CAT TRAIN FEET BRAIN

ISSUE TWENTY FIVE JANUARY 2012

Written and illustrated by Corey Biscoe-Marwick

INTRODUCTION Hello readers, this issue, art wise anyway, centres around portraits of fisher people I discovered in a camping ground laundry room in some old "Australian Fishing" magazines that were piled up in a corner, very late 70's early 80's kind of faces in them, I think faces kind of progress with fashion somewhat, people change gradually and you don't see the sort of faces that you used to. So this is a muntified version of the faces that I saw, exaggerating that old style face that we see no longer, except in older people, but then it's not exactly the same because time moves faces on to new places in normal predictable ways also. You may disagree with me on this whole faces connected to the times thing but that's OK, email me if you like, we'll have a debate, I'll bring my Grandad to your house and we'll put him in an age reversing machine and see what he look like, take him out on the street and compare him to modern young folk. Also listen to this if you like: http://www.triplejunearthed.com/Artists/View.aspx?artistid=5 2019 it's me, my good friend Mal Inness and my cousin Stacey Kendall, (my wife's cousin really but I claim cousin hood also, my cousin in law I guess), from New Zealand who recorded her vocals and sent them via the magical internets to add to this tune and make it 200 percent more listenable. Let us know what you think, I'm hoping very much to put more tracks together and get them out there, it's good fun.

c Corey Biscoe-Marwick 2010, all rights reserved.

Green. That small decision maker with the limited capacity for rumbles and grunts is waiting on a stack of bricks the backside of the jungle drop, There's children here with lower gains who fling their shit from rapids, Business men with little to no idea the way the rabbit works or how the grunting gears are going 'round who never the less do the same thing exact, And yet the bubble man is never blown, And always just a little plastic bottle full of green.

A Standard Kind Of Spark. Slightly larger numbers are preferred, But you could strip it back to fifty five and Claude the golden seal would still be clapping like an imbecile with flippers flapped and beach ball at the ready. It doesn't t need to be some great and justice driven triumph, Bloating little heads to screen sized monoliths, The uber-life of made up Dave and the weight I his hefty wardrobe, The lights in his eyes that were put there in post. Nowadays the people make their own, Fun and folly, Tunes to clear you sinuses, And heart jumping silhouette Sally's who grow from the mould of old cheese in the fridge, Far more capable of true and drastic vaudeville than any five toed ape in seven figure leather with a man's voice and a standard kind of spark.

Those Who Cannot Cry. Drastic measures must be taken, The orange patrol and their humanistic values, The indelible seal on that box full of sin that the children have worked off with crow bars and patience, Need to be replaced with pure machinery and capital punishment, Metal men and electric chairs, The perfect combination. Road works must be carried out no longer by folk with beards and extended breaks, The train ride home is far too long to bring their little tuneless whistles with, There needs to be a move towards oppression of the bloke, Imprisonment for those who cannot cry.

Five Feet Six Inches. Half an hour more until the beast of buy and sell is to be unclamped from the metal post and let loose on the gentle bearded face of arts management, At least that's what I see, It may be less a beard than it is wholly made from magnets and distorts the metal cavities in ceiling fans and ducts, Maybe his face is all flesh and no skin, He signs with a pen made from marrow, And passes on anyone smaller than five feet six inches.

Nun. The kind of kindly meagre feats an older woman weaves from several days of watching for the perfect time to step in on their game and make a wave, The whining swing set and the familiar sound of screaming four year olds being rounded up by a hapless Nun, Or at least somebody made to be monastic, Who it seems believes their talent lies with healing little children. Little children bite, They take chunks impossibly large by unhinging their jaws like a snake, And leave you pleading innocence with battle scars to prove it.

Satanic Magpie. Flesh it out with perfect detail, The various voices of surrounding strangers, What they believe and the voice it takes like a magic whiff of hollow intuition, Dragging behind it a decade or two of wet eyes and a satanic magpie. The mind of a giant bird has only one trail, Along which spins the wheel of kill and maim, Of take the babies first and then their mothers.

