CAT TRAIN FEET BRAIN

ISSUE TWENTY ONE - SEPTEMBER 2011

Written and illustrated by Corey Biscoe-Marwick

INTRODUCTION
Hello again readers. As mentioned in the last issue, an actual exhibition of physical nondigital artworks has been organised for next year, it is however no longer just sometime next year but precisely from February 24th to March 9th, at the YMCA HQ gallery in Northbridge, I'll keep you posted on further details, but if you live anywhere near Perth, you should come along, I'll make sure it's good. The image from the 21st of September in this issue is a test run of the idea behind the collaborative work I mentioned between me and one sir Rhys Roberts, he's posted a more complete example here: http://throwlights.blogspot.com/2011/09/collaboration-corey.html , (I encourage you to have a look through the rest of his blog too, some nice photos in there, and nods to interesting folk), hoping to have a month's worth of these collaborative things finished for an upcoming Cat Train issue, or at least before the exhibition. In other news Cat Train Feet Brain artwork can now be purchased printed on T-shirts from this location: http://cattrainfeetbrain.wordans.com.au/my/boutique I'll be putting up more t-shirt-able art when I get the chance, let me know if there's any Cat Train images you think I should definitely use, and I definitely will. Anyhow, this issue here is mostly full of images created relating to the songs on the R.E.M albums "Life's Rich Pageant", (which I reviewed with a puppet here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r5WG-vOpa-o ) and "Up", because R.E.M recently split up and these are my two favourite R.E.M albums, (I have and love all their albums and have been a fan since I was a much younger person). I'm not exactly 100 percent happy with all of the resulting images, there've been some late night temporary lobotomies in my days of late but hopefully you'll like them anyway, and some of them worked out pretty well I think. Email me at: [email protected] 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.

01/09/11 1-King Of Elocution. Catching up with the daydream nation, We are bloated sky fish burping rainbows, Put your money in the bucket and smile for Jesus, He is love and cash flow, Boy do his numbers look good. If you could bottle clouds and paint a picture of the gaps they leave, The gaping wounded sunlight shiners, Flagging down the paper prayers of anti Muslim terrorists, No one would deny you were a king of elocution.

2-Only When It Hurts. Sprout neither lies or beautiful truth, Spring no ugly questions on the white ghost snake of liberation, Dancing in his shaking way with fallout victims hanging from his neck, Sing only when it hurts to say, Speak only when it hurts to sing.

02/09/11 1-Chocolate Lake Fondue. Today I feel above the ceiling heat is pushing down on us, From fiery skies, From the colour of my hair drained by demons with straws and blown out again upwards and flaming. Your petty jokes and moribund pal Sally Saint less are more than the very meagre fuel I need to burst, When she dies we will eat frankfurters and chocolate lake fondue.

2-Aluminum Foil. Your multiple failed attempts at being caring and compassionate are trailing now behind you like some muddy crushed cans on a dirty pink string, They rattle softly like a cancer patient, They sing hymns like your grandad who crosses his chest. Plain straight naked desire is non-existent, Some say it is, And revel in it bloated like their money bags are endless black hole circuits 'round the moon, But they're spinning in an ancient wooden ghost train, On a track made out of aluminium foil.

03/09/11 1-Thumbs. Same faecal outbursts running watery and grey brown down your chin, Different calendar day, A number like the others but unsunny and unfriendly like a raging madness bottled in your seven layered skin. Minutely detailed oil incursion tattooed message bleeding from your anal retentive thumbs.

1-Magnetic Fingers. In a dream room, An open casket, Me and me and Tess, The blue speaker, The white rolling tape, Screeching like a creeping smile, Magnetic fingers, A man could kill to be rid of this.

04/09/11 1-The Ever Present Hoax Of Untold Happiness. Gladly sunken into this alternate universe spin fathomed ship in the murk of new truly amazing discoveries, Le Guinn is right there with you writing like a man, Her lucid strain, Her forward forecast rushing at the ever present hoax of untold happiness.

