13 October 2002

hey, he said
r u in this room?
is there another plane, or is channelling illegal agin.
we slept in perfect circles and ate burns.
we smile polite and steal matrix-salads.
there is soup in poppy seeds, green tea and crimestopper cards.
collect all six.
this is the silent break-festive canned anger.


halt neo nazi stickerz
bolt on bullet belts.
neither kansas is our separate godhead.
release. forest micro-sites ready.
are u in the pseudo-house.
rebels make cute waves; guns have ears.
territory is piss-stained robot parts.
this suburb is herbal genius.
i respect all forms of concrete here.

insular for ever. dandy swearing times. rally up.

hey cuntry!

season complete.
another quarter million seedlings in. heeled. waltzed.

enter new tarmac dimension...
location breath. pastel swell. misty melt rainbows.
management deleted new sounds.

select red button. overdrive. run.
rank high. sustatik. ON. electro. collaborate them in groves.
bozo switch. pablo/tokyo. some hairstyle bender.
launch soon. rumble. sonar belts.
werds mean far less here.
benchmarks remote speaker...
always welcome.

from the reclusive trees, he spoke in stringed circles.
enter/return/delete. reluctant to steal samples. wearing all-denim stripes.
they all burnt white in showbag retro. these neo-funk emotives. vocal distortion.
bust. create the newest redundant noise. here. now. be.

parallel salinty: bleak frenzy

they waited in huddled masses against the smog
we wept in shiny-skin teams: sixteen deep.
they purchase many colours in here - solo strings, cool hair bribers.
we waste away like sober merchants on sick-mate windows.
i dream only in sebadoh riffs.
on waves we ask in bashed petitions for scrambla.
gutterville splendour roots of tunes, direct-art energy-pills.
still clenching halogen, smitten by raw cause.
these indie-kid stylists leave builings. post-empty houses.
this week we delineate breakbeat-loop ideology with truncheons of pop.
bent hollow. mission brown selekta. boogie one oh one.
synthesis tools/house braids of chocolate cameras.
render mother-ship, all 240bpm grandeur.
radios on full... event whores never breathe silence.
here we sleep in crstal habit. burn hard, they statelined.


barrels of sonic fuck broke her fall,
she swept bolts of fat sweeps in sync.
we all bled wet slices of skin and trees.
fancy sets of orgiastic anal vomit, they cried in unison - bark.
all fall down, they said, we're not content,
or bozo suits...
so baby


t-shirt slogans for eyes, she says:

east freaks. razorwire and lentils make big air drops.
and patriarchy is secret mens business - anal sex with homo-charts.
big city boys twisted in neon sandwich-bar white fuck.
render touchy feely backstab, yr football sex-clubs.
we give racists tattoos in the house; in the house. big it in the house.
they complain in hall-monitor stealth, that capitalism is a toilet-bag with wheels.
that robbery is bad crystal. that remedy is detention. that culture is a white slut.

our solo chambers of vinyl clitoris keep assets in rags.
white striped botox dreams. those kids need massage banks.
and trees became cyber sex. righto mate dandruff control.
we marched in redneck packs, shopping in skirts/midriff belly;
grown exclusively under lights. backyard asylum seekers for tea.

we smoke hydro smack in full colour bliss. and dream brand new utopias.
we complain about fences on horses. teak-oil crack. wet beer goggles.
white men and muslims eat babies. this we know.
ask a politician for stuff. they have various yellow compassions.
coz democracy is far too white for cowboys.


werds. misinformed and riled rabid.
serious axes grind well-trod beef.
art is dead. commodied in pan-flashin fast boxes.
like rock-apes we slid east in scratchplate collage monologue bile.
we draw these red/pink lines in webcam dust.
sticks like static to brim in clean. cop-shop licker.
they test bombs in my sheds. lean nasty phrases.
and softwear. sanity and treasure always bite yr product.
but they all bleed in packs on steps n stages.
forget clandestine robot misleaders; anal bitch-loops n circuit.
queen's severed headjobs. till art came in wads.
and the haze-halogen faux-city-of-blues-apathy strikes deep.
our short white arms flailin'. cuts to credits.

fascist whingers club

hooked on sheep and micro-capitalism.
all those jesus penises do shrivel in time; waxy to the core.
we smile in blankets of words. suburbs get monopoly money for cancer.
razor-wired and confident on the correct side.
this duco is tainted one day; this box; these knobs; those trees.
some boil hard at direct action. we waved flags like pilots.
lethargic in bent apathy. and got the cash - warm, soft.
we put lights in drawers and wasted mahogany trips.
denying dreadlocked compassion;
art-school dribblers in propella hat goodness.
lookin for meaning in ergonomic cyberjobs. lost in bitchumen diatribe.
some say: we all fall down in piles of spent werds. they sip nice beer.
nothing was ever realm, they said. poking the poet's cold flesh.
we wank in teams and laugh nervous - shrill popes in glass boxes.
my karaoke brain spits bits. products for slots.
and these fishes get bread. we burn large. eat bags.
and die fast here in america, exchangin corporate shell glances.
hopin to connect without fear of borders.

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