This is the sound of failure

This is the sound of failure

Can you hear it? The thick blue smoke signal in this textile fantasy, our familiar latex monotony. The end of a crude oil dreaming. Turning up the radio in a rancid twist of credit popularity, a democracy of polarity. A 200 year descent into hypocrisy. A cardinal monstrosity…

And yet here we sit - channelling redundancy from our imaginary jesus-god, from the belching earth and the sound of failure of species. A neglect of reason. When dissent is treason. Our collective finger in the face of rampant industry - a desecration of integrity. We - you - me - tearing at the fences of dominant singularity. Can you hear the failure…

Our pack mentality lynching the warriors of peace, as we dig in for the duration - under the bitumen streets now the station, secretly hugging the trees of our dying marriage of convenience, a queer seven eleven, a drive thru coffee shop destiny, our lives a collection of regurgitated roadhouse fat - and uranium dust. A Willie Willie story in city city glory.

Over the unmanned barbed wire gates and into the line of secular fire, my new lounge a nipple of reason to kill my children, my t-shirt, my bracelet a powerful weapon against truth - the perpetuation of poverty, a global travesty of racist exploitation. A denial of true humanity.

He said: Danger do not enter this poem: And the sound of failure resonates. An echo of rhymes shout Australia is a failure. Australia is a Failure.

No other word for 100,000 years of success than a nuclear waste dump in my suicidal tendency. Like a six-year detention - a scaling of the razor, a refugee hunger striker in Gulag Australia - a propriety of limited ancient sobriety. And what shall we do with the drunken sailor. Am I a saviour?

This is the sound of failure: I am a traitor. Arguing the bloody Anzacs from an angry drunken spa, killing for country he said. Torn from the trenches bled rotten into the machine gun practice, fighting for an imaginary historic future, an embellished lie, a myth of chronic resignation of another classic Australian failure, failure, failure - Australia, Australia, Australia…

And into the streets we charge our fists at the polluted night. The black blocs at the barricades, rise up and kill your oppressors, the poets said - smash your pulsing head into brick by brick the burning flags of suburban banality, the concrete facades of originality, a suppression of new ideas from this culdesac megaphone.

Oh say Can You see - a neo-kiribilli a koolbardie in the dawn's early light an increment of boundless plains to rape - Australia's sons and daughters let us rejoice in the vandalism of human ecosystem destruction, of terrorist intentions. STOP!

Because poetry is political political political…

And we sit n sip in alfresco sunshine wonderment at just how fucking beautiful we are in the clean-skinned mirrored walls of my shiny-town economy fear. And each tiny suck of the corporate cock, each swallow of the golden logic, comes a lick of desert pleasure, a taste of the dug-up rock, driving the weather changers.

And the company gets what the company wants, what the company wants, what the company wants… Because it is political, political… And the company gets what the company wants, what the company wants, what the company wants…

This is the sound of failure…