Written and illustrated by Corey Biscoe-Marwick

INTRODUCTION Hello readers, as suggested by a reader, and good friend Mr Malcolm Innes, this issue is about money, this was sparked by the fact that I randomly had and took an opportunity to attend a seminar on thinking like a wealthy person, creating passive income and organising your money and this was a far more interesting experience than I expected. If anybody invites you to a wealth creating seminar of any kind, go along, it's a bizarre world, like some kind of hidden subculture. The drawings in this issue are of, (in order), the thirty one richest people in the world, Bill Gates no longer being number one it would seem, (at least on the first day of May 2011, when I collected my reference pictures for these portraits). The writing as always veers from the subject sometimes but I think I managed to at least reference money in some way in very nearly all of the poems. As I said in the last issue, email me if you'd like to order a print of any of the pics in here, or a portrait of yourself or someone else, or a drawing on request, (i.e. ask me to draw something specific and I'll have a go, you can be extremely specific, or you can bait me with a vague idea and see how I do). $5 a pop. Feel free to pay me nothing and keep reading the zine for no charge however, just if you feel like supporting me or really want some of my art then go ahead and do that, and have some.

Email me at: 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. Also, if you click the green "follow" button will tell you when I've put up another issue I beleive.

c Corey Biscoe-Marwick 2010, all rights reserved.

01/05/11 1-Arrow To Your Neck. What money can't buy is not worth having, String that on your back like a soldiers pack and see how deep the trenches get, How many un-dead Hitler clones you find with bayonets held out like poison arrows to your throat. This is a symbolic exercise, The arrow is your weakness, The outstretched arm is God and you are the virgin Mary, Birth is painful, Death is easy.

2-Here For The Money. She's here for the money, Her eyes are barely open and the veins in her head are like alien skin, She's not talking like the same bright self she was, A voice that says she's here but implies that she's not, She's blurry hands and a flat battery leaking into a black sandwich, She needs the money.

02/05/11 1-Brown Like The Earth. Rub your head like a sleeping tornado, There are dandelion bits in your hair and a face like that will magnetize them, Send them off like tiny rocket thoughts to punch a hole. Your left hand is on fire, Inside his Bible is an old dollar bill.

2-40 Footer. You need at least a 40 footer, Something wide and loud, Substantial evidence of your bulging wealth. He pays his way in with a flowery smile, Says apologies are many for the past year and a bit, And takes times limp hand like a boy after school with his drunk mum and leads it back home. She shows nobody any mercy, Any love, Compassion, Any means of making good, She is the anti thesis, The dollar sign with weighty words to chuck about like change.

03/05/11 1-Happy Anniversary. The bald drill sergeant is trying very hard to convince me that all of my problems stem from a lack of passive income, The small Asian Australian with a wisp of baby hair is smiling softly to himself, Here he gathers hugs to reminisce about, Happy anniversary.

2-Stable Stan & The EBay Wedding. Words of weddings dressed in Chinese cloth and partly blinded by it, Hand-made lace and buttons carved from goats horn are not an option, We are too two young and float under the ground. Stable Stan invites his friends to share their deeper selves around the fire, One of them is soon to be arrested.

04/05/11 1-Gnomes Market Square. It's come to your attention that expenses will invariably outweigh, Far and wide, Resulting happiness, Freedom to move freely like a free man with a free pass to a circus free of animal cruelty. The cash in your hand is worth shit in the bush, They only take toenails down there.

2-Direct DI. Direct DI, Pre-amplifier with seventy knobs, Vestal virgins burning lamps, The blast of a heat wave from cars made of steam and sunshine melting tar, The rubber gloves of a shifty glue monster, Pouring out his gluey heart on weighty volumes, Bound in leather, Drowning in a well.

05/05/11 1-Break Your Toes. Guilty as sin, Under-provision of tasks that are worth being fed your sweet time, Treating life like a short song for flies who live longer as maggots and have got no ears, Treating all your allies as the stones with texta faces that they are, Occasionally a goggle eye or painted lips in blue or red. The blue ones tell you stories, The red ones break your toes.

