20 May 2005
19 May 2005
Antipoet Workshop
i'm doing another "antipoet" workshop for the Fellowship of Australian Writers at Tom Collins House - 88 Wood Street, in Allen Park Swanbourne this weekend.
i really enjoy these things...
if theres any perth.wa folk who wanna come along...
please come.
_al
The Antipoet Workshop with Allan Boyd
Saturday 21st May 11 am to 5 pm
Cost: $20
What is "antipoetry"?
Come along and meet allan boyd [author of the antipoet manifesto] to find out.
We'll look at what it means to challenge the existing paradigms of dominant culture in 2005.
Why is now "not the time for decorative art"?
Learn that suffering for your art is a personal choice, not a foregone conclusion.
What is a "Zine"
Where are all the real poets?
Contemplate Art and Activism.
Discover how adverbs are fascist. Discuss web-writing and Internet Publishing.
"Be the change you want to see" and incorporate integrity into your art and writing.
Why is there no such thing as "writers block?"
Take the power back and shape words to your own wants, needs, desires.
We'll do some radical writing excercises using bizarre rules and tools.
We'll look at Performance Poetry techniques - see what works and what doesn’t when poetry becomes performance.
Bring work to be performed/critiqued on the day.
We'll record some poetry and play it back.
All sorts of stuff. Come on - he won't bite
Plus, if you treat him well, the anti-poet will let you in on wordworksecrets you've previously never even imagined. So be nice, cause he has much to teach...
PHONE: (08) 9384 4771 EMAIL: mailto:fawwa@iinet.net.au
FAWWA WEBSITE
http://www.fawwa.iinet.net.au/
Where:
Tom Collins House, 88 Wood Street, in Allen Park Swanbourne
See MAP:
http://www.fawwa.iinet.net.au/images/map2.GIF
i really enjoy these things...
if theres any perth.wa folk who wanna come along...
please come.
_al
The Antipoet Workshop with Allan Boyd
Saturday 21st May 11 am to 5 pm
Cost: $20
What is "antipoetry"?
Come along and meet allan boyd [author of the antipoet manifesto] to find out.
We'll look at what it means to challenge the existing paradigms of dominant culture in 2005.
Why is now "not the time for decorative art"?
Learn that suffering for your art is a personal choice, not a foregone conclusion.
What is a "Zine"
Where are all the real poets?
Contemplate Art and Activism.
Discover how adverbs are fascist. Discuss web-writing and Internet Publishing.
"Be the change you want to see" and incorporate integrity into your art and writing.
Why is there no such thing as "writers block?"
Take the power back and shape words to your own wants, needs, desires.
We'll do some radical writing excercises using bizarre rules and tools.
We'll look at Performance Poetry techniques - see what works and what doesn’t when poetry becomes performance.
Bring work to be performed/critiqued on the day.
We'll record some poetry and play it back.
All sorts of stuff. Come on - he won't bite
Plus, if you treat him well, the anti-poet will let you in on wordworksecrets you've previously never even imagined. So be nice, cause he has much to teach...
PHONE: (08) 9384 4771 EMAIL: mailto:fawwa@iinet.net.au
FAWWA WEBSITE
http://www.fawwa.iinet.net.au/
Where:
Tom Collins House, 88 Wood Street, in Allen Park Swanbourne
See MAP:
http://www.fawwa.iinet.net.au/images/map2.GIF
26 April 2005
"But who am i to disagree" - more info
"But who am i to disagree" - more info
Windarling mine - 2004 - part of the Seven Sisters Dreaming track. 450k east of Perth
[near Southern Cross WA]
http://perth.indymedia.org/index.php?action=newswire&parentview=3062
http://www.respectsacredland.org/
http://www.respectsacredland.org/windarling/photo-damage.html
_______________________________
Read more about this unsettling badge:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Australia_policy
The White Australia Policy: "the policy of excluding all non white people from the Australian continent, was the official policy of all governments and all mainstream political parties in Australia from the 1890s to the 1950s, and elements of the policy survived until the 1970s. Although the expression “White Australia Policy” was never in official use, it was common in political and public debate throughout the period."
...
WAP ABOLITION
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Australia#Abolition_of_the_Policy
"The effective end of the White Australia policy is usually dated to 1973, when the Whitlam Labor government implemented a series of amendments preventing the enforcement of racial aspects of the immigration law. These amendments legislated that all migrants, of whatever origin, be eligible to obtain citizenship after three years of permanent residence and ratified all international agreements relating to immigration and race."
The 1975 Racial Discrimination Act made the use of racial criteria for any official purpose illegal...
_ _ _ _ _
But wait theres MORE:
The Black GST:
http://www.kooriweb.org/gst/index.html
CALL TO END ABORIGINAL GENOCIDE
http://perth.indymedia.org/index.php?action=default&featureview=196
Union of Aboriginal Nations Meeting
http://perth.indymedia.org/?action=newswire&parentview=10029
BAXTER Detention Centre Protest - easter05:
http://baxter05.info
AZADI
al_
24 April 2005
But who am i to disagree POEM by antipoet
Note: this poem also published in the dissident independent bunno/oz/global mag TWOT mag...
