CAT TRAIN FEET BRAIN
ISSUE SIXTEEN - APRIL 2011
Written and illustrated by Corey Biscoe-Marwick
Marwick
INTRODUCTION
Hello readers,
I've changed my plan as far as getting this zine to you is
concerned and set up a scribd account which is here:
http://www.scribd.com/clo5dimly this account being a single
click away to the left of this page you're reading now via the
little blue "clo5dimly" with the little face next it.
This means I'm not clogging up your inbox and also there's a
download button down on a rollover section at the bottom
there if you want to keep your own copy on your own
computer like you would have had I sent this to you as a pdf
instead of sending a link. I tried a blog, any long time readers
will know, but it failed me and carked it, so let's see if this
scribd thing is more reliable.
Also, if you want to buy any of my art printed small enough to
fit into an envelope and on real nice paper as nicely and fancilly
printed as I can manage, or even if you want me to just draw
you something on request, (or someone, in which case you can
email me a photo and I can do that for you), I'm charging $5.00
a drawing, for all of those services, plus postage, and until I get
some internet shop type thing up and running, net bank money
transfer or money orders will be the way to go, all you have to
do is give me the dates of the image or images you want,(from
this or previous issues, you could also use issue number/page
number if you like), or your request or photo and I'll make it
happen and get your art to you. Yes, I'm partly selling out,
literally, but I need money, everybody does, and I also would
like to send actual physical art out there as well as this digital
stuff, which is the way of the future/present for sure, but
physical art will hopefully live forever in some form also.
As far as a theme for this issue, I tried to avoid looking at
reference materials and just drawing from my head straight
out, the writing is also fairly random. Next month's issue will be
about money, as was suggested to me by a reader and also
because of an odd money related seminar experience I had.
Email me at: [email protected] to subscribe if this is your
first read of my zine and you want more or for the above art
purchasing reasons, or other reasons, I like getting emails.
c Corey Biscoe-Marwick 2010, all rights reserved.
01/04/11
1-Blue Kill.
Blue kill,
The Stan Stanley heart bleeds the juice of murdered frogs,
The Stan Stanley births a blind child from his tear ducts,
In two parts sewn together,
Walking forwards backwards.
Earth rotting smile chucking buskers in concrete socks are
handing 'round petitions begging holy hills to burst volcano
song and smug the freeway.
She wears skin through clogged binoculars,
She doesn't know your name.
2-Ruck Sack.
Thematic skull paints,
Tinned and purchased cheap from death when he was down
for worlds fair laughs,
And Oktoberfest.
These are pliers and this is a scalpel,
Surgical procedures carried out on one's self are painfully
rewarding,
You are now internally branded,
Marked for angel busses with a free pass and a ruck-sack full
of heart.
02/04/11
1-Don't Walk In The Ooze.
Glad rags set alight,
As is your dancing body and the groans you make are heady
slow,
And Sally snake is glisten eyed like ancient swords with
untold power smashed against a man of rock and woe,
Who told you not to do it;
"Don't walk in the ooze,
You'll surely die."
2-Waging War On Ridicule.
Flung backwards into a recoil,
Glass shards are sucked back in and cracks receding,
All the heavy bearded bloody men are raging painfully,
She feints,
She smells of other people's blood.
Her man is wielding heavy weapons gracefully,
With heart,
With air force jet plane speed and vengeance,
He is music in a muscle bag,
Grins like reason waging war on empathy.
03/04/11
1-Star Picket Knees.
She is so nervous that her walk is a waddle,
It's endearing but it's also hard to watch,
She cannot move like a human being,
Is more of a stunted robot reeling off a set of awkward
numbers,
Sharing dirty secrets of the boys she's met and loved who
told her no,
You look like hell and stapled guts,
Your face is too wide,
There are too many accidents.
This is my lunch hour judgement,
Gavel down on her wooden head and her star picket knees
hug the grass.
2-The Hands Of The Devil.
My word is my bond,
A law in the universe,
All that I bind on earth will be bound in eternity,
And all the shining ancient stars will testify from their graves,
That I was visible then,
From way way out,
When I cut off the hands of the devil.