2-Worm Cat. Leave me in the locked bag like a toad with a post code for being so fat, Like a picket fence around a cat with eyes that bulge for Satan. With contorted paws that claw the grass for worms who scream for heaven, "I believe!" they squeak, They wail for Christ to save them from the cat.

06/05/11 1-Liquid Liars. The tacks are pinned, He's bleeding a leaky bride that shrieks her dress a white water raft that burns like liars in a cage. They're not bad, They're awful.

2-Not The Best Of Men Yourselves. She blunted their faces with swinging the money, They take it out on the laughing pear, He's sitting alone, He's too nice, He's too fragile, He has not been branded by a half blind hippy in a wig. You are not the best of men yourselves.

07/05/11 1-For Bloody Ever. Take the flight of stairs that leads to granny's flat circumference, The semi-circle wooden plate in her lip on which a voodoo merchant spat his green goo for the maximum fee, For the cost of plastic arms and legs that bolt on like the wings of robot geese, Their stories are the longest, They can fly for bloody ever.

2-Shake Like An Earthquake. This crying cake is holding your face, Fairly soon you will stop breathing, The earth will stand still for a fraction of a second, Your friends and family hold their breath, The smell of your riches will waft to the sun and their noses will harden like Tarzan grip, And their bodies will shake like an earthquake.

08/05/11 1-Bargain. Even with only fifteen dollars a month allocated to my mental health fund, I am feeling shiner, Brighter, Rounder than a button. I have spoken to strangers, And at times am less likely to assume that you despise me, Or wish me dead, I no longer looks up at every building in anticipation of some face crushing creature on it's way down to eat me, All for only fifteen dollars a month, Bargain.

2-Four. There's a huge sum of predestined money flushing itself down the walls, I can hear the stained reverberations bouncing and blinking, The flannelette checked shirt flames leaping high like a face eating dog. Bring me a brand new desire to fling myself over the edge, Bring me a hockey stick, Pockets of lemmings.

09/05/11 1-Eggs. Cash prizes, Door kickers with the tips of their fingers cut off, Hey! I'm bleeding you dogs! Give me a friggin' bandaid! Give the children a plate of eggs and nuts, Watch them swell up and go flying away.

2-Your Imaginary Love. Train the teacher blunting knives, You're such a liar flicking spit at people who you believe are dry, And echo laden standing at the borrowed gates of hell which they have taken from the ground and shoved back in in their front yard. Pay the listless checkout kid with ancient jacket stolen from his gramps with brown patch shoulders, Pay him for his trouble, Give him your imaginary love.

10/05/11 1-Maisy Days & Money. Slow dragging standard, The air is untied from your guts, It has fallen out blurting a massive gas creature of pain, A creature that will scream at random objects until one of them reacts, A creature that scream forever, Vacuum pack your maisy days and money.

2-Time With. I won't pay for your reverse psychology, I will read it on my own and apply said information to myself, These dinosaurs, These ugly cats and turtles, They are lions in a hessian sack which will be intermingled and combine to be a spider lion man with clanking stink. Staid and steady, The tiny children will rot from all the heady language in the air.

11/05/11 1-Sixty Seven. Clean the straight lines from his glad say it monster who winks at the bleached hair survivors of 386, Stand in line for your brand new whatever, Hacked limbs and a tiny device that toasts bread wirelessly, That sends a mangled signal through a cardboard tube to mars. Here another telescopic vision of your failure, Here a pretty picture of the number sixty seven.

2-Furry Fangs. These right standing soldiers, The laughter of ghosts in their ears like the screeching of brakes, Waiting for a twenty six dollar windfall, With which to hang a tidal flow of toilet paper, Crunching furry fangs.

12/05/11 1-Money Is A Vacuum. Money is a vacuum, It drills a tiny hole in you, A mole man in a miniature mining machine. What you want, What stares out at you through shining clean windows in which you can never see your face, Money will persuade to take you home, Arm in arm, Briefly sighing happiness like popguns in the dark.

2-Earn Some Bloody Money. Gleefully hard, Face set in stone with a frown for the ages, The bakers bread you crush in molten fist, The milk-man's milk you spit back in his face. Less of what you know is great and more of what will sink you, May your couch and television follow you to hell.

