27 January 2004

pardon my 21st sandwich

we chanted single file now.
unable to mouth our anthems from their little plastic-coated bags.
in bags of bags.

or boxed-set video sub-evidence evil: coins of my dvd life.
my xtra enterfuckgtaining media-gloss bits. quik.
fat-backed poetix for the matrX acceptence. quik.
my beard like osama's like a plane. quik.
like john travolta's driveway. quik.
like a billboard begging. for this can.
and cardboard face.

my black hand catastrophe; campaign blurred in purple logo-pipelines.
she searches: trampoline monoculture - 76million barrels-a-day today.
we sat down alot - eating daily 25,000 human hunger carcus.
or our skinned anti-nutri-grain man. leather-faced prozak-bots.
the war vs peace poster train strains of foam chains.

our cancer of weetbix-coloured pink water. khaki statues.
rubber steeled or weak-kneed n refugeeeed on beaches;
and they drift, we say suckle hard like a psuedo-jam jesus kid.
here: eat this gun.
or sell a bible of funny quotes this christmas.
this christmas. this christmas.

without fat white men or helicopter-gunships at her face, she wept.
slowly, my bloated torn retina demands holographic, goddam-saddam twins.
these 3d drastic animated sistaz: left to spiel reflectaz
from border-fear-protectaz.

no more footy frank targets:
pocket-protected non-social inequinnox; my corporate-vegan rights.
i break - my water gushes forth much-much faster than yrs.
so. on designated days we drank the grey water. i think.
but - we bought our busted boats in total lawn-isolation.
or ikea. or southern indo. or gardenfucking city.
the froth of her beer.

my electronic feedback-scream dream
at 63cm boxes - we ate RPGs on those fine days.
retreat and bunker; collecting sweet stencilled bricks
and starry starry stripes and colours of nothing.

rumour: she plays strip monopoly sinking in sandswept yellow-debt suburbs
at lunch and over thousands of coffees we realised our massive fucking
disabled now in her new sun-shaped beanbags and on retarded acceptance.
i bleed many many cliches, but never in strict gilded letters.
or those nasty evil evil evil presidents. or god. or letters from ministers.
or my mum and his. she strokes and quotes me: "even elvis has an anus".

so this time my friends, we bred in sure-fire fear landscapes
canoe trees and daisy-cutters; mobile phones and rape rooms.

for now, i write home. we moved our shards and scarred fingers of narrative.
into razor-wire desert camps - spelling azadi azadi in dust.
and she remembered me. or on pimp-phone relays - upload like transit pigs.

into the carpet she told me freedom in drips wet blood.
we cut zines til dawn;
or swig stolichnya, swap skin n werds
and fuck in the sun