25 February 2009

blac blocs supporting propaghandi

Come and vent...

"Canada’s Propagandhi are finally dragging their politically charged punk rock arses back to Australia. From their earlier roots in the punk and skate punk tradition to their more recent heavier, hardcore thrash-influenced sound, this band has a reputation for their energetic live finesse. It has been 11 years since they last turned themselves loose upon us and the anticipation for their return is now over..."

Yeah - and local rascals 3 Days Later and Blac Blocs support Propaghandi this Weds night at Capitol...

Fucking A. Circle A.

Wed 25th Feb Capitol - Perth
393 Murray St - Perth
www.amplifiercapitol.com.au/home

Doors open 7.30pm

Suburban anarchistas Blac Blocs on first (8pm) - followed by bitumen-dirt punkers Three Days Later - then Propaghandi

Propaghandi:
www.propagandhi.com
www.myspace.com/propagandhi

3 days Later:
www.myspace.com/3dayslater6285

Blac Blocs:
www.blacblocs.com
www.myspace.com/blacblocsband

Tickets:
www.moshtix.com.au/event.aspx?id=23709&ref=moshtix

12 February 2009

george rip and the c-word

not enough red wine to kill it
not enough beer to say this
not enough buds to cough it up
no amount of cheap bourbon can quell it
not enough left of you to really do this justice

and I wait with notions of you
the personal political, the poetic farce of this page

and so this stupid necessary heat, this molten national face
drips like bushfire climate fantasy - the C word on my lips

and there you are: floating like the sheep station buddah
your guitar slung like jesus would've stood at the mic
legs apart, stand low, that beast between you

yet the plastic tubes taped to yr thigh
you rip chops back still like you ever did
pain for days after, Verity said - like it was the news
and now here's the cancer that ate into your head

trashing thru the global dissent, the lava light of all this fiscal shit
and god speaks in mysterious rhymes in this place tonight

the sonic glitches and cello sweeps, a missing break beat
in the shitty heat - like a drunken Toodyay shooting gallery

firing 410s at the trees, laughing at the twisted kites
and the faces of stars - despite their gaseous, glittering
glamourous intent like crystals on a thrusted mirror
my sweating face and…

and at last, tears - the early ZZ Top, Stray Cats, Satriani riffs
the salt at my side, the colour-blind totality of this

this funeral moment - these Beer Drinkers and Hell Raisers
and if you see me walkin' down the line
with my fav'rite honky tonk in mind
well, I'll be there around suppertime
with my can of dinner and a bunch of fives

ahhh play it boy…

and here we're on our collective knees for the insurance for sure
this conflagration, this chronic addiction to the C-word
a church without pews, without confession
without the trojan horses of prayer, perhaps a hankerchief
a hug another hug, the tears of brothers in my stubbled face
another hot hug at the casket, another few wrinkled memories
like a fucking car crash, a jack thru the quarter-vent
the cops at the morning sky

the people are poets in here, the profit sang loudly in ellipses
our parenthesis, our mocked children of the speed culture
we stack these endless shelves and empty them, these boxes
we consume the brilliant trademarked colours, the colossal binge

and the cheap credit bubbles like whore spit lips
in the sheep runs rubble like the rock-crushed ships

and the alliteration becomes meaningless, doesn't it?
and the repetition becomes pointless, doesn't it?
and the question becomes rhetorical, doesn't it?

the neologisms spat thru the busted syllables
its all for nothing - just to engage in ruptured couplets
a cheap cambell soup-tin nightmare

and the tree-blurred concrete freeway grips
the white lines a hideous cliched exit
but the graf makes me hard, the grubby clouds, wet

everything makes me think of the thin grey jim dunlop pick
I left on your coffin yesterday amongst the cluster of petals,
and moments before you disappear
you and that stupid beautiful wooden container
the grain as pretty as the forest it took
and you're in there man - dead

dead as the C-word - dead like a bushfire culdesac

this funeral moment - these Beer Drinkers and Hell Raisers
and if you see me walkin' down the line
with my fav'rite honky tonk in mind
well, I'll be there around suppertime
with my can of dinner and a bunch of fives

ahhh play it boy - and he did

and we skated the crushed skulls of those
that trod the red ground
our new steel strings softer than skin
a Marshall stack in the stage-light
blue red green blue red green… red red white.

and is this nausea for real?
why does this grief keep smashing sidelong into the text?
what is this fear of an A minor 7th?
and just how does a G# make F almost credible?
what is the relative key I asked him?