Rain Dance Angels. They finally scatter their clawed bitter faces to dig up a road someplace, Hold up an image of government intervention upon public systems via civil engineering and council workers. There's rain up there in giant buckets waiting for the call, God and all his angels are not dancing to our tinny radio attempts at magnetic virtue, They're dancing a rain dance, Believing in themselves for kingdom come.

If You Had Some. This great productivity that anchors itself to awkwardness and small clay cubes in the Andes is hardly value for money, To put in so much for so little return, That dying wheezy cough and the onset of definitive panic, Or else dictionary pain and the sweep stakes are over with no numbers called, No door prize for the lucky vicar, No cattle branding burning X for Stan the loveless hippy, An anathema to Beatles fans world over. The backlash from this anti-histaminic life of virtue is of course a lack of will and no place anyways to put it if you had some.

Derision Is An Animal. You can see the zip, It's fake fur and holes for eyes, Squeaking public park that sounds like giant screeching lizard-birds from Hades, The smell of sulphur in your bedroom of a night time and the one hefty experience you've had planted on a sheet of paper permanent for publishers to scoff at with derision. Derision is an animal, Defecating constantly on everyone.

Several Cups Of Bowler Hat. Way ahead there in a month long stretch of glorious state of the art pencil publishing and the wearing of a waist coat to a solid little office block in Kent, Is a small piece of late night strategizing and the unlocking of new materials with which to create things that have not nor will ever be seen, And a morning walk to shake the matter off, And several cups of bowler hat with binned plain paper and a sweaty old man.

Fire Drill. Said he was going to be bearded and humanitarian, He was the business type, I was named "this young man" and green shirted and ditching a sock at the wall I became what for want of words willing to stick a fine toned example of voiceless decay. The French exchange-o-phone upon the forward facing wall and the telephone boothed murder victim with a seeping face both suggested that I hand over the money and leave without complaint, Their twin voices string plucking the ether demons tentacled fire drill calm.

Lions Ambition. Orange men on the line mean delays, And the dot strangled arrow is hacking at the sides of sports cars, Their double breasted jacket wearing hefty gut drivers complaining on live feed to the government channel, Where even the small voices burst their buds to flower middle sized and gaseous volcanos. Tame train riding young gentlemen with lions ambition are failing to recede remarks unfounded, Are thumb typing triumphant calls to repentance, Drawing to them no one worth the effort.

Concurrent Energy. To keep track of the trailing lines that so quickly disappear, He is chalk marking each in blue, Down roads and up walls, Over the occasional street sleepers ruffled jacket, Cursed for being a fool, There will one day be evidence proving him otherwise, Until then he collects and conceives, Giving birth to small sparks of concurrent energy flowing through slits in the curtain.

The Great Australian Dream. I can hear the party spilling front yard young man brick headed chaps sitting heavy on their hands, The bonnet of his car has been a place for serious discourse before, For the forging of violent activities. This is serious business, This abuse and the mad rush crap talkers spitting blood like fire, Dragon men with spider thug hands and the cheek bones of Mother Theresa, This is the great Australian dream, To get pissed and hurt somebody.

Loud Lads. Loud lads, All of them loud bloody lads and that laughter proceeded by "fuck you", That dead laughter like a kiss from your mother, Cracked bells on a dusty church. They have a giant cross in there, To keep the loving in.

Watermelon Heads. Large bloated lipless little baker hands woman with a scratchy stitched up jaw line and the patience of a bull, All of you are weak kneed little rats on hyper ventilators, Tubes and rubber rings and throats all stretched to hell from too much football. I'm told the watermelon head is a sign of leadership, That the fat sinking men with blue faced protuberance and a sore eyed kind of dog speech are not truly as sad as they look, It's a guise to hide their royalty, Like Ritchie and his milk van.

