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.