04/04/11
1-The Bald Burnt Guy.
If your friends talked to you like you talk to yourself,
Like you swear at your gods and fathers,
They would not be your friends for long.
If your hand was your mind you could reach with a thought,
And with self talk bruise your face and ego.
Her voice is sunny garden bright for selling you your own
imagination,
He is double skinned like a man made by science,
He has wrung my city dry and cut it loose.
2-Bewilder.
I'm sure that some of these will be back next year,
I can see he thinks we're shit,
It doesn't matter because I believe that he preaches well,
From a place of burning ego where anti-humility is a drug,
Where confession is unnecessary.
I believe that I can steal his souls like a camera,
And sift it like a man who pans for gold,
Leaving mud and bones and skin to flush away the ocean of
his on-sell pressure marketing with his own sour words,
He has built us brand new monsters to cut open from the
back and step inside,
I will use mine to bewilder.
05/04/11
1-Mother Of God.
Who was sat in front of you?
This exercise pertains to things that click and rattle softly in
the mud,
There are plain as day reminders that the loose lipped young
have mouldy eyes and only see the dead,
Not like the movies say but more like they were everyday
and serving up your breakfast.
One-up-man-ship is the order of the day,
A tight fisted handshake and a pat on the back,
I am 21 he says,
You are pathetic,
I am going to hell.
2-Burnt Fingers.
He smiles wide and has hair which is departing as we speak,
He is like a western Buddha,
Like an English teacher who is actually English,
All brown coats and patches,
Double glazed heave-ho sighs and a small volume of obscure
Romanian poetry translated into Dutch.
Some are highly alkaline,
They could be mistaken for puddles,
Others are acidic,
They are fireworks in plastic cups,
They are burnt fingers,
The long winding stairwell of doom.
06/04/11
1-Waxy Weather.
I thought there were endless opportunities,
But probably they belonged to you and I was an observer
with a knack for leaning in,
I overheard you saying we were good to go,
And so I bought my suit and tie,
My Texan slang and porpoise disposition,
I will swim you a lullaby,
We will stare at the giant seal till he blushes.
2-The King Of Fuzz.
You are a submerged hippopotamus,
You cannot breath or hear,
You can only see vague brownish blobs and feel the
occasional reed or fish sweep your leg,
Scratch your heavy gut.
Whatever he said,
You were bound to ignore,
That small ragged thing up his tree,
Flinching at incoming cloud,
Feeling nervous as hell that he met your wide nostrils and
gaze.
07/04/11
1-Tony Robbins.
Tear the tail off it,
Scurries like red streaks in the sky and the dry grass stings it's
nub like coals are hot and soles of feet are made for burning.
Tony Robbins is trying his luck,
Or at least his automated passive income money creation
machine is reaching for me,
Whether he is at the other end or not.
If you can raise the capital then here is an opportunity for
you,
Here is an invertebrate carp man with yellowy under-eyes
lingering at the petrol pump,
He is selling his daughter for charity.
2-Father Christmas.
Their voices scatter broken bells,
The ting-a-ling is short lived as our Christmas selves are
shining gold dust scattered to the seven hundred winds.
Saint Nicholas wore green and sold you sneaking in and
dropping daggers,
He understood and was a man of his times,
Father Christmas is a hair away from being your salvation.
08/04/11
1-We're All Going On A, (Zombie Holiday).
One day you will be caught out starving citizens,
Your keynote speaker volunteer who scrubs the rotund toilet
bowl will equate you to a hedonistic liar sucking money from
the vine and he will burst your ugly branches,
He will elevate himself to camp leader and lead them off a
cliff someplace ensuring them that death is a just a lie,
And they will die,
And they will wear your stinking t-shirts.
2-Proliferation.
Proliferation is my God given gift,
For me you are the smiling slip of paper that the bank
machine has given me for nothing,
Even when the numbers slip a disc.
