13 August 2004

2 fresh ones:


spaketh: like transparent shiraz
in that slick/wet east coast fluff logic
we return to senderz reluctant to blenders.

but: please remove all valuables and burn all monies
heres a fucking lighter, his orange pastel love.

we misspeaked them tragic rhymes unless spoken broken
about miscliqued rhythmix and hip-hop elementals
of loaded winteresque corporatological finality biscuits
and flesh flavoured clocks, n spanners of love.

sodden, we work in packs of groomed falcon 500s - digital truncheons
cramped n spent, we crouch on coded coals, scrapin toes to rock.

troubled now we force shit-coloured werdz into the sand
or a melbn embrace - money made us do it
money made us products.

combed n corny we eat fragments of our own flesh in strips
like gigs and caramel-bomb trees
our adverbs are killing them.

the bark rapes shins n limbs snap like this
like tuart leaves and suitcase nukes
rumble in eastern clouds, we said, we said, we said.


in total stationery lust we spin discs for jesus

in melbourne we spit rips at the chronic shits
n flip drips on the lips of every script

we drink werdz like the illegal islander nation we inhabit
we smash it up like auto-feral phonecard heaven and static fur

but in square fear i load this thick spastic gun
these weekender spending habits - trees are meme-keepers

i'm latex n whipped for future reference - we spoke in silent karaoke
whispered our cyber-loathing of self harm and pain-skool jibes
searching as meat-eaters confess

to everything
to everything
to everything

her language like some govenor general of sacred violence
seeps thru these pores like some kind of evil metaphor for smokers

i'm booked hard, we imply - we deliver brown solids most days
yet sit in specific counter-revolutionary tuatology

but there in melbourne we lick sick at the skin flick
in turgid slicks of every chick

and yet
and yet
and yet

my thwarted synapses re-live her lives
and we still conjure imaginary bathroom energy,
showers for warmth, fire for burning fossils

beachscapes like beds and warm skin in this
classic rain this sweet adjective war...
we spin discs
for the lists
and keep twists in the wrists

i scream local names in empty rooms
and die slowly or fast before clarity reigns
like this winter-fuck street.




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