Performance Poem I wrote this morning.
Performed at the Brass Monkey Hotel
Northbridge, Perth WA - 24th April 2005.
Based on Marylin Manson's version of Eurythmics "Sweet Dreams"...
Enjoy.
_________________
but who am i to disagree?
travelled the world and the seventy five percent dead seas
seeking sovereignty in the shadow of a specialised jargonised hypocrisy
melting quick in tandem with coagulated planetary mirth;
some of them want to use you
all hail ye to the repetitive theft of new ideas
and those without a rock to throw at stolen tanks
a fully-armed hip-hop bling bling bubble gum invasion for crude platoons
and the labour of us all is eaten in product placement and unclarified superannuated illusions
i’m a market-share trap, a downsize redundant-coloured hollywood hyperventilation device – like a heroin for the masses
some of them some of them some of them want to abuse you;
waiting on lines cut to the clear broth anti-kitchenites - a trail of the shattered limbs
and my cute little car killed a nation today each turn of the key another strafe of helicopter gunfire
in sudan we drove hard at the walls of sunlight depletion.
those poetic clouds across the molecular moons; of crushed iron mountains the spinifex burning wild at each red horizon as the trucks reduce the peaks of a sacred seven sisters dreaming
the sweet sweet dream means the corporate mindshare drills into the crusty bone - my brain - my hand – the pen of my sweet dreams are made of you
and yet this guitar-solo werd-scape written and authorised by god by the government and spoken by you under the neon suburban streets the bleached beach of this bitumen salinty the cancer of this tragedy of the mental commons
but here in the manufactured new-skool consent, everybody's looking for something, and yet the sweet dreams are made of this - as i held a fist above your logo three billion brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers and aunties and uncles living large on less than two dollars a day two dollars a day two dollars a day.
And god she whispers through the thin white noise of credit card fallacy and the gross domestic product of 48 nations less than the wealth of the world's three richest people as a billion of us unable to read or sign their names - and half the children on the planet without shelter or water
And and and...
and at the tented embassy in full riot gear they charge and everything you bought today slashes into eco-resource. your driveway/pergola quelling the sacred flame - the poets ashes - exacerbating the inequality to the boxes the boxes the boxes outbid by the fundamental media robots - a cut n paste distilled tabloid dream, and now we charge with full tanks into the face of fossil fuel depletion.
And so we hack
we hack we hack we hack hack hack
we hack we hack we hack hack hack
we hack we hack we hack hack hack
we hack we hack we hack hack hack
we shibboleth’s in anarchist clothing tearing at the foundations in radical notions with spray-painted ideas of peace and dream of a world without heirarchy
a sweet sweet dream
some of them want to be abused by you; travelled the lands of the aboriginal nations - crossed the uranium fields seeking those depleted bullets in the faces of iraqi children
like a cluster bomb in the heart of cottlesloe; and we dug up karrakatta our axes blunt on the blood of those before us
sweet fucking dreams sweet fucking dreams sweet fucking dreams the seven seas sailed and polluted all the romantic computers failed at our heart
our hands held high at the fringes of the desert detention, the fences more violent than the balloons and kites and songs of demonstration
but if you are not ever real without identity identity identity
and the primary producer/consumer split - a mind/body rejection of reality hits
and the energy flow spilt to global dimming - a frantic drumming
the airborne pieces of fantastic soot, the ash of children and elders and sonic sulphur compounds the sun bouncing back into its body like a diseased and stolen generation without sovereignty
in the reclaimed street my make-up is running and the democracy just got deader
by the second and we wait for orders unable to disable the frames around this head the borders of imaginary lines of flags and illogical distribution
the streets deep in the bodies of us in the waste of another disparate century
in the flesh of my brothers’ children - on the locked-plan crumpled mobiles we tell the stories
the bitter-sweet taste of a munted god, a random carbon particle
angry at the greed-club watchers; the billion-dollar riffs smashed at the pallisades
the barbed wire popping the razor wire glints. they climb and jump to the waiting throngs. the riots un-televised like an embedded revolution
who am i to disagree with a frontman's bleeding head
the black blood dreaming like the black GST
the GENOCIDE of a stolen people; a guitar smashed into walls of malls
the glass cutting the barefoot generation. Treaties neglected compassion rejected like a blurred barcode of the masses.
the subjects of guns in cans; shards of titanium eyes grazes our company
our PROFIT and the company the company gets what the company wants and freedom is a unnecessary dream a sweet dream made of...
and we/you/they/us/them/all/the seething mass of apathetic dissent pay a handful of mansions to eat like champions and every three years we remember to forget
like a medal of suicide of cannon fodder glory of valour in the face of a white rhyming with f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/australia...
this white white australia australia australia...
rhymes with failure.