The government has placed a ban on gender neutrality,
You must decide or you will be suspended like our disbelief,
From high wire barbed wire crosses with chains and fat
padlocks,
And swung in the storm to bring lightning,
And you will burn in your informal evening wear.
09/04/11
1-Pounds & Pennies.
There are no right answers but conceding that defeat is
irrelevant,
And being wrong is heavier,
And can be thrown in the ring like a steroid pumped fully
grown animal man bred from mongrels and whores,
All his external parts are like iron and steel,
His insides are stone,
He is infallible.
Being wrong will magnetize your liver for receiving wads of
cash,
As everybody knows the five pound note is laced with
threads of pure defiance.
2-For The Dead.
You can be rich or you can be happy,
You can be wrong or you can be right,
Your tumour with a tiny face can vomit pus all day and still no
word from Albuquerque where the doctors hold the phone.
These days you can see their rancid faces threading
dissonance,
With pin point tongues and sliver smiles that hollow hills for
hobbits.
Temptation tells you water rising means that you can quit,
Solidarity is only for the dammed.
10/04/11
1-Not To Sing.
Concentrate on all her foreign particles,
Her aged and pointed face that anchors Venus in it's empty
curve,
A billion spare kilometres of sky to carve,
And render useless,
Dust and mud,
A hundred tiny spider hands with diamond rings and silver
chains are shaking dogs.
The day the earth began to move in lurches,
Like the air was oceans sucking downward,
Bathtub oceans giant baby munching chain and plug,
That day it was all or none,
That was when she told you not to sing.
2-Bear Claws With A Lower Case g.
If Charles Bronson bred with Chuck Norris and somehow
created the first born to men,
And it was ugly as shit,
The international stink police would stuff that creates square
into a bag of rancid rats.
Your incomprehension is not a viable method of creating
passive income,
You need to invest in a whole sack of bear claws and chuck it
at god.
11/04/11
1-Tiny Stone.
Where there is a will,
The way is irrelevant,
Barrel-chested nuclear fusion powered anti terrorist robot
mechanics will not be stopped,
Nor will a tiny stone with big ideas,
Who knows that he is not alive,
Nor able to move,
But also knows that he will jump from this cliff and be swept
into the sea,
Who knows that he can make it so.
2-Hit Repeat.
Quality is irrelevant,
Gabrielle say that there are plenty of rock songs with lyrics
you could use to banish taste,
But they're still great fun and make the masses tie their
hearts in tighter.
Byrne says that art is a doing word,
That is why he's hit repeat and banished all your money.
12/04/11
1-Sinead O'Connor's Worst Nightmare.
Sinead O'Connor has a face,
She sings Ava Maria and could use her head to erase your
terrible lines.
He is now quite pudged and fairly sagging,
Sitting in a large and unspecified space with the ample
degrees of anonymity that we have come to expect from his
kind,
He is a paid promoter who lends credibility to a drug that
can't be seen,
He is Sinead O'Connor's worst nightmare.
2-The Old Folks Home.
You repeat it again,
Apologizing amplified by so much repetition that you're sorry
for your nasty taste,
Your brutality and cynicism,
I have confessed to the old folks home that you treat me with
mock derision,
And they have told me solid handshake no,
She is not the way to blinding light.
13/04/11
1-Aye Say The Monk.
More than one day,
Around-about around about,
Clear incision with surgical eye into forced labour celibate
cage,
Aye say the monk,
We are legion.
2-Thirty Thousand Dollar Discharge.
What you are now being fed is the wisdom of silence and
open palms,
From a man who may cry like it's sad today and tomorrow
will only be sadder,
But when alone will viper spit his alloyed wheels and $30'000
discharge.
We are no fooled by your hidden agenda,
It is far too obvious to us.
14/04/11
1-People Who Don't Want Your Money.
Her knitted hat,
Her black leggings under plaid skirt and brown scarf,
Her complaints that a snake faced girl on television is taller
than her,
These are the round-about ways you are pushed into love,
These are the glowing anecdotes of people who don't want
your money.
2-Fire Walk For Free.