13/05/12/05/11 1-More Of What You Want. The brain says they knew from the very beginning, Those English hearts with grand visions of steam powered robots who serve up your lunch on the coal powered train, Those white moths turning black to hide, They knew they were destroying you. The eye says that the empty cause of funding lust will bury every single man and woman, Every child in mountains made from ash and dirt, Like the old man refusing to leave his tiny shack, Right underneath the active volcano.

2-Fair Pay. Fair pay is subjective, The old couple who hitler the kitchen complain of high prices, Their freezer is full of dead cows and lambs, Their gas plates are gold plated, They're car is a jeep that could crush kangaroos, They live in a palace of shit. What I want today, Is an easy to play electric guitar, A brand new face and a bold italics death sentence, Some papers from the court.

14/05/11 1-Back In Bed. My digital pay cheque, The money in the bank that ups our chances, Puts a cap on the head of the rebel religion, Turns poverty to buffet meals and a washing machine, This keeps me from crawling back to bed, Where all of us most likely belong, Like bears, Asleep all winter, In summer gouging throats from the slow and the unfortunate.

2-Sport. His is a face that peers out between shoulders like valley walls, Hunched high and with a forehead thick as a concrete block, That not even the mojo of Bruce Lee himself could break through, His pockets are lined with bitter pills, For handing out to strangers. His is the face which protrudes from the pile and is bearing down hard with an angle iron shoulder, His is the black car with blue light disco under's and a new electric sheen.

15/05/11 1-Pay Three Times. State your name and birth date, Wear your collar tight, Protruding Adam's and a vanishing nasally grin that will change from rot to living flesh and burn down houses. Line up with the other solid folk who know their names and birth dates, Who collect their prison issue gifts and smile a venom free regret-less smile of virtue and "escape is not an option".

2-Loveland. Tuesday is a long glaring headache, Wednesday wants a shackle on it's ankle and an understated residue of slime, She is bewilderingly lost in grey hurrah's and she is a rare beast of smiles and ice-cream on a Wednesday night. Take me out for dinner, Treat me nice, Prepare me for re-entry into Loveland.

16/05/11 1-Tembers & Tobers. All told he said, You're printing money, And gratingly you're giving it away, Long and drawn out stunted bunny fortune, Strange and fearful maintenance of tembers and tobers, A tall man with a wicked skinny finger in your neck.

2-Demons and gods. These financial trapezoids, The flicker of a future spark in rectangle land drawing all kinds of shapes, Till hollow wood is full to bursting all with little ground down men from mars. A headache that is gold plate speakers making all your sounds, With wires from the brain, Slot car translation and a weedy little gnome who sneezes tulips. Pay the squad car robot for protection, A stampede is coming, Of demons and gods.

17/05/11 1-The Numbers Are Talking. The green token troll with a raggedy beard, Is living in the backwards password whispered into peepholes, These dragon days are fire livid, Fling the severed head of virtue, Arab states are running from the red cross coats and golden arrows. The numbers are talking, They're talking at you seven days a week from tin can strings and satellites.

2-Droll Days Of Yore. Droll days of yore, The shores of hell transmit their evil smell across the highway from a lamp post crash car bent in half, Your caffeine pills are train wreck trolley wobbled and they make you stutter, You sound like a circus in a cardboard box.

18/05/11 1-Old Umbrella. Flag down the Lego ship, The tiny pirates with their drawn on mangy teeth and little prickly beards are nought but spots, A freckle on the tea stained map of childhood in the outer suburbs, Watching the cigarette smoke like a hundred dead snakes have let go their small ghosts, And they rise to the ceiling like mystical trails in the ether. We are lost property, We are sitting in a manky box of other people's crap.

2-Slapping The Thigh Of Good Will. Stain it flat yellow, He sat on the hot plate, His sore bum protests to his overripe head that it isn't enough to be sorry and do it again, You need to stop doing and slapping the thigh of good will, Embrace him, Bow down to her and pray that you will change.

