guts.

The dog will not die,

It will eat you.
26/02/11
1-Numbers.
Sleep is for the fortunate,
Their golden hair and egg white gushing eyes.

The night belongs to the walking weary,

The wound man with his various ailments and injuries,
A spear hanging out of his side,
A dozen piercing arrows from an ancient war now
permanently rusted in,
Your physics and your history are worthless,
Numbers are immortal,
But they don't have many friends.

2-Windows 95.
Post-mitten,
Winter-mortem,
Three cats howling lullabies.

She the unbearable plugger of sinks,

She the paper boat destroyer,
Bubble bursting pin,
She wears a hundred aches and pains to shut you down like
windows 95.
27/02/11
1-Chalk Bald Stick Man.
Behind the eight ball is the rubber headed chalk bald stick
man,
He will snap you in half with his eyeless glare and take all
your money,
He is the demon competition,
He is the wager won before it existed.

Wings of a dozen bats discarded sewn into his arms,

The nerves and tendons carefully planted,
Blood supply and frightening efficiency,

He could wage a war alone and come out breathing gold,

He could shatter every brick you ever laid.

2-Circus.
My folks are cement,
They are balding derision that laughs like a baby,
All gums and huge gaping deception,
The adult mind will make the adult face contort for babies
pleasure,
The mother will applaud the brother,
Does not see the father pitch the tent the brother uses for a
circus.
28/02/11
1-Oliver Sacks.
Beauty is in the mind of the beholder,
He is proud of his wife,
She reads Oliver Sacks,
Full of mice and mistaken identity,
She resides in a paradise built out of straw.

Her numb face plants a tree in it,

Doctors and fish,
Last year's mouldy words eat their pages from shelves full of
underwhelmed books,
Who expected to live out their dreams of dust free living in
the brain,
But instead have been stacked like old bills on a pike at the
edge of a desk,
That has dug itself in at the back of the garden,
And is turning back into an oak.

2-Their Still Living god.

Satisfied customers bind up your troubles like mummies and
ship them to Zion,
They sip orange tea and read brochures on places they don't
plan to go,
Eagerly soak up their Wittgenstein holidays.

This is the travel a man can afford,

Unless it is sold by an imbecile flogging his faith.
OUTRODUCTION

Thanks for your time, and again, if you want to subscribe, email me
at clo5dimly@hotmail.com and let me know. Also, feel free to pass
copies of this to anyone you think might like to read it.
Direct any comments or questions to that same email address and
let me know if it's OK to publish & answer them on a letters page,
and I'll do that in the next issue, (I'll also answer them to you
directly if you don't want them published, or even if you do).

Thanks again,

Corey Biscoe-Marwick.