2-Weeping Little English Waif. Every the devils bowels are emptied, The world smells just a little more decayed, His heavy swinging gut is slightly lighter, And ready to consume. The devils day, The Christians say, Is done, A shard of glass to his fecund brain through his gaping ear hole shoved by Jesus manly hand, No weeping little English-waif, A creature made of muscle and vengeance, A mountain of a man.

05/09/11 1-AFL. AFL man, British bricks, The yelling father, The brutal sympathy. Painted over plates and ramming shop fronts, AF bloody L.

2-Begging For Rotten Fruit. Plain brain the straining catapult, This giant cracked rock with a little squeaky face is built for tears, Is keen to shred your heathen fears and puncture your quadruple chin, And let the liquid fat burst forth. Look at yourself, Your face is begging for rotten fruit.

06/09/11 1-She Could Call You Panic. Flawless word smithery, The ruinous woman will weave around you like a body glove, Knit from hessian scratched from hessian monsters stomp the forests in the dark, Are easily captured with giant sheets of fly paper. Your will to live cannot be drained by screaming sacks of rat bitten frothers, Fathers of staple gun preachers in churches built from bones, But she could cut you down if she wanted to, She could call you panic and you'd jump right off.

2-Mercury Burns. This is not dedication, Nor beaming lighthouse pride or skull burning empathy, This is more than 20 days behind the pack, Scrounging in the aftermath. While off ahead in mountain raising faith the rest of the herd is grunting hallelujah, Is grinding through stone like it's Styrofoam statues, Circling their hearts in red ochre and mercury burns. Ritual static, The blinding staccato, Palms down to the skin of drum.

07/09/11 1-The Surgeons Bloody Hand. Welcome to diffusabilty site, You will be distracted by obscene images of impossible depth and spider like veracity, While we remove your mechanical limbs in secret and replace them with cardboard replicas which are completely useless, badly drawn and cut by child soldiers with rusty knives and hard skeletal hands. Woe to the conscious, For they shall see the surgeons bloody hand.

2-Concede That It's Got Heart. He believes in early man, Composed of bone and carbon dating, Can easily dismiss the spirit, Refuse the mark of common place belief by stating he is somewhat more than capable of knowing anything he's like to, But is too lazy to lift the page and read it, To strum the tune and know that there is God beyond its numbers, Or heart at least, Concede that it's got heart.

08/09/11 1-Slum. The young own and more over understand the world, It's heavy clunking clockwork scraping bone and the way the numbers rot, The bottom of your cup is a prime piece of real-estate, The back of your mind is a slum.

2-Big B. It takes a certain kind to drain the eyes of fame, No mere wishbone breaking gastroentiritic, No woman bleeding salty Christmas, It takes a finer walk than any human has to burst that rectoid bubble he has blown, And chooses now to surf the ocean in with arms like egg man arms that sail the sides of everything, That cannot be folded anymore.

09/09/11 1-Only A Day. No thanks, We don't want no hepatitis B, Hence the absurd signage and genital removal clinics, Hence the monastery, Hence the plane crashers and the mutated man with the end is nigh sandwich board wrapped 'round his dilated heart. We don't want your kind carousing with our kind, Creating Nephilitic surging muscle monsters that will only last a day.

2-Surgical Sincerity. Surgical sincerity, I lower my eyes to your grace and stay safe in the fold of my battered grey wing while his belly grows ever more alien like and you tell him there's no signs at all. We call Harvey Hep Charley like William was called, We treat his tissue paper soul to music made for dancing, We tread so careful over his gluttonous sadness that it almost disappears. When Friday comes tell Charley what she said, Today you just forget it.

10/09/11 1-What The Loved Cannot Afford. There's a grind to the wooden chair he's devouring, His glare and obvious illness, That wake up frown and the chunks of pure deliverance he hurls at the fanatical mass. She looks like a woman made from old photographs, Glowing edges from a sun shine state that halo's her curving hair and the flowers in her face. What the loveless have will always seem preferable to what the loved cannot afford.