Secret martial arts attack is planned for planted staff to
gather guts and thrown a donkey at,
You will be choked to semi conscious flagging down a medic,
You will climb mountains bare with only hands and broken
legs,
You will do the fire walk for free,
As Robbins trips in happily all mouth and giant hands.
15/04/11
1-Sunday Screamers.
Their hair parted centrally to beckon in the spirit through a
bare patch of scalp,
Dandruff dry and scraping on the ground,
Old grey carpet mottled stained and worn from seven
hundred knees and Sunday screamers.
Their arched backs and their bright sky faces burning holes,
If this is what you really want,
Then this is what you'll have.
2-T.Harv Eker.
Crying softly for lack of funds to move along the mottled line
to warrior camp,
Where thousands of American citizens have been and gone
and had their minds so slightly altered as to not alarm the
gods,
But only to distract them.
What if T.Harv Eker is the Antichrist?
*Actually, I don't think T Harv Eker is the antichrist, but I do think
he's a master manipulator.
16/04/11
1-Popsticks.
Say I drew a portrait of your English flag,
An open letter,
Say I photographed you shelves in Polaroid and published
them on perfect paper sourced from somewhere high brow
where the factory workers sleep in actual beds.
Say I read your blog and drank the tea that you suggested,
Wrote my name beneath your name up on the wall and bled
your fuzzy haircut out,
Say we had a child made out of pop-sticks,
Would you ever feel the need to snap his arms,
Or to stick his head in ice-cream?
2-Not A Marriage Made.
Her mango chutney lips,
Her planet of the apes demeanour,
His low brow set of blue tie wings and braces,
The feeling of utter waste and apathy she seems to be so
eager to create in his fair chest,
To build a nest in there for all her little birds.
This is not a marriage made,
It is constructed,
It will never hesitate to bury you alive.
17/04/11
1-Death By Corn.
He is epic neon rain sequence,
Bloody eye,
The man of the moment for which he was made,
Very carefully,
By someone with an eye for time and place.
Gena Davis seemed a little less assured of victory,
Death by corn,
Death by rocks and Peter Weir.
2-To Alamaine.
Perfectly acceptable to modern dance your way to bright
rebellion,
Sit your stone topped hill and glare the beach,
Rock the Kazbah iron wide and pay your dues to Alamaine.
Money in your pocket from the pensioners who sit their
Tuesday's melting in your arms,
A mini-plex,
A choc top in a monotard and coffee beans for breakfast.
18/04/11
1-Hoff.
Hoff is rewound like a perfect set,
Why does he still have the same wig and trousers?
Why did he leave his immaculate wife for a woman who
could never in a million birth a Christ.
2-1987.
Sweet rebel hair,
Arms raised to pitch a magic tent for heathens,
All the young mud sliding naked chicks and far left denizens
of muumuu land,
Are raiding every codgers sense of self,
And clanking all his rusty coins to build a city sung by Steve
and measured by the IBM you had in eighty seven.
19/04/11
1-Run Sheets & Receipts.
Stanley writes to mother,
Holding in the sacred texts to quote in letters to his brethren,
But to her the wholly fallible,
The richest lie of all,
That he is making for them both a way to be,
And have resentment justified from angles that it hurts to try
and wriggle your eyes into from their cosy chair the anchor
and the bullet.
They were rolling film,
And staring down the tube like it was money they were
printing,
Instead of only run sheets and receipts.
2-The Acute Possibility.
The dark deciduous,(because it is made of burnt steel), tree is
smiling an alternate angle,
Is hand drawn and cut by a silver miner.
Four small plastic keys she found on the side of the road,
While she was walking for the air more than the destination,
His grin from ear to ear as she embraces change,
As if it were a drug,
The acute possibility that all is not as well as he imagines it to
be.
20/04/11
1-Is It A Tap?
I think we tried him already,
His simplistic tagging of bodies with sad or happy faces on their
toes,
And shove shut the drawer and turn the ice up,
These are the plot points that tear down the screen play while
Charlie is ranting at money how great,
How exhilarating and new the experience of actually seeing these
words made flesh could quite possibly be,
With the right backing.
