CAT TRAIN FEET BRAIN

ISSUE 22 - OCTOBER 2011

written & illustrated by Corey Biscoe-Marwick copyright 2011

Hello readers. I don't know if you noticed but I'm a couple of months behind at this point, almost all of the content is ready to go, I've just been caught up in other things like music making, affiliate marketing, (not as wanky as it sounds), and being a Dad and such. Which I've been all along since the birth of Cat Train but sometimes it takes more time from you than usual and other things take the back seat, or just get out of the car entirely, which is not a bad thing, and all by choice. Anyway, here's October's issue, with November's and December's soon to follow, I've changed the format slightly, you only get one poem to a page instead of two, there's still the whole diary like format of daily writings and drawings but I'm not dating them because I don't think it's necessary, (though they will still be in the right chronological order), the poems and art are cohabiting pages to make the thing slightly less enormous on the page count and the pages are A4 and sideways instead of A5 and not sideways, for no reason other than why not. Hope you're all well anyhow, and that you enjoy this extremely late offering. P.S - check out this too: http://liveintheloungeroom.blogspot.com/ if you get a chance, it's another thing I was involved in the birthing of while not making Cat Trains. Some music on the way too, next year I'd say from my good self and others, and don't forget, Feb 24th 2012, a Friday night, at some time yet to be determined some of my art and some other folks art, (namely the good sirs Rhys Roberts and Ryan Nazzari, with a guest appearance by an as yet unnamed sound making individual), will be on display at an exhibition at the YMCA HQ gallery in Leederville/Perth Western Australia, more details soon, (this also has been stealing my Cat Train-ing, but it'll be worth it folks, I'm super excited to be involved in this).

Cheers, Corey.

The Eyes & The Hair. There was a lazy kind of pain to it, That four fingered watcher with his bus brain and child's voice all squealy like a broken seal. The beach was awash with their bodies, Bits and pieces scattered like shells, The small men with the serious eyes were collecting their favourites, The fingers and toes, The eyes and the hair, Later they'd sew them together like wigs and go frighten the settlers with squelching mud footsteps, Whispering heckles and jibes.

Sideways In The Lynching Hall. Your leaky liar brain succumbs to servitude, Your holstered hands are scabrous dry and weeping sap, Grey global stench and wrought iron smithery. She will escape before three, She will be home on her own with the radio, I will still be here at five o'clock, Barely able, Standing sideways in the lynching hall.

Paint Another One. The simple shapes they cast like spells on canvas and bemuse the great admirer, Shall be ever taunting every man who eats at 8, 12 and 6, Who sees perfectly well the meaning in the daily paper and the screen fed battery hen, Who understands the jaundiced king with jaunty lips and a well meaning air. Come home to mine and watch the paint dry slowly in the sun, And there we'll paint another one until you see the point.

The Modern Mother. The modern mother takes a lovely photo, Her smile and short flat glazed blond hair, Her interrupted children, The dark shapes in the wood grain and the large old hanging windows, The dusty scarecrow memories all drifting in from neighbours cats and ravens in the dead-maus trees. That yellowed room like cigarette teeth, An alcoholic trust, The wearing in of brand new shoes for Christmas.

They Write Their Own Books. Their spare part heads that were probably home to the prettiest faces, Their white bound skulls that have grown wise old brains and abandoned the way of the puppy dog, Those bottle brown glasses as thick as a concrete slab and the simple summer dress. No puppets in the wings to build an absent universe, No television set to plug them in to, They press their own paper, They write and they read their own books.

One Martha, One Mary. One Martha, One Mary, One clean floor and sparkling pride and the whitest apron casting sunshine mockery, One filthy home and a strange woman under a rug with a torch and the word, And fifty seven children and a battle in the gut for reaching somewhere with a view. Indignation sails at five to anyplace you'd like it to, Self respect is hosing down the lovers on the golf course.

Circles and Down. The tactile saint has sailed a ship of flesh for several hundred years beyond the stones of rest in peace, Above the lake of fire, The feeling soul can see his terror rising as the tide turns red the hunted man, As Godly sorrow flickers on and off like children play with switches. The friendly saint has banished all the satan's that he knows, Has driven them to suffering eternal as they wish upon the many they advise before the revelry begins, And they are sworn friends turning grey from bleach and pesticides. This is the day, This is the one holy day which you mock without mercy, Upon which I lean to be rid of my self and to leave here a puddle of stab wound and mud bloody footprints in circles and down.