2-Game. There's a smile for the dead, She holds it still on a sweating face in the palm leaf hallelujah land, Where menfolk worship what it is they're beholden to. Could be a lumpy nun with a grimace who breathes garlic angels, Could be a heathen with neck tie allegiance, And tattered old shoes that are charmless and cheap.

11/09/11 1-You Don't Bring Your Child To A Battle. It's an old war, It shines like old wars do with a yellowed peace and the old ways are sewn right in. He's smiling, Every one of them standing still, Even the young men, Un-prepared, Shattered glass and rock and bashing heads to falsify a cause.

2-The Final Day. Don't pretend there were no holes in it, While it crawled away awaiting vague impressions, Some kind of rescue, A roll of film to throw your hands in, More laughs for the dead. How irrelevant is the final day, If it's been so many times before.

12/09/11 1-Sinking Stomachs. She was bleeding from the belly, The boy had maybe a second or two, Held tight, Squeezed a little tighter. In this old wooden hall full of comfortless chairs, Old folk and immigrants, The understanding kind, Will not be able to take this forth into their brutal brethren, These are the believers that the preacher cannot shake. Your folded wings and shaken fist are signs of ill intent, Their sinking stomachs trail along the ground.

2-Cross Hairs. Cross hairs and grey blur, Let's give the army some high definition, Eyes to look back down that grey mottled barrel and spook you to suicide, Faces of children and women and young men with hands that have made, That have held, That value life, And have not been trained to destroy it.

13-09-11 1-The Olden Day Curl. So her eyes won't fall out she holds a magnifying glass to each, Pretending that she can't see without them, and he rubs his magic temples with a heavy browed sigh. Don't lie about your age dear, We know you died some time ago.

2-Hard To Understand. He's charismatic, Has the work you want and the soul you don't, The ability to make money from existing. His wife most likely looks at him the same way that she did when they were young, His son has got a bold and charming way, And yours are true, And hard to understand.

14-09-11 1-How Will The People Scream? She strikes me as numb, Has a flicker to those rigid eyes that is omnipresent, But fake, And faded. She has commoditised the ownership of distance, Is bleached like bald beaches and whale death at sunset, How will the people scream if you've torn out all their hearts?

2It's more than a little embarrassing, The tide rips your skin from the muscle and you're like an illustration from a human biol book, Only three dimensional and in vocalised agony. Let me pickle you boy, You'll feel so much better.

15-09-11 1-Farewell Phillip. No matter the black and white light ridden smoke haze of true chemical ridicule, No matter the torn brow, The disembodied cat, He saw and formed a dozen univi, And would write you back every time you said thank you, With a cheerful dazed smirk in his three fingered hand, Clutching a roll of old doom while he fingered the keys.

2- Bread Head. Fifa epitomizes union and celebration he says, From under his green band and spider web hair, He pulls in the numbers from India, Will gladly accept ignorance for a dollar. "Yes, I love them, But I can't remember their names."

16-09-11 1-The Taller The Better. And they're even in English, There's your chocolate cake bomb for young civil faces, It's mad hatter slathery spit for your joke books rent useless by nuclear war. He hold his guitar like an infant, Like a pregnant woman, His large brow repeated above those thin lips where the songs will come out, In any language built for making money.

2-Blur Is Better. We know you want to pretend that you're truly the holy one, The brush and the easel, You probably have a $70 wooden palette and true to life Van Gogh oils and a bloody beret, You probably visit the park of a Saturday sunshine and paint passersby. "What's that shit?" they spit, And you shake your golden hair out in the wind.

17-09-11 1- Pokmon Blue. The man put a glass dome on "customized", (i.e. painted and glued to a hand),figurines, And he is praise and worship, He is genuine article blessed discovery, Pouring his heart into holes in his knees to fill bags in his feet so his walk is unbalanced and character driven. Vintage as a four year olds Pokmon Blue, Rare as a rock from the road.

2-Five At Any Age. A photograph of a babies rug, This I will cut to make goggles and fashion a cape from the dregs, All holy and tattered, Still in dwelt by the smell of a child. My mother taught me baking, Sewing, Cutting string and tying things together, So here I am, The modern boy of five at any age.

