459 words for the 459

New piece performed at the Rosemount Hotel 459 Bar, North Perth, Thursday, 7th February 2008 - as part of a new monthly performance poetry event: Cottonmouth...

459 words for the 459

wakeupmotherfuckerswakeupmotherfuckers
wakeupmotherfuckerswakeupmotherfuckers
wakeupmotherfuckerswakeupmotherfuckers
wakeupmotherfuckerswakeupmotherfuckers

welcome back and be reminded that:
some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses*

and these 459 words they drip reasons
to hang in violent pretty groups on pages
drippin, slippin, trippin on stages
delivered by us in contrived expressive rages

my open mouth drier than marble-bar sun-dust up here
the four-wheel-drive of my words, hubs in ruts
my broken lips on this nipple of a mic
and we're killing in the name of the werd tonight
we got more poems than a poem convention - sing it*

making thick tracks in the desert rust
without due authority or trust
this cotton-mouthed bunsen-burner,
pining for the uranium fiooords

needing, really needing, my sunburst flying-V,
bleeding that oh-so misogynistic, yet the burning fetishistic,
spread-legged acquiescence

this light-sabre cock-sucking blues* riff
and so I drink it I drink it I drink it

my face the same as the next one
and the next one, and yeah the next one
we deliver in stages in lyrical rages
our tribal-tattoos tearin the pages

we're pulpin the pictures, and waiting for the government
to sell us the reasons - to feed us the regret
of two-hundred-plus-years of bitter methylated history

and yes, some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses,
she sang like a porn-star prophet
destroy 2000 years of culture
she stang cell by cell by radical cell

and so, all the pulsed-out phone-crazies flock
to star in our own flash-animated
multi-media movie-message hell

writing our mothers other names
on our brother's bleeding hearted torsos
arching my back as you enter
the pen into my open flesh
my ageing skin a window-dressing for christ
yr free trade truncheon
shaped like buddah's cock

yr selling me the same faeces
wrapped up in an ideological apology

destroy 2000 years of culture*
destroy 2000 years of culture
some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses
they chorused reluctantly

she spoke like fire at the concrete road
her smoky words enamelled and over-sprayed on sheds
the fleeting protection
little more than a microscopic sheath
a tender rubber glove of money

yay verily we built flag-draped fortresses
for our gorgeous plastic possessions
an air-conditioned freudian reality
never touching the cloud with our blisters
never seeking broken fences

or the union jack
and a white star
on yr navy-blue tit
missing the deeper understanding
of an aussie flag whore
or truth
or any sign of habitat
only grasping
in a peak oil delusion

a capitalist structure
biding its time
before the market forces
determine the fate of it

and the shit seeps in
like a barrel full of fish

to remember to always destroy
2000 years of culture destroy
2000 years of culture
because some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses

up
here

tonight...


(apologies to Rage Against The Machine, Atari Teenage Riot, Mclusky and Future Of The Left)

antipoet - allan boyd - February 3, 2008