His clouds are the clouds of us all.
2-She Has Teeth.
I imagine the photographer had half a shaved head,
Not from self infliction like the man with true ambition but from
seeing it on someone else and biting all his nails away.
I imagine he is asking her to look exotic,
To look sincere,
To be the randomly selected 1987 cardigan surfing beautiful girl
who flashes by on video hits in 1993,
To be the trombone player from an indi-folk-punk band from
Toronto who ate Sushi with the Melvin's once,
And have collectively slept with the Ramones.
I imagine each suggestion is met with this very same resulting
image,
Passive but somehow almost threatening eyes,
And a mouth slightly open to show that she has teeth,
And they are not colour corrected,
Because that is not cool.
21/04/11
1-Milk Moustache.
So I have a set of rubbery teeth,
And sharks are roaming all my caverns gleefully when you
come by,
So Arnold wears a worn down face now acting even less like
someone chosen,
More like he was chiselled from a cliff,
The remnants of a greater work,
So Elevators lull you senseless and you cannot be held
responsible for your actions when travelling up or down
under self imposed duress,
So the freedom act is comedy,
Suppose you stopped to care just long enough to realize that
you've misplaced your concern for living well,
And are a venom to your own procedures,
What will happen then,
When milk moustaches are no longer funny?
2-All Uncreated Things.
Things happen when you command them to,
You are so utterly trapped in the foggy embrace of success
that even failure is a win for you,
A learning point,
The workman's cattle prodded donkey hee-haw sets you
cheering on your feet.
Even the demise of all created,
And all uncreated things may have its upside you say,
If only I were given the opportunity to find out.
22/04/11
1-Cutlery.
Her pinched lips of high class bliss are at once old and young,
Because her tea smells liquorice,
Is delicately brewed by Peruvian shaman' in black threads
and hessian.
The plates on her walls have intentionally poorly drawn
faces,
Whig retail for seventy dollars and eighty cents online,
And can be purchased in a set with cup and saucer.
Her tiny misshapen head and cake fork tongue betray the
weasel motives she is clutching to her chest,
Her heart is not black,
It is mauve.
2-Cheap Beer.
Over exposed bright sunny beaches and people wearing old
t-shirts and drinking cheap beer,
The assumption that youth is hallowed,
That is is desired and inflates the meagre soul,
That these four will pair off in the evening to lullaby the
moon with flesh.
She subscribes to the idea that there are low key ways to go
about success,
And slinks into a hollow wall to watch the poor,
And listen to their crying.
23/04/11
1-Catch A Smile.
Give her what she wants,
A little smile,
Her entire personality is a horrible lie to fish for love,
That tips the boat and makes us food for sharks,
Which are plentiful,
Which are awfully distracting when you're trying to catch a
smile.
2-To The Swell Of Hallelujah.
One bold and tire treated face will place itself spine cantered
in the centre of your bed,
If you believe in me then show up for my show and tell,
And I will tell you robot rats are granting us three wishes
from the grave,
Excepting the obvious wish to return,
These are for others,
They glare red eyed blame like the lame will never walk,
No even to the swell of hallelujah.
24/04/11
1-Rolls Of Rotting Carpet.
She's a lucky girl,
He has ensured that she will rot beside him in the ground,
He has completely reversed his drinking habits,
He is now spurting dark fluids into her chest,
She is laughing blissfully.
This is the beginning of all the baby blues,
The dark shrine of desk chairs,
We are bowing low like rolls of rotting carpet.
2-Steel Guitar.
No explanation,
Big plot holes that varnish the eyes,
He is blind dogs in a sled pulled by a chubby man,
Who warbles and jelly rolls,
The ancient grunts of a steel guitar.
She makes dresses,
Restores furniture,
Name drops and banishes fun.
25/04/11
1-The Boiling Baby.
Speed walk to the boiling baby,
Steel drum forehead beating it out,
Two spare numbers jumbled in a woolly skin.