And these sweet dreams are made of these – and who am I do disagree.
Performance Poem I wrote this morning.
Performed at the Brass Monkey Hotel
Northbridge, Perth WA - 24th April 2005.
Based on Marylin Manson's version of Eurythmics "Sweet Dreams"...
Enjoy.
_________________
but who am i to disagree?
travelled the world and the seventy five percent dead seas
seeking sovereignty in the shadow of a specialised jargonised hypocrisy
melting quick in tandem with coagulated planetary mirth;
some of them want to use you
all hail ye to the repetitive theft of new ideas
and those without a rock to throw at stolen tanks
a fully-armed hip-hop bling bling bubble gum invasion for crude platoons
and the labour of us all is eaten in product placement and unclarified superannuated illusions
i’m a market-share trap, a downsize redundant-coloured hollywood hyperventilation device – like a heroin for the masses
some of them some of them some of them want to abuse you;
waiting on lines cut to the clear broth anti-kitchenites - a trail of the shattered limbs
and my cute little car killed a nation today each turn of the key another strafe of helicopter gunfire
in sudan we drove hard at the walls of sunlight depletion.
those poetic clouds across the molecular moons; of crushed iron mountains the spinifex burning wild at each red horizon as the trucks reduce the peaks of a sacred seven sisters dreaming
the sweet sweet dream means the corporate mindshare drills into the crusty bone - my brain - my hand – the pen of my sweet dreams are made of you
and yet this guitar-solo werd-scape written and authorised by god by the government and spoken by you under the neon suburban streets the bleached beach of this bitumen salinty the cancer of this tragedy of the mental commons
but here in the manufactured new-skool consent, everybody's looking for something, and yet the sweet dreams are made of this - as i held a fist above your logo three billion brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers and aunties and uncles living large on less than two dollars a day two dollars a day two dollars a day.
And god she whispers through the thin white noise of credit card fallacy and the gross domestic product of 48 nations less than the wealth of the world's three richest people as a billion of us unable to read or sign their names - and half the children on the planet without shelter or water
And and and...
and at the tented embassy in full riot gear they charge and everything you bought today slashes into eco-resource. your driveway/pergola quelling the sacred flame - the poets ashes - exacerbating the inequality to the boxes the boxes the boxes outbid by the fundamental media robots - a cut n paste distilled tabloid dream, and now we charge with full tanks into the face of fossil fuel depletion.
And so we hack
we hack we hack we hack hack hack
we hack we hack we hack hack hack
we hack we hack we hack hack hack
we hack we hack we hack hack hack
we shibboleth’s in anarchist clothing tearing at the foundations in radical notions with spray-painted ideas of peace and dream of a world without heirarchy
a sweet sweet dream
some of them want to be abused by you; travelled the lands of the aboriginal nations - crossed the uranium fields seeking those depleted bullets in the faces of iraqi children
like a cluster bomb in the heart of cottlesloe; and we dug up karrakatta our axes blunt on the blood of those before us
sweet fucking dreams sweet fucking dreams sweet fucking dreams the seven seas sailed and polluted all the romantic computers failed at our heart
our hands held high at the fringes of the desert detention, the fences more violent than the balloons and kites and songs of demonstration
but if you are not ever real without identity identity identity
and the primary producer/consumer split - a mind/body rejection of reality hits
and the energy flow spilt to global dimming - a frantic drumming
the airborne pieces of fantastic soot, the ash of children and elders and sonic sulphur compounds the sun bouncing back into its body like a diseased and stolen generation without sovereignty
in the reclaimed street my make-up is running and the democracy just got deader
by the second and we wait for orders unable to disable the frames around this head the borders of imaginary lines of flags and illogical distribution
the streets deep in the bodies of us in the waste of another disparate century
in the flesh of my brothers’ children - on the locked-plan crumpled mobiles we tell the stories
the bitter-sweet taste of a munted god, a random carbon particle
angry at the greed-club watchers; the billion-dollar riffs smashed at the pallisades
the barbed wire popping the razor wire glints. they climb and jump to the waiting throngs. the riots un-televised like an embedded revolution
who am i to disagree with a frontman's bleeding head
the black blood dreaming like the black GST
the GENOCIDE of a stolen people; a guitar smashed into walls of malls
the glass cutting the barefoot generation. Treaties neglected compassion rejected like a blurred barcode of the masses.
the subjects of guns in cans; shards of titanium eyes grazes our company
our PROFIT and the company the company gets what the company wants and freedom is a unnecessary dream a sweet dream made of...
and we/you/they/us/them/all/the seething mass of apathetic dissent pay a handful of mansions to eat like champions and every three years we remember to forget
like a medal of suicide of cannon fodder glory of valour in the face of a white rhyming with f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/australia...
this white white australia australia australia...
rhymes with failure.
And these sweet dreams are made of these – and who am I do disagree.
19 April 2005
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