CAT TRAIN FEET BRAIN

ISSUE TWENTY - AUGUST 2011

Written and illustrated by Corey Biscoe-Marwick

INTRODUCTION Hello again, the crazy city sneaking antics of the last issue will not be repeated here unfortunately, I'd love to plant toilet paper art all the time but it's just not practical. I've tried something simpler here, drawing on glass and taking photos of said drawings in front of other things, i.e. textures on my furniture, the television, light bulbs and so on. I've done a lot of photo-shopy drawing type things in the past and I thought it would be interesting to draw over a photo without using digital means, admittedly a couple of these pictures have had a tweaking in photo-shop, but only a couple. The writing as usual is all over the place, no set subject, just whatever came to mind. Next issue, or the one after, depending upon time and energy and the like, I'll be collaborating with one Mr Rhys Roberts, (see his blog here: http://throwlights.blogspot.com/ ). He's a photographer mainly, but also some other things, like a songwriter, writer in a general sense and artist/creative person whose work I admire and am excited to be taking part in. We're hoping to exhibit said work in front of actual people next year sometime along with the art of another man named Ryan Nazari who is also insanely great. This is all up in the air type stuff, and I need to get cracking to make it happen, but to my WA readers, all details will be supplied and hopefully you can come along and have a look.

Email me at: clo5dimly@hotmail.com to subscribe if you want to, or if you have any questions or an idea for a theme for an upcoming issue.

c Corey Biscoe-Marwick 2010, all rights reserved.

01/08/11 1-Back In The Eighties. The herb garden is overgrown, It's creeping roots are bursting alien tangle arms, To reach and squeeze the heart of the dead. Deep puddles brown from corroding the earth, A drain pipe mouth for floods to pour forth, And the diligent gentleman shovelling sand into bags at the gate. He's swimming in the dirty work of high wall throwing scab dispelling pain, One smudged in face the muddy window, The new lights are shining, The old fish man crawling on scab knees and flailing around.

2-Spark The Fire Building. What the creature spills from wicked guts, All honesty and sharpened wit from stone scrape knives and spark the fire building, Will bring the hollowed out surveyor deadly hands to curse the ground, Will part the sea like Moses did, And all the evil creatures there will breathe through brand new lungs the thickest fog.

02/08/11 1-Why They Are Broken. Narrow path the clean believer, Push him through the slots between the splintered wood and woolly headed shrunken monks, Who tell their tales on golden paper writ in black lung ink, They're wringing out the patients in the dark, One dose of anaesthetic through a fist sized dart and they will never know why they are broken.

2-Hill Rolling Egg Men. Hill rolling egg men will bottom of the garden crack, And yellow brains will puddle in the muck, And you will step in them. What a laugh says Peter Pan, The oldest man alive is shaking hands with the shortest man on record, You can hear him crackle like coco pops, It may be his final act.

03/08/11 1-Gin & Tonic. Another half hour draining your sack of old wine into vats in the earth, You have dug bare fisted like a man-machine, Scoop the dirt and breathe the worms and dive and drop and fall. Another song the radio has pulled right from your grey lump heart, A whiney little voice under the microscope of social science, That subtle grunt, The grin of gin and tonic.

2-The Inner Court. Whatever you hear or see in the inner court, You must not share with anyone, Not a pagan brick stacker, Not a simple sort who seems as if he's not got the presence of mind to pass it on, Because by all accounts he will, As history tells, And ruin everybody else's chance at being saved.

04/08/11 1-Mass Exodus. There's good in this skin that is unrecognizably sharp, That is harsh on the outside like black blood in frozen arteries coiled around the genesis of man. There is a worthy cause just waiting for the right to speak, For someone to unjustly abuse, And therefore set a spark unto the chain that lies beneath the dirt, That leads a million down and underground to some place hellish and disastrous, An accidental beauty that is monumentally fatal. What a fool to think your worth is measured by a system that makes sense, Empirical distortion, Mass exodus.

2-Land Mine. It's disparaging, When your orders lead to opposites, When the little folk won't sleep or lie quiet or watch the score boards carefully and tell you when you're winning. The smallest makeshift land mine in a shovel handled carefully, A distant kind of rumble in the dust, Can still take off an arm or leg, Or make you deaf and blind, And unable to pay taxes.

05/08/11 1-Liquid Misery. Now with the money drug hanging you dry it is hard to imagine greater failure, And he preaches at you brand new way that he has paid to learn from men in blinking boxes, Selling more to learn than anyone could know. And sometimes even notes and lines are just another source of liquid misery.

