02 September 2009


you/me - not branding them semiotic ranters

our stolen skin way too pink
in the southern city of 21st century ravers

we're rolling up sonic maths in graf-alley werd-speak
an eventual suspicious tanking - and spot rain
like the delicious smell of petrol morning radicals

fuck the barrel of conspiracy man - a breathy mist
yr editorial theologies of pvc suns n guns n drums

mate: am i a festival of bionic spasticity?
for fucks sake: an archaic spanner man

a folk mansion - a new kinda god
a face full o' neologism - mammoth shit-cake

but hey, i'm three ahead of the footy-tipping six-pack
a flat-bread truck-stop outside maccas
waiting for a mark, in the carpark dark
the full-back brisk - a fifty metre penalty


now we're thick-ripped torso
the fattest bicep shine in september sky
23 minutes into the final term grass

this verse penetrating the flank baby
a point - a dance
in the mexican wave
of scarves...


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