The Living Man Inside Him. Unimpressed is possibly what she's thinking, In not so many words, Like ethereal being and muggy day sun stunning camels eye piercing the bloated Bulgarian stag. Here's a man with a switch and another with a solid alibi, Here's a fallen angel with a goats beard and the honest to goodness face of a rubber chicken. These days you can't see the ghost for the living man hiding inside him, The grave yard for the wake.

Wealthy Widows. I remember your tiny clay room and that smile is apparently permanent, I think you'd stuck a tooth brush on the wall, And all of us were minimised entirely by the outsourcing that never existed, And the fact that secretly you'd left that machine and gone crawling for stones, And painted them blue and been jaggedly honest and bitten us spider red laughter and paintings of frogs. They told me I was ahead of time, That words and pictures live like that in a constant state of anxiety, And hence I was their genie, Their A5 ghost with point four precision, And you were their hung bet, Their chariot of fire in a fish tank on some wealthy widows lawn.

Cheap Compilation. You had the tune collected from a cheap compilation, A photo or two that may have just been stolen and the downwards slanting incandescent saintly snore of a Mexican hit man. The police are not corrupt, They just don't want to die like all the rest of

Slightly More Murderous. Say you're sorry for no reason and they will pin you down like a dead butterfly, Giant strip of paper strapped to your ankle which reads your genus, Your place of origin, And your proper scientific name. Every simple scientist, Every complex human anomaly who reads your shredded line will smirk a good long crank crunching smirk that makes you ever so slightly more murderous than you were the day before.

Slot Car Rabbits. Distractions are the peace meal pony's grail lit eyes, The tears of a mermaid, Your will be done in heaven Lord, Let earth rot solid for another hefty length, Until the horses race the men, And dogs place bets on slot car rabbits.

Abject Abnormality. There' a ninety day wait in the wings for your sort, The ragged hairless wrinkled sort who could pass off as alien life forms if ever Spielberg were to abandon the modern world in favour of ape suits and rotating sets, For the flavour of ancient history. Stand tall like the Spirit has risen in you, Like your once drunk brother sprouted poetry in the back of a caveman's van, And was not rejected, Project, Sterilise them with your abject abnormality.

Black & White & Red All over. These two Neanderthal are talking loudspeaker high definition C and F words with the kind of broken record cyclic skipping psychosis you'd expect to see in a shell shocked soldier of the French Legion, Black and white and red all over. The BBQ click is a sure sign of suffering, That and the Folsom prison blues, The man shot in the road whose guts make a trail for the ambulance driver to gather in steel mesh, And deliver back to his gaping insides, That man and his widower dog, That man and his hundred dead children.

Dagger. Some suggestive lunatic will nudge you once and laugh and glare a little, He will say she's half alright, She swings a bit, She I bet would spit his kind a dagger for their troubles, Keep that in your pants kind sir, Nobody wants to see it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lMhdUA5BqFs

A Tendency To Whistle At The Wind. The 1976 dark green bus station tin roof collected heat like an armed robbery, The savage kids who hung their arms on its gummy rails, Who caught the dismal busses, (Septic he said, He knew my city like an older sister with holes in her face from too many habits), We're not to be trusted. They stank of vacant cells and plastic foetus paper bags, They're hair was always razor cut with little white amateur scars, Folded arms and a tendency to whistle at wind.

Homemadery. The simple girl has a stupid cardy on, With self stitched homemadery from the pages of "Frankly we're so far above you it hurts." She is beautiful though, That's the clincher see, That's the holy dagger in your back.

Not Fictional. It's all tape and beards now, All timpani sixes and the low-fi gods of petroleum jelly. He's got a fold up six guitar stand which is has sent forth three greats to the arms of their lovers, His songs are like raw eggs on a Saturday morning, His sleepy disposition is not fictional.

Hide The Television. Never mind that the chickens will crap all over your beautiful ye-olde house, And that your ruffled man is dressed by local charity, Never mind the one gear bike, The mock Jesus and the ridiculous evil wooden bunny that oversees the kitchen. This is the greenest grass on earth folks, This is the pure and holy hidden television.