2-Nasal Passages. Do your own thing plaid and chequered, Wear that itchy suit to plain faced land, And watch the plain ones focus on your vacant nasal passages with jealous eyes, "Oh how I wish nose was not a trumpet for the messages of gods, And I could breathe just like that skinny bored looking red head who is cracked in the middle."

06/08/11 1-What It Means To Be A Man. There's a trickle down the back that leaves a line, His voice is now that of an empirically minded machine, If you are not submitting to the cause of my Christ, You are non-existent, And my prayers will not be flooding forth. He believes with a will that is larger than his skull, And so it bulges like a wounded soldier, His tumour shines like lightning, He is never weary of explaining what it means to be a man.

2-Where The Heart Is. What you will is what you are, What you eat you will digest and most of it run forth in horrid lumps, What you read has read your face and knows just how to tell you that you're wrong, And home is where the heart is.

07/08/11 1-The Wanker & His Little Songs. Poetry has a tendency to lean into the wanker like an old friend, A paradoxical lover, Sniffing his glued on hands and sheer singlet with a nose like vacuum packed bananas, All yellow and waiting to burst. A poem I'm told is a little song, And it crosses my mind that I've heard this enough, And been trodden on plenty and maybe don't care anymore, A little song that's twisting ruined men into the arms of ruined women, In the holy hall of ruin where the monster's name is sin, And he had every right to take you down, And no one say a word.

2-We Are All Forever. This shovel and this ground, This endless patch of ground that plain refuses to be turned into a ditch, And daily fills itself right up again, These are my cross and my Calvary, My rolling stone and burial cloth, My waiting angel telling me that theft and sadness are illogical, When logic is a law no longer, As death has died, And we are all forever.

08/08/11 1-Your Good Leader. A million maps and charts, A pair of glass eyes and the wilted fingers of a charcoal dreamer tracing shapes in concrete, Pouring out his love to Vera Lynn. Your good leader has assumed his naked treachery will not go unrewarded, He is right.

2-A Bite For Every Slave. He's got a bite for every slave, His teeth are stone, His tongue a needle point and poison darts, He wears you down with songs of glory won by people unlike you, You see and you don't see, You switch the plain speak for a round headed kind that rolls off the tongue and into the gut, That makes people cringe and exhale very loudly with coughing of blood. The food here is treacherous, The chef has no hands.

09/08/11 1-Squirrel & Gull. What a squirrel sees up in his trees with nut to chest held tight and oh the wonder, A rain cloud shaped like holocaust, A caustic soda seagull spinning down and down and out, The likes of which he's never seen before. The earth stands still, The sun has frozen everything in blissful spring and these two teeth are gleaming like their worth, A bodiless feather smacked angel has muddied the rocks, A cat and two vultures attending it's sudden funeral.

2-Crosses & Saints. It's a life and death cuddle, Devotion to nothing, She weds you and wears you like crosses and saints. He is the eternal message, The joke and the joker baring teeth and sharing punches. These are two hero's in lead suits and carrying flags, These are their counters all rapid decline.

10/08/11 1-Little Spirits. You give me a barely there friend while I help you to raise little spirits of sin, You give me third course and a light afternoon, The harried expression of rule breaking dogs. I'm told that myself and authority are not to be confused, I agree.

2-Duplo & Plasticine. Second round the juggernaut has catapulted Amy Graves, To Larry Luna's empty roof where Custard are rehearsing their reunion, It sounds like hard shells on soft backs and the soup smells of tardiness, Boiling in pots made of Duplo and plasticine.

11/08/11 1-The Cancer Duke. Fold your paper bag until it's pocket sized, The lump it makes will pay your left hook eyes a brand new lady, This is fat wallet man, Padding his thigh with hard drugs. Hold her left shoulder and bury your hand in her side, Pull out the cancer duke, Pull it all out with a finger and thumb.

2-The Less Tuesday Holden. The later it gets the more obscure and angular the mechanics, The less Tuesday Holden your marginal friends. This is some place monetarily sound, This is OS 7, This is god.

12/08/11 1-Reincarnate In The B Isle. I sent out the usual collection, A short stack of old bones with the occasional piece of coal brittle flesh and that pan flashing bravery, The sort of gear a cyber punk would crunch up in his heroine, The sort of Michael Mann you'd meet in 7013, A wavering fleshless reincarnate, Trailing in the B isle with the coffee tins and yogurt.