18-09-11 1-Typewriters. An arm full of typewriters, Not one is 1986, Though Michael's brat soaked hair is singing crimson jelly beans, The sun stroke kids are sunshine chorus belting out the belly of his tune, And June was three months ago. He stands in the rain under miserable death sentence smoke and has as ever assumed that he is here to stay the day, And cut a hole in you the size of Christmas.

2-Paid To Look Happy. Still serving the sinner a plate full of nobody knew, Your habit kickers have their head bands tightly tied and slip the drug to underagers banging on the fence. They've paid you to look happy, Yet somehow you manage to always look slightly bemused.

19-09-11 1-Poor Soul Noel. Noel Gallagher wishes he'd met Kurt Cobain, And we're supposed to be impressed, Awed even, Like maybe Noel was given the chance but he passed it up for some girl, Or a drink with stale money. You can play an open chord, You can spell, Your eyes are not on the side of your head like a bird, And so we worship you for not being deformed.

2-Tony's 85. She bears you no ill with her pointed face, Her David Bowie man from space pale skin stretched around an all American cage, It would almost be pathetic were she actually English. These are the dramatic prat-fall heathen types who pray on Sunday, Swig from Monday onwards draughts of ale they brew at home in silent silver vats with heathen magik. She is their poster child, She is their 85th birthday.

20-09-11 1-In Octember. Give the eye a lip to split, The thumb a gun, The child who cries incessantly like he was only months instead of years, And won't explain, His pulsing pain and tendency to rage quit fix the glazing on his eyes to father Christmas' wilting belly in Octember.

2-Sing It Like A Red Gem. Still takes a winking sort and Sunday scoffing to amuse him, Can't simply take what's coming and be grateful, Must supply his handsome self with bare-chested muscular resident hair line defenders, White pants and Monroe on your curtains projected for effect. Ode to the day we gave up, Sing it like a red gem in pudgy little fingers.

21-09-11 1-X's L's and O's. She manages to spin a line of fibres from the wrung out reds of sheep, Has never been portrayed, Construed or misinterpreted as ugly, Or obscene, Her rimless glasses hover by her face and move with a slight delay, Have never felt the earth or boots. Lines and shadows, All the dull excuses we accept as common knowledge, She whisks away in tiny metal barrels marked with X's L's and O's.

2-Folding Your Arms By Your Blue Rinse Buddy. Folding your arms by your blue rinse buddy, That red leather chair kind of ignorant standoff-ish eye shadow stunted growth thing that you pass off as misseducation, His uncle Mertle told him that a dress was just the thing. It only took a second, And we lived there in the walls to watch the consequences follow.

22-09-11 1-How You Die In Magic Land. Call a dead man a healthy washed sock full of talcum and lilac, Tell the green stiffs he's breathing in valium, This is what you get for being strange and trusting strangers, This is how you die in magic land.

2-16 Years. Sixteen years gone, Has just released an autobiography based on what then? Dreams perhaps, Vague sketchy dreams from other folk who tell him he was wicked keen for madness, Had an eye, A voice to scratch their skulls with and the lyrical digressionary tactics of a preacher punching low.

23-09-11 1-Famous Names & Badgers. N.Friezman of the Sad Attempts has either made a joke or is ill informed, There are better birds to plant your saddle on, Stipe is scraping lungs for shadow crafters genes to pump through iron sieves and make a viscous circle for to strap onto his bicycle, Willem Dafoe, You know you shouldn't look at her that way.

2-Albatros. It's so easy to get a tune out of this beast, It's steel legs and chipped ribs are immeasurably personable, Will snuggle up into your side and strain their tears for Jesus on the colt. Crowds are parting, Screaming, Paying almost no attention to the panic causing albatross who nails their wooden heads up on his wall.

24-09-11 1-Pitchforks & Ploughs. Takes nought but the yellow earl's streaming madness to switch them, Once feared and now loved like a perfect son, His skeletal arguments pinned on the paste boards and wailed in the streets. The old lady Papua strums on her Uke and sings way-oh to the solid stars who pass her by with change to flicker dimly in the winter, The people have been won by God, And therefore will be laying down their arms.

