home loan - mortgage - the truth is a virus

Fresh poem - Performed at The ARTRAGE Bakery Northbridge (Perth) - for "First Run" mixed media event - July 26 2006. Poem Inspired by recent figures showing the average home loan is around $400,000.

home loan - mortgage - the truth is a virus

welcome. all ye battered comrades and global fashionistas.

welcome today tonight - ladies and gentlemen, beautiful queers n breeders, capitalists n anarchists, kids n teens, corps n greens, gods n masters...

AND... ACTION

and the beaconsfield miners sing:

mate you gotta know when to hold em, know when to fold em, know what to throw away and know what to keep mate...

but i'm a little piece of flaccid fiction - an unhealthy interest rate addiction
and all the myths of western culture greed repeated and fertilised in tandem infinitum - for the sake of the ironic acid children's children - postulated thru the male gaze

CUT...

h o m e l o a n - m o r t g a g e

i'm an import/export of classic proportions - a five dollar a litre wet dream
the bricks n mortar-fire of late, late capitalist cluster-fuck dream-scape - the compounding income fractures - bashing a war-driven price surge, a swell of manufactured emotion. the onset of the water wars.

ACTION

and my little air-conditioned house is crumbling at the decks of my casino card totality

CUT

and the beaconsfield miners sing:

you gotta know when to hold em, know when to fold em know what to throw away and know what to keep.

we're erecting, inflating, genuflecting, gyrating like rises and rises of curling brown smoke of the coal-fired generations - never nearing the reality of a massive fireball deity, never heeding the voices of the beautiful fringes - only flinching in tri-monthly mono-cultural credit cycles - not clarity, not listening, just talking in a stern voice to the hand to the hand to the hand - coz the heads not listenin...

is it? is it?

yet the busted oil heart economy is peakin as i'm ranting up here speakin. and the lung forests are dwindling, the difficulty in breathing the warming lappin at my naked feet. there's time enough for countin when yr dead

ACTION

the trembling bleach of a starry starry night, not random patterns of unfamiliarity - breeding stimulators making me wanna fuck everything that occupies the uber-now, this temporary autonomous zone, this radical space and time. i mean really really fuck like all life on this spinnin rock depended on my very special seed...

CUT

h o m e l o a n - m o r t g a g e

and the beaconsfield miners sing:

you gotta know when to hold em, know when to fold em know what to throw away and know what to keep.

this chronic distortion of a pointless existence - a profit-profit win-win for the miner - the urban fascination a hammering of nations - none more prouder, more violent more spittle flailin nonsense than the next noose.

but yeah baby this wrecking ball globe. this quarter acre block encroaching like bloated monopoly men - a developing micro-mansion of mc-hate. the boldly gone fences most concrete and badlands conspiracy. the sport of blunt kings and sonic emperors to shut the door to you and you and you...

h o m e l o a n - m o r t g a g e

CUT... ROLLING... AND... ACTION

waitin in thick/thin blue/black lines bleedin for the regime, hanging by the toenails to a new-school climate shift, a cataclysmic piss to kick in. a shaft of never-ending everloving goodness.

you gotta know when to walk away and know when to run like fuck my skullcap cracking from too much

• IN
• FORM
• A
• TION

h o m e

l o a n

h o m e

l o a n

h o m e

l o a n

i'm a metal sedation the fibre rusting my blood - my cock a pulsating umbrella for all to reside under. a festival of dramatic fornicators slain across this coloured corporate time.

the truth is a virus / the truth the truth the truth is a virus
the truth the truth the truth is a virus
the truth the truth the truth is a virus
the truth the truth the truth is a virus
the truth the truth the truth is a virus

AND... CUT

a moral challenge before the construction of a new new new new future. loving my brand new robot - all cancer-shaped and pretty. if only i had invested in the asbestos underground. we're all a rim-job at the edge of suburban neatness. the monstrosity in disguise. this lifestyle language of lies and repression. every gambler knows that the secret to survivin is a

h o m e l o a n - m o r t g a g e

the truth the truth is a virus
a colonic meme, an apathetic resistor...

count me in for a slice of the neon cuntbus, they said. a braceless crying triumph of triple ratings. a carnivore of busted egos and lawnstyle reasons for shopping. a peel of orange a hint of terracotta jasmine. the taste of diesel on yr drying skin.

h o m e l o a n

the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep
the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep
the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep
the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep
the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep
the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep

AND....

CUT

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Performed at The Bakery - for First Run mixed media event - July 26 2006