19/05/11 1-Spinal Stitching. Dagger stitching the Siamese to each other again, They have been apart for seven hundred years, They miss the awkward walk and stares, The glaring bleary stain fish and the church doors swung like Fred Astaire is spinning 'round his lamp post. Muddy spillage, Vikings pillage road wrecks and hover cars, Armed forces walk the night with green goggles and a sandy skull, Delivering the impatience of one nation to another.

2-Giant Eye. Giant contact lens upon the table, Left by giant eye that hovers sometimes by the office door, Sometimes by the playground watching Martian children gather for a fight at 3am. The eye is illegally immigrating small families of floating ephemeral beings in a net bag slung over his bulky self, They make the tiny noises you'd expect to hear, Like insects who can talk. Some would pay a fortune just to see him, Others see him every day and wish he'd go away.

20/05/11 1-Woeful Violin. Way out behind, Looking sturdy and steady like patriots made out of horse hair bows and ancient instruments that are high price tagged and held under the chin. We are the revolution, Say the children in their scuff marked jeans and shirts torn open pawing at each other like giant cats, We invented self denial, We are living in communion with the Lord.

2-These Two Boys. My ambition has exited the room with my ability to sleep, My inability to face public places un-medicated, And my love for pleasing gods and treading on children. These two boys are standing by me patiently, Waiting their turn, Quiet as a silent film, Their eyes are all bright love and solid serenity, Serendipity is their daily right. These are what we plucked from out futile love, These are an endangered species.

21/05/11 1-Headphones Ahoy. Hand us the Roland SD 50, The sonic cell, A mixing desk and a rabbits hole. Like the man from frozen January, I will hire us a tiny hall where playgroups run and kids sneeze rainbows onto paper, For a week or two we'll shut them out, And make ourselves a vinyl disk for pigeons to peruse.

2-Hacksaw Baby Girl. She'll keep it forever, Her song, Her translucent cry baby umbrella piece, Her rhythm and melody, Train wreck and trim. She was almost impossible, As we constantly fail to fill each other's gaps and gaping holes, There will always be somebody listening And adding their hacksaw and pick.

22/05/11 1-Green Ghost. Slave to the trading of hours wee small for a holiday pick and the toothy grin salad spit spinning his disco at lunch time. Two DJ's tonight in the Rave Cave, Finished by 9.30, The ever empty cinema that looses to the drive in for affordability and various levels of self derived comfort and awkward sex, The things they'd throw you out for if they had any idea. I remember when you made me implode in the back row and the laughs were delicious, And you could still look me in the eye without laughing.

2-Joyous Delay. Interpersonal relations, These are robotic time share activities that carve their days from deciding on never deciding, This is a woman whose life had led miniature horses to Jesus, Whose square jaw will never drop, As she has seen everything. Far too obvious the ploy, The naked request is impeccably still framed and almost as nice as a Pollock, Or maybe even a Welles or a Kubrik, That turtle necked table standing urinating drunken giant and his feed me friends, The death threats that Anthony Burgess will never receive.

23/05/11 1-War Is Done. The wrong folk, The sad folk, The dog tag folk and the folk who wear pyjamas all day, These are your trusted soldiers, These your daily bread. But if she would tell you with more than a little remorse, That she is truly sorry, And would speak to you like civil rights had meaning and were written on her palm, You could tell your gathered army to disperse, That war is done.

2-Because You Have Values. Cash money friends, The pain of physical banking in actual queues for little more reason than you are an old sort with values, This is ridiculous, A million non-existent dollars balk at you from bridges, They spit upon your windscreen.

24/05/11 1-Playing Mr Wolf. Such a miserable little face, Red and black streaks from when he was all powerful and lost. Up there in the edge of the blue, Where the stars creep in behind you like they're playing Mr Wolf, There's a certain whiff, Like solid ice, Like frozen fingers snapping off and all the tiny circles red are plummeting to earth, This is where he lost his grip, This is where the handle bars came crashing through the glass.

2-Cardboard Martian Girls Are Sexy Too. A bucket of suck for your horrible band, For your forty thousand dollar lovely ladies by a pool that sparkles green, The Martian girls we make from card and sticky tape, And animate by hand will have more charm, And feel that their kind, Their equality, Is not compromised by their actions.