2-Sounds So Real. It makes far less sense than you'd like, The non-aggravation of it is almost recessive, Like a turtles head, Like the colour of your hair but not your eyes. There's a sideways kind of logic here in blue pants waving fees for veterans, A kind of insincerity that sounds so real it hurts to just believe yourself and know it isn't true. The doorman is a senseless manic type with little personality, He does not know how to switch off the alarm.

13/08/11 1-Every Toy Soldier. Your insoluble words are reincarnating my faith, Though second life is not practiced by my particular religion, And even though your branded foresight would sell me another self help dialogue with Satan I am open eared, And willing to outsource my acts of grace to you. This one believes so heroically blind that he guides other people there willed by his God, And they too shine with prepubescent abstinence. His lumpy skin and Adams apple jutting out are not akin to inner self, On the inside he is stadium sound and screaming accolades, Every toy soldier is burning for him.

2-The End. They'll be marrying and giving their children away, They'll be sewing and reaping as always and ever they're sure, And the earth will swallow half a dozen, Fifty six the next day,(in a church of all places), And the day after that we will all be set alight.

14/08/11 1-Happy Hour In The Home For The Damned. If the sky was falling like gigantic shards of glass, And pushing the sea out to swallow the land, If the sound of it lifted your feet from the ground, And your hands wrapped your face like a present, Would that be enough? Would you say it again? Would you mean it?

2-Sway The Leaky Sea. Discard your anonymity, It is a furry bear costume that only makes you smell of sweat, And causes you to feel as though your voice is made for screaming roaring anarchy, But must be bottled suddenly on opening your mouth. Discard your rubics dispensation, A puzzling wave of nauseous logic, Sway the sea friends, Sway the leaky sea.

15/08/11 1-Ugly Angels. Mud stains the white shoes of every salty angel, Who heaven has abandoned to their air dry tears, Like water colours, A load of mouldy washing in a dead woman's arms. These are not the kind to make a brood of giants, Giants are not made by ugly men.

2-Bible Bombs & Bloody Ears. In some places politics is violence and chair throwing madness, Bible bombs and ears blown off, People beaten dead while the police are yawning caffeine dreams to prostitutes. In my country, Belonging to me, Politics is sniffing chairs and stabbing backs, Injuries are rare, And passion is irrelevant.

16/08/11 1-Giant Blinking Buttons. Get in the way, It's the funnest place to be, And when they're screaming bottle necks and scram the filthy dogs, That's when you can laugh the hardest, Pushing on their giant blinking buttons.

2-The Yard Will Flood. Four strong minutes in the mouldy chair, This is where the ghost is pulling drain pipes, The yard will flood, Your nervous system spill a batch of sentences on forms for immigration. The officers will eyeball you with pea green specs and the fist of a Hindu knight, If you were meant to leave, You would've left.

17/08/11 1-Left Testicle,(Always The Left). Blast a hole in the money bags, Your forked tongue and one way ticket snigger are a sign of ill intention, That I will completely ignore if you pay me, She doesn't want to trade resent for happiness, Is probably unable, Her councillor says to say please understand, My left testicle says Jesus was betrayed and so shall I be, And he scratches at his furry skin with fury.

2-The Up & Down Defender. Round the rails the up and down defender, He is not opposed to telling all of what he feels, And why, And being certain upon leaving you at last, Alone with your red tinge and mercury tears, That you will call him soon, And do this again.

18/08/11 1-So Late, So Dangerous. Bride and groom are gloomy headed, Clouds crouch low upon their temples as they lie eyes left and right, Pointing out to hotel walls, And not into each other. The Northbridge Hotel as I recall, Was a false feeling soap sudded barrel of loathing, We are not happy, We are not sitting in the one hand countable audience of an off off Broadway play pretending to be puritans, We are a spandex lathered duo, Grey wisp in the night past your window at eight, It's so late, It's so dangerous.

2-The Ship To Vomit Island. The sea sounds like slow moving cars in the distance, One ear to the coffee cup, One to the ceiling, Three giant children, One who won't shut up, A typically quiet girl, Are shifting things for lady grace. There are white freckled panels all porcelain pale up above me, And waves of nauseous heat when ships go by, This one with blackened sails and a constant frown, Steered for sure by pirates, Stolen maybe, She's the ship to sickness, She's the ship to vomit island.