Half Hour Still Hands For Victims Of Love. Sad and true things are lining up inside the be kind depot for their daily serve of sighs and palms to cheeks, The trawling through your hair with tiny fingers that you sometimes get from new folk, From little children asking you to fake it. There's fire in the world outside and melting bone and skin, And people who consider it a pleasure to disarm you, This is where we come to be released for one small moment, To bury ourselves in the chains of an unborn angel.

Power Lines. Burn your own crappy house down you drunk bearded dog, Clamping your guts on it, Hiding the true lyre plucking his shabby old strings, Our tiny home is as ugly and empty as yours, I'd let off a drugged burnt faced golden haired splat kid but you I could crush in an instant, Though you did not remove any power lines..

Bright Things For Bad Children. Tripping on the savage words hung directly at the foot of it, Like smelly old sacks for Saint Nick to put feet inside, Bloody stump piss taking miserable man feet from men who died just yesterday, The very day before. It's midnight whispers keep you off his list, And bright little lights in the narcotic haze, Sparking a demi-god from flint and sticks.

Natural Remedy. It tells me to take shattered glass to their stone hands and scratch a new hole in, Pour a new batch into old moulds and bring out a demon man stringing his fellows up high with cut wire, It tells me that I have a right to stand, And stand I will, The bloated virgin in a heady sway fist argument, Taking blows like parliamentarians, Putting down the dying cats and dogs. This music has a beat like someone walking backwards into glass, The low down hole digging bass and the swell of some unearthly tide from the back seat speakers is akin to drowning in the chest hairs of a mythical creature, Having been shrunk to the size of an ant, Crushed and smeared in like some natural remedy.

Blinding Mess. The white deer raise their radio antennae, Lightning drawn and eyes like pin holes, Red red blasted glare and hate shaped stains on the brain of the man of your dreams. These white scrawl signs of forced entry and the blinding mess inside, Like someone with a thousand yards of arched and breaking back all twisted in like coiled oiled snakes and root beer burn, Has unwound in the living room, Rapidly. A thin and yellowed line of tattered rope across the yard, Will lead you down a block or two, And into the face of a thin and gasping thing with little razor teeth and narrow vision.

Tight Lines. Tight lines in a heart woven thin from old scattered pieces of other hearts worn out from beatings and sworn allegiance falsified, Look them in the eye, Your holy family, The wretched lifeless monster things that sail across the water burning stone, These elderly folk and the younger ones beaming the love and the grace of kind Jesus, The stern disapproval of brain scraping man. You have to be careful what you say in that room, The walls don't just have ears, They also have a tendency to sing.

Pope John Paul Young. Fail safe devices, Cog crunching number crushing flashing lights and big red buttons, Several synchronised key turns and the sweaty palms of a blundering veteran yelling commands to a young man in blue with no hair and a rifle, Will not save or even be able to identify from dental records those who are treading the war path, Unaware that war is what they drag along in their tag along pants and their old rotting shoes through the airports and bus depots, Crying so sweet at the sound of the national anthem. Presidents, Priministers and Monarchs all alike, Will be no more than scratches in the ground, With little bits of fur and guts ground in them by the heel of fake Pope John Paul Young, And bearded homeless grain sized holes in space time continuity.

The King Is Mad. The king is mad and thin line legged, Losing weight from sleepless late night snacks on diuretics, He vomits blue, The thick and swirling kind that leaks through giant holes in ceilings, Empty homes where grown men groaning dead things curse their mothers, Scoop it up in sand pit buckets, Carry it with see through hands to pour down drains and wells, The sad unwell will find their hands washed blue, Their sludge mud rivers sky like cursed and all their inner fluids boiling. Bully boys will break, The king is dead.

He Just Can't Do It Anymore. Now with the straight nerves twisting and the legs on this beast your good fine self all shake like and folding in sideways, The hands of this monster the neck seeking firm gripping kind with a preoccupation for filing away. These Saturday types with short skirts and hollowed out skulls for keepsakes and what not, Bragging their merry way through life until old age hits like a drunk driving trucks into the very same lake, Over and over, Having stolen thirteen of them from the depot, Will not be laughing anymore when your brave grey self is still a shining light above the city, Like some new kind of apostolic Batman, Like Superman shot solid to the broken crumbs of Krypton as an old man wearing nappies, And complaining of arthritis.