and if you see me walkin' down the line
with my fav'rite honky tonk in mind
well, I'll be there around suppertime
with my can of dinner and a bunch of fives

we never really knew the maths of those chords,
or the meanings - just the nature of progression,
the popular uprising within this song structure
this poem collapsing faster than the C word

here it is then - under it:

Capital Capital Capital Capitalism

and your exit from this poem makes me breathe a little slower
the grief-hell
the faded flannelette
the mullets
the empty bourbon bottles
the stinking bongs for writing songs
and poems
and words
and chords
and rhythm
and melody
and poems
and words
and death

and can you feel this cello puncturing my heart
here - our collective body, my words not even
meant to go here - this poem about capital never built

instead

this funeral moment - these Beer Drinkers and Hell Raisers
and if you see me walkin' down the line
with my fav'rite honky tonk in mind
well, I'll be there around suppertime
with my can of dinner and a bunch of fives

ahhh play it boy

and he did

and he fucking did


rest in peace brother

____________
allan boyd - antipoet
february 12, 2009
for Baden 1964-2009

07 February 2009

jesus is my homeboy, man

in response to amber fresh

if jesus was a woman - she's like this cyber-resurrection

this spectrum of bold-faced glass ruin
and plaster ripped back to flat pink noise
and binary brick-bat fibres, washed feet and the rest
and clear-skin shit on white walls here

in this room - now - the code
book by book, verse verses verses

this crucifixial remnant twisted at my splintered, wooden neck
this barbarian fragment of unprintable PDF
this cobbled parable of wheatbelt stanzas
a gnu-skool john 3:16 - a sunned-yellow bracken
42 in the fucking shade - no water to walk on here
in the final over

yeah jesus is my homeboy - in this cut n paste town

she's like this superficial relic of capital, baby
as interesting as a rate-cut, an uber-credit bubble
a golden shower of light all across my bleeding hands

this transendental wrecking ball of gods own cup
this floating corpse in yr february moon
all runneth over in the bitumen tears
like an ashtray filled at 4AM

yeah jesus is my homeboy - in this realistic hair

another violent swallow of a fishermens friend
another walk across the Solomon tides
another facebook hit for the apostles

this chokehold Galation sonnet, busting at the fabric
hurting at the seams of emma goldman
split as we split witches, a cycle of curses
bending at the shroud of this 22nd century paradigm

like a statue to the gospel of circumcision
the new testament tattooed across our faces
our discarded skins a vile necklace

yeah jesus is my homeboy
on this saturday night

and jesus, she said:
its not about kissing the kissing boys
its not about the poetic words lost to the wind
in scorched Kalgoorlie streets and random school libraries
its not about the tiny doodle she carries everywhere
its not about the tattered doonas
its not about the corridors of TAFE
or the carpark push
or the trolleys on trolleys
or the marbles in the well
or the soft pubic hair around my anus

is it?

yeah jesus is my homeboy - weeping in the public troughs

sweeping at the wrought-iron bibles
bloated at the base of his clay-footed cancer

she's new to this nativity death scene
the Corinthian clouds of justice overheard in whispers
the art of smashing the state of the state
the temple-tables turned - the money-changers wept

and jesus said unto the mob:

blessed are the windfarm roo tics
a holy space in my chest for Lazurus
here's Johnny with an axe - here's Peter with a stick
David with a syringe - Goliath with a fix
a cup of tea for the global condition

yeah jesus is my homeboy
on this saturday night…

____________________

allanboyd - the antipoet
FEB 7, 2009 for Amber Fresh Between You and Me book launch
(written for performance at Spectrum Gallery, Nth Perth)

05 February 2009

conspires

every step

every considered action trod

every chandelier paradigm
every doormat upon the rafia coercive

we tread steps

but every slight glass-eyed structure
against yr brilliant hierarchy

is like a gesture

every steep lusty step

every contemplative haze
a bold hard gaze
every moment of radical motion
a blistered hand, a swollen finger
a cannibalistic signifier, a pen
my mobile image

every step
every steep step
every steep steep step

every initial footstep, every queer footprint

i ask, i said

every step
every steep step
every steep steep step
every steep steep steep step

you said then

every super-size fist
raised to the carbonic capital

is a path to the future
every performative step

a

step

a

step
ste
st
s

every step

step
p
pe
pet
pets

every incline movement
every new flavoursome step here
is a moment
is a tool
is a step

every letter
is a step

every moment
every subversive tone

is a steep step
is a steep steep step
is a steep steep steep step

every step
every steep step
every steep steep step
every steep steep steep step

every step p p p p p

every mortared brick upturned
every molecule spat
every can of spray paint
every word formed in colour

steps

every action trod
is an action

is it
steep?