2-Read Me Another One. Meanings for real people, Bulging sack rustling eyes with their hands in the jangle of coins and cut records. All a bit lemon, All a bit low on the charts.

25-09-11 1-Don't Take It Personal. It's easy to say the runner's a turd, When your fingers are stained from it, Stink of it, All the mottled blood and bottles, All the retching tiny white badged hype street kids who think you're homophobic if you don't kiss men. Tell me again John, Tell me what they did to you.

2-Call It Pop. Pain puts the placard away and shuffles in behind the sheets, He's just screaming, He can't put two words together in a way that makes sense, But he's found it somehow, That man swagger and the gritting teeth, That newly formed appreciation for the brittle mind of the dull and unaffected.

26-09-11 1-Depravity Kills. Don't swing that thing too high, It's kind of expensive. Depravity kills the jovial marsupial English trio, They're wrong combatant hands and gloveless toes are hither too named woe and go, Between which sit the middle six, A nine iron for your troubles.

2-All Lips & Fingers. He's all lips an some kind of odd white rectangle which is probably a modified iPad, Or perhaps he's attached a Wii mote to his axe. The sounds that beast can hurl at you are, The obscure British markings and the chunky right thigh, He wields it like a lord with sceptre, Man with rifle, Fox with pointed paw.

27-09-11 1-Alpine Eat Ya' Scrounging the pixel shifters dead rail push carts for bits of old news, He's scratched his old face with new marks for the kids, The pads are all heavenly disco'd and manic, Cheap phones to blood clot your ears. Some kind of alpine creature disguising itself as a snow covered rock at the foot of a tree.

2-Open Your Starry Companion. His double sweat soaked pristine likeness marred by media Fray, The simple notes are harder when your keys are lit by strobe, The barest chest with hardly a hair, As bony as a weedy soul, Will cause a swoon when placed behind a double decker sigh into oblivion.

28-09-11 1-Drop The I.P. What a helpless liver sack of sick you plan to pull and rattle free, The bones are fried by medicines, The guts are melting anything they should instead be filtering for sustenance. Your legs and arms are twigs and snap, Your fan page is a rag torn scribbled note from the Iggy Pop.

2-A Little October. He's like some kind of powder munching sigh, His front rails woman has a simple smirking heart removing face and perfect signage, His curly mutton hair is brutal. Why are all the happy ones Septembered in their graves, Just give us a kiss woman, Give us a little October.

29-09-11 1-Eye In A Box For Johnny. That chin pierced girl and her study break friend, That big browed bruiser and the green shirt fight it out for who gets children with the bronze one. Leather jacket Sam is smoking atmos up the back and looks like Johnny Depp in Benny and Jude, She's giving him an eye in a little box, He won't know what it is till he gets home at 6am.

2-Draughty Minds For Cultivating Magic. Scream your loop-tastic mouth organ scream, Be specific and heart wrenching, Gut scraping, Over wrought and under pinned, The waxing sloping turned down lip of fathomless salvation. We are the musical chairs your young women will sit in, We are your daughters devourers old maid, Imperfect hair and draughty minds for cultivating magic.

30-09-11 1-Some Wore Out Their Welcome In A Week. Un-magical children of parents who don't force a lie, There were keys beneath his fingers before he could hold a cup to his mouth, His sister had a holy labour finding bruises worn to paint with silver for the nurse. Songs of long goodbyes to short form ladies in the rain, That long up standing wave outside the eaves to a taxi or train that houses faith in you deserting you for daily showers and a steady income, To a pair of crooked ankles and a rucksack. Some of them were capable, Some wore out their welcome in a week.

2-In The Paper Shaking Hands. Convince me that he's real and deal a death blow to my faithless party politics, The ground down sugar inhaler will tell you for sure, For sure he's real, I saw him in the paper shaking hands.

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. Thanks again, Corey Biscoe-Marwick.