Panic. These days my two fine lads are almost less dependent on my worn down self than I would like, The fine excuse that little time and battery life as low as the generic bunny, Is all I have to give, Is scrubbed by panic, By these fleeting gaping wide mouth days with yellowed teeth and a tendency to bite like those you know you have to scoop the vomit from, But have been warned your fingers could go too. Panic is my friend now, His arched mono-brow and the digestive tracts inside him glowing so hard you can see them through his jumper, His little pie round face and peppered hair, He laughs so hard it hurts to watch, The kind of laughter leads a man to genocide.

Especially Not In Texas. Precision is appropriately bound, Can be derisive, Tell tale and meagre feat descriptive to the point of absolution, What you've done, Your halo hair line and the spot on top that acts as a distraction, Are not much chop, But can be used in your defence if seasoned by a lie or two, A slight exaggeration. Hand to the Bible and swear that the state will be fed your whole truth like a sack full of brail, Rolls and rolls of tiny holes and moon crater details and tiny little peaks and dips, A story for the ages, A place for the heart to rest easy.

Don't Invite Them In. Dave is speaking deathly silence, Alien abductions and abuses are not necessarily untrue, But could be misread, Be the work of those waiting and bound, Who can take to the skies glowing great turquoise eyes like a dozen oceans converging on a single man, And lift him to the heavens for a meeting with the dead. The old man there by yours who made your dog bleed from his eyes, He wasn't crazy, He was something else entirely.

Laser Like. Nathan said that poetry was not his favourite flavour, Maybe just a waste of time, Enjoyed the laughing creatures and their scratching lines, The waves of unfed colour-bots gone tracking down a demon, But didn't really care for words or any kind of sleight of hand with pulling back and sinking down a well with shovel arms. I guess I see it, Practising as long as I have to be good at something so value less and inane, Something that even in describing becomes lost in its own trailing veins like some backwards judge in hick town gonna' kill somebody good, That kind of thing, The slow death of common language and simple yes or no answers, It makes me sad to swallow whole those years in blinding dozens with this laser like obsession over nothing worth repeating, He put it to a song, And even then.

Big Burnt Cake. Grumbling stomach ache and little nauseous sailor toys that came to life last week, And wandered off with stiff little plastic legs to find the sand, The sea and such, And weave a boat from seaweed dried and sail to Penguin Island, All back now waving fingers, Having drunk some kind of poison on their way, The hole in you is deeper than their hatred for the metal press, The steel mould makers idea that a toy should not have even but a hint of genetalia, The hole in you attracts a rage the size and taste of a big burnt cake to celebrate your birth, The sailors sing a curse, They make you sorry.

Close The Museums, Open Your Wallets. The cut fat of repetition in most modern music would create a kind of speed fed culture, Coming back again for minor details would be pointless and DVD sales would decrease dramatically, The act of sitting still would be abhorrent, Pride would build a barricade around the great museums of the world, To keep the people focussed on it's gorgeous present self. Cinema's would burn, Concert halls and stadiums be torn to shreds by cult attending foul mouthed unionists, Calling for an end to master classes, Long range thinking and the slow diabolicists obsession with containing and developing diseases under glass. You won't be the last one to know anymore, Everybody will know, At exactly the same time.

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, (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. P.S . I just read a negative thing about self publishing being dubbed "vanity" publishing and I want to re-make my disclaimer about just being some guy who doesn't claim to be a genius and how I just put this stuff out there because I've been encouraged to and I figure why not, I'm making it regardless so I might as well. Also, I don't self edit, it's all there, good and bad, some things I'd like to leave out but these are daily type things, one for each day and in the name of honesty I just chuck 'em all in. So thank you again again for your time, I appreciate it.