19/08/11 1-Bound. Suits you this, Was probably always your angle, To appear half dead while on the inside living, Quietly, A real slow burner. When we used to explode it was probably picture perfect, Tight focus right angles on a face made from marble and hauled from the deep. It's only you that can smell the fire, The deep gash of bound to a whore.

2-Megaphone For Jesus. Your late lunch smells like a gas explosion, I'm not joking either, Flames I mean, Not comedy, The burning flesh of little children running through your fingers. Tapering off in the dark sharks belly, That eerie sounding scream for help from some place far away, Next doors dogs unfed, And waving Murray with his plaster cast, Is once again a megaphone for Jesus.

20/08/11 1-Why Does A Woman. Why can the women hold each other? How can they talk so frank that way and carry their crosses with so little misery? How do they stretch out so far and so high into heaven that men must be weepers and wailers to get their attention, Why does it hurt to love a woman? Surely they know.

2-His Tiny Toy Bubble. Tripe, From the guts of dirty backwater feeders on algal blooms and floor sucker fish, The blind pope sits in his tiny toy bubble, Safe from bullet bill and trooper 6, His old wooden beard is all worm-full and splintery, The creases he forms in the earth are too deep.

21/08/11 1-Still Such A Coward. Parental failure cuts the lines, The written word is flattery and dumb religion, It never sang, It has a flawless record that is false, It's puppets die a dozen deaths. If this is your god holding high holy pages to burn, Then why are you still such a coward.

2-Fishing Hook Teeth. Gloat said the worm, You're the greatest, The best beating heart in the world, And they know it, Those gathered to send you away are so very aware of your sunshine bloating self, And high avenue taxi rides home. Yes, You can afford to buy them all.

22/08/11 1-Cracks A Rib. Because your secret words are sullen, Droopy eyed and sallow skinned like the rattling vegetable preaching conversion to leaky car batteries, Stacked up on the manky lawn, I believe your marriage is a bad idea, Your big ideas are tiny and your expectations fail to raise an eyebrow, Or a finger, Not a single hand is up to answer yours. The whole class hums with high scores and tape recorders, One boy says to another he can't help it if the bitches love him, One girl hits him hard and cracks a rib.

2-Sheep Don't Lay Eggs. People are fascinated by each other, Would love to sit and watch and listen to another person's entire day, Have magnetic sight lines to somebody's sitting outside, To what's happening on the side of the road, Outside the bar, Inside the bright kitchen where Sadie is washing her shirts in the sink. To sit inside your dreams even, Note taking, Baking reputations in the oven of shame, Minding your business, Counting your sheep and their eggs.

23/08/11 1-With The Hammond. The raspy voiced man with the Hammond declares that my life has been wasted, That all the heavy objects I have gathered are the stones that will bury me, Rocky giant hands to cup the earth, To lay me down. Their beautiful voices are staining the heart of the matter, Their gospel is not based on fact.

2-The Hunting Of A Lion Eating Soul. We are too many, We live in each other's voices, Our faces are amalgamations, Composites of carbon dated fossils used to guess the faces bred in ancient Rome, Beauty is a matter of opinion. Opinion is an envelope for every sordid letter mailing black, You need to read the news to know the man, The kids are failing entry level everything, Addicted to the hunting of a lion eating soul.

24/08/11 1-Sin & Apple Red. What a builderific day, Let's pile bodies up like little sand bag forts and throw our stones, Let's pretend we own the place, And treat the bleating sheep to a barrage of scary stories, Until they cry their little lambskin biscuit cries and buy the farm. This is holy holocaust, White South African rave dancing pile drivers, Burned at the stake by a ravenous creature in bridal wear, Mourning her husband lust, Her little children sin and apple red.

2-When He Is Gone. The metal drum is beating brains in bouncing skulls, The lights are flashing royal blue, In time with the beating royal hearts of loyal fans united, The screaming praise of the lung bloating kind, The kind to sing for Christ when he is gone.

25/08/11 1-Cuts Your Tongue. Statics to counter, The numbers and velocity, Pure margarine is black as death, Not even the flies will sit on it. Plastic cheese and rot gut grey forgetfulness, You drink it down so fast it cuts your tongue.

2-Hard To Believe. Always on empty, Suggesting the dogs are made solid from dreams caught in straw, A pig swill sturdy drunk has told you no-one knows the hour, And no one does, But it's hard to believe.

26/08/11 1-Sergeant Stains Umbrella. Gladly sing the steady song, It hurts to hear, Blind swigs a jug of nothing pure, And makes a will of wayward-ness so all decisions blend to grey suggestion. The goddess fog horn knows you're made of fire flies, They whir in you like jagged little bullet fish, They whiff of nasty Sergeant Stain's umbrella.