25/05/11 1-Double Arrowed Sink. Nearly there, It's a corner-less street and the numbers are only getting longer, But it won't go all the way around, There has to be a double arrowed sink, A left or right, And he said right, So Sunday won't forget you.

2-Eating The Profits. The little boy is deep frying his hand with our chips, The cigarette voiced little dyed red chipmunk who breaks all the hearts in this hippy town, Is looking at us smiley blue, Because I threatened cash for other folk, Who hide their un-gloved hands, And work for someone who is not about to die from eating the profits.

26/05/11 1-Plastic Plastic. He devours it in one afternoon, He is a dedicated fan of all things giant, All things printed page and web-jet flickered slick like little digi-monkeys in a trolley full of birthday cakes. My tamagotchi was immortal, Until I stepped on it.

2-Their Octopi Friends & Foe. The first thing these art folk will tell you is that everything is political, The second that this is just semantics, As is everything, And that everything is better through the eyes of someone wired in to both these subtle facts, Who can navigate the faces of their octopi friends and foe with ease and grace, And sell ice to Eskimos, And vomit to drunks.

27/05/11 1-Still Unaccounted. Cannibalism is not a myth, There are still some grey and bearded folk who like to cook their neighbours, Some anti-social Star Trek fans who cut up total strangers in the afternoon. You just can't fight the man who wants to die, You just can't fight the force of hell in flesh, And bending in the middle as he jumps out of his car to claw your face.

2-Devils Tongue. My men are good and true, You are a hundred years my senior in your walk to padded hell, To Satan's tongue become a flight of stairs, His skull a ballroom packed with ragged man sized rats and women made from blood clots. All the awkward hugs you'll ever need, All the broken sleep a boy could dream of.

28/05/11 1-Superman. My knees should be calloused, My eyes red as rocks, And your tiny self in bronze disfigured melted in the furnace to be cast again as superman. You are the imaginary void between regret and satisfaction.

2-The Flickered Reel & Cosmic Rays. Not wonderful, Not spectacular, Not heart melting or brain tingling or even as close as a voice from the radio. Even on a weekend, Far away from satellite statistics on the journey of the monk and barrel chested ape, Not at all the spirit in an egg that you were once, But still the flickered reel and cosmic rays.

29/05/11 1-One Man Leaves. Why brutality draws cheers is beyond my understanding, Though I find my voice is cheering too, My head is squeezed so hard by my two hands that just like Mr sane beside me, Chunks of hair are popping out. Two men enter, One man leaves.

2-Only If I Can Rewrite The Whole Thing So That I'm The Main Character. Sit singed and over confident that next time you'll do fine, He's speaking in his sleep about his mother on the drugs she stole from grandma, He's belly chuckled all the anthems he should never know at only three, He's wrecked like Kirk Douglas, He's holy like a nameless horse with a tiny window cut into its side.

30/05/11 1-Better Than You Are. After what seemed like an eternity, He rose from his chair like leavened bread and spat his charts and tables, These dice are loaded he said, Took off his cape and rimless floating glasses and left the room to the rest of us, Play on? I asked, Nah... Said the mousey one with tiny little hands, He's better at it than you are.

2-Just Told A Fib. Just told a story of tiny's and giants, Of walking featureless neon spectrals, Cave dwelling acrobatic troupes who tour the nation bending reality so as to appear as if they are flying trapeze that are attached to nothing, Saving space on circus tents and caravans, Every single one albino and half bat, Raking in the cash, And eating it like lettuce.

31/05/11 1-Taking The Train. Parking fines are usury, Paying to leave your car some place is usury, The king is in his counting house, The Dave's and Malcolm's are taking the train.

2-A Man With A Face. Last day of the fifth, Half way almost and what's to show but a collection of regular toilet outings and the occasionally promising results of impulse spending. I bought us a board game, I gave those cheap beers to a man with a face.

OUTRODUCTION Thanks for your time, and again, if you want to subscribe, email me at 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.

Sign up to vote on this title
UsefulNot useful