22 November 2004


all yr poetry belong to us

he smashes werds into her hed like guitars

we all slept in sweet pockets,
streets of dead-eye open

up high-slice prised-flesh fresh-filled heaven-sent
letters of apathetic willingness to consume her body
golden ramparts of bullets n sand - this galah
stoned on pink n grey smokey-teared magpie

we bought all-colour castles
we smuggled ourselves into the corridors
our smeared waste of deconstructed language
of busted culture-molds broken-cut n shattercore

bible-belt shoes n wardrobe monitors for fun

then they us we them and me i you are we
climb in packs to pregnant lesbian scultures
presidents of those biceps erected her fences

the nozzle traces red, edges like her stencilled lips
depleted uranium metaphors make him wet again
and her spurts of anti-humour
like a un-god

i'm eating this bbq'd strip of her face
all seared skin n facial hair smog

i'm waitin inside her window now
for a reason to do art
to speak to his breath against my thigh
this dripping wax fiasco

i'm a tense representation on a latex fixation
and so they riot hard in the razorwire centre

all cut blood n pasted
wasted up on this deportation alert


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