You laugh like a flash of sincerity stepped on by God,
You speak like a fading zebra with it's head shoved in a
gramophone.
2-Mistakes Can Be Deciphered.
I say stupid things,
That is my way,
My will is in some other place,
Some foreign place,
Giving and receiving good.
My mouth is a slave to the thin reigns of Satan,
To his weak unwieldy chain that heaves a sigh and pretends it
is in the hands of a skeletal ghost.
This is one reason why thought is not a bad idea,
Says my conscience,
Reiterating that mistakes can be deciphered.
26/04/11
1-Without Pyjamas.
A representative of American apparel is giving me the eager
eye,
She may be late teens,
Early twenties,
Her high pants and scarf, the oversized pockets in her tucked
in shirt are a giveaway,
As natural,
As spectacular a vision as she is to her protagonist,
He just can't catch her right without pyjamas.
2-This I Aim To Conquer.
High praise,
The well oiled machine chef is digging into drawers for Swiss
army egg flips and bendy straw cowboys.
I have been ignored enough times,
It isn't so much a matter of leaving a wake as it is of lurching
on in battle toad regalia to the finish,
For I am on closer inspection unworthy of a detailed retelling,
And this I aim to conquer with something more lasting than
alcohol.
27/04/11
1-Vacuum.
Basically good,
These are two words that sound like metal shavings in a glass
jar shaking loud,
And breaking open on release in the immediate vicinity of
some poor bastards face.
Why are you so far away,
So quietly ashamed and worried,
Why don't you believe them when they love you?
2-Don't Tell A Soul.
No details,
Just a short note from old stale yesterday's about how he
was what he pretended to be,
What he laughed about.
And she sat by his bed like the rest,
And she probably even loved him,
Though his barrel was oily and smeared with shit.
She is a modern wonder,
Thriving not just in adversity,
But in a living hell.
28/04/11
1-Be Spared.
This rule of thumb,
A rule of nine,
The absence of an entering disaster,
Thy Lord destroy ye all with thy sin in a black box,
All who have traded their paper for plastic be spared.
2-16 Emails.
16 emails from the night before,
She doesn't come back till a black marked Monday,
Of cruel deduction and mythical love she is made,
Her holdings are innumerable,
Her fortress is made from the skulls of dead lambs she
collected from inside the slaughterhouse,
Glued together with a blender-ed horse,
She spits from the balcony,
Taunting and raping your eyes.
29/04/11
1-Arm Chair.
You apologize for ruining my life,
Forgetting these,
Essential ingredients to the betterment of mankind,
These all important additions to society,
Whose shy away faces are lingering fluorescent laser waves
of anti-debilitation,
Even when awake at one a.m. and kicking.
Save a seat for me inside your brain,
A pinkish grey arm chair that squelches like home.
2-What A Way To Go.
Wilting flower,
Typical choice of say "poetic words",
Placing the word words in inverted commas as if it had been
spoken too,
Using the word too unnecessarily,
Writing about words,
Using the kind of chalky grimace that a corpse might use to
scare off a mourning husband so she can eat their child in
peace.
What a way to go he says,
What a bloody way.
30/04/11
1-If Music Could Be Made By These.
King Solomon says that pleasure is meaningless,
But he had it,
And I bet that he wanted some more when he was trying out
some other less self serving way.
They build them now with stethoscopic headphones and a
hollow body,
Built to fit your hands like they were blind men's little
prayerful twin sisters on knees made of scabs and dirt,
Begging for a miracle,
If music could be made by these,
Then any poor sod can make music.
2-Woe To The Jelly Fish Man.
Spineless creatures are dragging themselves from the ocean,
They are staring at the fruit of the coconut tree and
wondering,
How am I supposed to reach and break that thing when I am
basically a jelly fish with eyes?
A great ape scoops up a pair of these odd looking things and
flings them at a stone,
They make a sound like power lines when there's salt water
in the air,
And he stares at his blistering hands,
And scoops up a couple more.
OUTRODUCTION
Thanks for your time, and again, if you want to subscribe, email me
at [email protected] 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.
