29 October 2004



good evening, he said, his spit drips to the mic
and welcome to a taste of the waste of the time of yr life

hi honey i'm home he says, u made me what i am today
all hot n taut n pocketsful of sand

i am a simple-minded product of destructive process
in the jesuschrist latter-day plastic mission brown reflections
did u see the news, she said, pale-faced and panic

the sign on the wall spells alarmed alert and closing
of the whitebread-is-better world
of the entertainment of meaninglessness meaninglessness
of deadless lives and tv menstrual media cycles
of uber-capitalist intentions; of product placement inventions
of the notion of yr freedom is a fit chick bastard
nipples hard n draped across a billboard car

i'm inside this bakery oven - listenin for the rise
close to the flex of yr eyes, the gas of yr breath on my face

yr ears hot, you think i'm some kind of spitting chip reject
yr fat splatter facials like suburban criminality - force fed liability
my biceps flexing against yr skin. in this candlelight light

hey he's like some cello-ised malfunction with bruised and brutal werdscapes
not meaning twisted like more than thus this then they
but i am this voice below the surface of you and you and you

am i this invention of an anti-corporate sloganeering bastard
of emotive tears waiting without years of bloodlust intentions
wanting to fuck everyone in this room at once...
come on baby - can we do the collective grind
the sweet taste of yr shower-clean, sweating skin.

we report to the masses in snippets of overheard conversations for sale
and gettin cut on the overboarded razor-wire; losing satellite phones to the pt hedland tides
stealing salty refugees from the arms of a corporatised australia
in rental cars on a gunbarrel highway our mission a failure

so do we sit ill-equipped on the verge of
the chronic aparthied of convenience; of profit-bred subservience to the global capital
of the memorandums of understanding between the business of culture and country
oh the humanity, humanity...

the relaxed and comfortable lies of a generation of land theft and genocide
here in this terra nullis and voidus. avoiding any inflection of apology or treaty or compassion
we kill the self-control - the end of a self managed society is right here in this room
in yr chair, inside yr body squirming - but hey can u FEEEEEL it?

and the humanity is dead poetry rotting on a concrete street; a faded asbestos logo
on girdered prefab lifestyles - buying new old lives in empty fortified streets
with some change in my pocket going dingalingaling
is this the diaspora of everything - this manufactured consent of you?

and if i'm a loaf of bitter broken bloated bread, of stale and crusty blend
i'm not yr average racist man yr context manipulator of frothy lager tales
my bowser breath is seldom there in this barefoot revolution
the price of petrol never concerning my handout - input output garbage in garbage out

but i'm chaining my minds to your trees, and fences and walls and footpaths with words
waitng for the pigs on freeway bridges and train station detentions
to collapse with boredom of news entertainment sensation

not like some spindox press release geese waiting for the sheep to edit my balls
or slam the feet of the golden fleece; of the nuggetary finds of the cyanide manifesto

we break like that into packets of chants: no-ing no-ing we wont going
were here and queer and we dont want any more fucking beer
when culture becomes the product of starvation; all the colours of the body
we throb for each others lives and scream at the theft of moments.
when the 6 degrees of bareback separation comes inside me - without protection

we shout at the microwaves and wireless heads convulsing; regurgitating on the stages
in plain view of the rages of a mediocre on-sell child-care society
and we sleep in threes on the floor of this dying planet - oblivious to the critical mass.

of the death of a planet that does not need humans.

here we are then
at the end of an oil-driven global economy that makes rich fuckers richer and poor fuckers starve
but the apathy is my mantra you say we say they say...



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