2-He's No Jedi. She'd prefer to know her fate was spoken, And certain lines erased and others scratched and some forgiven, Left in place, The lines her face was born to wear, Abuse from hands that hold the bugle high when folk are watching. I will you to apologize, Instead you want apologies from me.

27/08/11 1-The Child Who Eats Everything. The child who eats everything cannot be left alone, You will lose her down a well she digs with teeth made strong from eating stone, As deep as you were vacant, As dark as you were told. Her parents speak in black and white, Their tone is heavy cloud for dropping lead, My girl, Says mother mad, Is probably melting.

2-Rainbow Face. These cloudy sorts with fluffy hair like baby hair is flowing in the breeze, You spell it Y,E,S, They're eyes are burning tattoo's in their children's crooked backs, I want to subtract my love she says, These people are wasting my love. Never say she's lovely, Say she's lively, She's a visual feast, A burden-less heathen you barely know, But so love to glare at glorious, Leaving your rainbow face print on the glass.

28/08/11 1-No Horse Me. Small scale short form interactions have won, Are wearing blinkers staring out between the stocks and wanting only duty binding other foals, No desire to be thought of as responsible or trusty steeds. Will take off quick and smart and leave those lines you see in comics, Rolling bending heady lines that show a grace you can't describe, Because it hurts to look at for too long.

2-Thou Shalt Not Sneeze On Mondays. Some kind of simple, The ability to sit and watch a film without stopping to take notes, Or write a character history and extrapolate some other film from fiction unattended. Thou shalt not let thy children cross the street without a hand to hold, Thou shalt not sneeze on Mondays.

29/08/11 1-Tennis In The Air. Sometimes a slight cough, The sweep of an index finger to the corner of a page, Picking teeth and scratching ears, Those subtle little sounds a pair of lips will let escape unnoticed, I will vacuum up into my gut, My nervous system wring my brain like some old ladies floral tea towel, Tennis in the air, Old man Asia's voice describing burning cigarette ends down a well.

2-The IRA Fool. The yearning brow will earn it's keep on your mist riddled forehead, Your gut begins to extend beyond the bounds you once were able to contain it in by sheer force of starvation, Lack of exercise is no longer invisible, It shows like your slathered on grey bags of ghosting, Your old modern rock and your new classic haircut. The barbers name was Janet, He wore dungarees and now't else, Like that cloud haired luke-warm fence dancing IRA fool from the bar.

30/08/11 1-The Monster In The Trees. Trip wires along the perimeter, Kettles and bells, Some snot dripping creature with hairless wiry limbs aplenty climbing trees, Extracting sap with brittle scraping fingers pulling bark, Your outdoor pulpit stump a sturdy post, Your sermon notes are writ in blood, They mainly veer around the silent station house and all the neatly woven goings on of rural life, And focus on instead the cutting curse, The bleeding virgin and the extricated citizens of hell. Here the prime example, The exact and urgent reasoning which gives flesh to every sentence you pronounce, To form a reborn entity where once was only air, With which to fight the monster in the trees.

2-A Silver Line. The whispered children watch the stars with eyes that are and are not grey, Have not been flooded with halcyon clouds and submerged entire children in puddles of rank sewage. 'What's that?' he says, His bare fist is held out with direction but he is not pointing, His eyes are closed and so it seems a vague suggestion, Look away while I become a silver line and slip into your pocket.

31/08/11 1-Burke & Jesus. It's lies and liars really, Not the clean rubber band plan and flick the witch a real slow hammer phrase, Speak soft but stern, In silhouettes. It's Peter Brock and Burke in what was possibly a dream, Delivering their garden secret's sacred heart's to camera with a fist full of nightie and burning embers. That's when he was taken off the air, For being unconcerned, For being just like Jesus in the street.

2-Sink The Sports Section. Does it make you squirm there home and wrapped, To cry belligerent tearful watery drops of devotion, To urns and celibate flesh, To the boy who told them all that he was dying, And he died. His time bomb soul and handsome hands to hold the real solution, Must've ached quite a bit before leaking their poisons right in him like that, Must've suffered a lot to resort to such brutality, Just to make you cry a little, Just to make you cut the sports and sink your speedy fingers to a choir.

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 the link to anyone you think might like to read my zine. 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. Thanks again, Corey Biscoe-Marwick.