13 October 2005

Nimitz: vapour trails on an october sunset clause - gage roads

tantric remedies to get yr freak on
right here right now

its a funk-backed misadventure treaty baby
yeah a fulltime bullet-catcher for jeeesus
get me them searing fragments in my face man
just taste the burn
get me one o them phalanx penises baby
get me a noo wirld order like a mirror surface
my ultra-cool school strap-on cock suit
my nooklea fetish my pieces of fucking eight

fat n drippin fleshy accidents in yr trouser crease
like an april prolapse in mid-september rocket fuel

gunnin injuns and niggers and rednecks and ferals and greenies and war widows and dog-food eatin pensioners holy shit a brick for the baby jeesus

my motherland the death o me
my motherland the death o me

wish i had a yard of razor wire for evry time i heard that one he says from the podium, all salutin and trumpets/mission accomplished, carvin sly sonar at the deep deep trenches

and if galipoli is my middle name brother
i am not a suicide pram in uniform mate, charging into homeland security
i am not a strike force veteran, a peace-monger hat-stand grand slam fairy
not this tripped up stencil-wary mental apathy clause
but not this this social contractual obligation to the ecocidic social contract the social contract the social contract...

what fucking contract she bellows from the roof, broom and grenade in hand
ready to pounce on them aircraft carriers from the cybergods
prometheus, jesus, menzies and reagan and all that crown-land stolen
under our well shorn backs

and boy oh boy my admiral is splittin subatomic rage at the bridge
and lick the hairy balled monstrosity right here in this box
both of us and all of us
drifin kinda like shiftin twixt these fabric tectonic plates
and barbeque beers with fremantle queers
sippin toasting my brilliant career in killin

fluffy toys at christmas, at funerals and flag wavin ceremonies and i cant even feel the blood of the anthem. my sweating hands a litanic narrative of bile n twitch at every slice of mental cyclones n bars n barbed wire fantasies. understanding the words from the future of memory, the dinner-bell charter a relic of bug powder and monopoly shares, and money is the warmest cloth by far - she says all that glitters is titanium, is uranium, is like this swivel chair train. this cyclone shaped monolithic dreamscape - five four three two one.

and the flag drips, slippin up the magnificent pole, whispering lumberjack songs and shards of depleted uranium metal gather at our feet.

the dust never silent

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