Goats And More Goats. We put the shame in "what a shame", We dig the black boots in and tangle the hairless demons many string like arms with our own brittle selves and get ready for war. Apparently there are those among us who look like the real thing, But smell like the devil when you get too far up. Back down now, Or they'll stain you the colour of Jesus. u

Car Parks Are Fun. You won't be young forever, But your young right now, Don't waste the feeble stranded mind of degenerative laughs on the serious business of being infected by love, Hate them all boy, Shove them against walls girl and kick them where it hurts. This is why the future of our nation is in doubt, The cleanest and most sensitive of minds are given free reign while the wild and bone snap true to lifers rot in lonely bus stations, And shopping centre car parks.

Broken Nose. He only needed a hint, A woman from a knitting magazine who was raising a long skirt to show off her ankle, Like the looped ridicule of man in a black and white Betty Page type meandering silliness, Torn threads from some other kind of lust. He only needed to see them spit his way and he was gone for good, New pants and a cut up air force uniform that fit him like a broken nose.

Gut The Mystic Reindeer. Regular doses of country life, That Mongolian low sweeping mountain range feeling we need, The rocks and the hummers and the too thin girl, The one with realistic jaw lines and the low broken chest with a heart of stained calico. Put her in a bottle and she'd sell like coca-cola, Rot their stinking native teeth and gut the mystic reindeer.

Down A Notch For Good. He was slightly heavier then than the grain terminal robot patrolman/thing/entity, (Because it had not yet been given its government issue steel plate armour and lead boots for wind pipe manipulation), He was not of the gentlest kind, Not at all attuned to the hyper sensitive frequencies that lay waste to real life men of blood and flesh, Robot Dave was nought but maybe seven days out from the birthing bay, And Satan Sam was ready with a wrench and silence, Poised to beat the holy android down a notch for good.

The Human Waste Man. What precisely is the human waste man doing on my drive? Says Pete the sheep to Paul the council goat, Whose truck has cracked the verge across the road, Why did you bring that filthy creature here, To taunt me? Pete says, Paul's says no, He's here to read your meter.

War & Song. This is why daytime hurts like hell, The sunshine mocks me for being so easily mocked, The daylight robbery of all the soul binding relics I collected last night by even just the slightest breeze, The tiniest distraction, Is ever imminent, Or has just been and gone. These instruments of war and song are not as far apart as I would like.

The Mothers Son. This is the truth, See the ragged aunt with the insane asylum nasty prickly beard and the lost little girl snappy eyes has got her hands frozen shut 'round you, Her tiny little serve the humans hands, And there's no battle toads in green slate universe, No line drawn heroic thing with several eyes to scare that aunt away, And so you suffocate ferociously, You bubble like a goldfish. The mothers son is bound to fail, The sons mother to be wary when it isn't half as necessary as being someplace else.

Ten Cups A Day. The cry baby lies she tells humans, The Rob Roy stale chest she pins hope on like roses, That green translucent skin and those silver button fingers are the only way forward. Her red ragged hair is like some sort of automatic demon flag for backwards cap wearing stooges, She's uglier than stunted granny spit, More beautiful than ten cups a day.

Tame. Assuming the worst is super easy folks, Put on your misery hat to put out your fire and live in the soggy ash, Half a nation at the very least conspiring against you, Even your friends are solid liars. The lions mouth is warm and inviting, Put down your wooden chair and whip, The people have spoken.

Beautiful Religion. Eddie calls for God, Proof number one that there isn't one is the fact that God won't show, Maybe he's busy being someplace else, Maybe he is here, Of course he is. And the ark was stocked with animals by twos, Probably less than you'd imagine, No degradation, Only the purest kind to flow the mutant cross breeds once we landed on a rock. My children's bible, Nineteen eighty six, Had an image of the panicked drowning sort, The sinners in their soaking hell and even a drowning baby, This is beautiful religion people, The fear of God is the beginning of wisdom.

Even A Unicorn. Drink the brown soil with your iron beaten fists, & smell the cogs are rusting in the meaty mans brain, He will spill them on your door mat and the post man will vomit, He will fracture into tiny pieces like the transmat failure victims of the late 1900's. Science is the gold trimmed paper leprechaun's coat of arms, Even a unicorn knows that the world isn't flat.

There you go. Thanks for reading, and if I don't get another issue out before Christmas then I wish you a good one, if I do, I'll probably wish you a good one again. Don't hesitate to email me via: clo5dimly@hotmail.com for any reason, questions, ideas, whatever you want to share, let me know if your OK with your email being published in the back her and I'll do that. Thanks again, Corey.