13 October 2002

hey, he said
r u in this room?
is there another plane, or is channelling illegal agin.
we slept in perfect circles and ate burns.
we smile polite and steal matrix-salads.
there is soup in poppy seeds, green tea and crimestopper cards.
collect all six.
this is the silent break-festive canned anger.


halt neo nazi stickerz
bolt on bullet belts.
neither kansas is our separate godhead.
release. forest micro-sites ready.
are u in the pseudo-house.
rebels make cute waves; guns have ears.
territory is piss-stained robot parts.
this suburb is herbal genius.
i respect all forms of concrete here.

insular for ever. dandy swearing times. rally up.

hey cuntry!

season complete.
another quarter million seedlings in. heeled. waltzed.

enter new tarmac dimension...
location breath. pastel swell. misty melt rainbows.
management deleted new sounds.

select red button. overdrive. run.
rank high. sustatik. ON. electro. collaborate them in groves.
bozo switch. pablo/tokyo. some hairstyle bender.
launch soon. rumble. sonar belts.
werds mean far less here.
benchmarks remote speaker...
always welcome.

from the reclusive trees, he spoke in stringed circles.
enter/return/delete. reluctant to steal samples. wearing all-denim stripes.
they all burnt white in showbag retro. these neo-funk emotives. vocal distortion.
bust. create the newest redundant noise. here. now. be.

parallel salinty: bleak frenzy

they waited in huddled masses against the smog
we wept in shiny-skin teams: sixteen deep.
they purchase many colours in here - solo strings, cool hair bribers.
we waste away like sober merchants on sick-mate windows.
i dream only in sebadoh riffs.
on waves we ask in bashed petitions for scrambla.
gutterville splendour roots of tunes, direct-art energy-pills.
still clenching halogen, smitten by raw cause.
these indie-kid stylists leave builings. post-empty houses.
this week we delineate breakbeat-loop ideology with truncheons of pop.
bent hollow. mission brown selekta. boogie one oh one.
synthesis tools/house braids of chocolate cameras.
render mother-ship, all 240bpm grandeur.
radios on full... event whores never breathe silence.
here we sleep in crstal habit. burn hard, they statelined.


barrels of sonic fuck broke her fall,
she swept bolts of fat sweeps in sync.
we all bled wet slices of skin and trees.
fancy sets of orgiastic anal vomit, they cried in unison - bark.
all fall down, they said, we're not content,
or bozo suits...
so baby


t-shirt slogans for eyes, she says:

east freaks. razorwire and lentils make big air drops.
and patriarchy is secret mens business - anal sex with homo-charts.
big city boys twisted in neon sandwich-bar white fuck.
render touchy feely backstab, yr football sex-clubs.
we give racists tattoos in the house; in the house. big it in the house.
they complain in hall-monitor stealth, that capitalism is a toilet-bag with wheels.
that robbery is bad crystal. that remedy is detention. that culture is a white slut.

our solo chambers of vinyl clitoris keep assets in rags.
white striped botox dreams. those kids need massage banks.
and trees became cyber sex. righto mate dandruff control.
we marched in redneck packs, shopping in skirts/midriff belly;
grown exclusively under lights. backyard asylum seekers for tea.

we smoke hydro smack in full colour bliss. and dream brand new utopias.
we complain about fences on horses. teak-oil crack. wet beer goggles.
white men and muslims eat babies. this we know.
ask a politician for stuff. they have various yellow compassions.
coz democracy is far too white for cowboys.


werds. misinformed and riled rabid.
serious axes grind well-trod beef.
art is dead. commodied in pan-flashin fast boxes.
like rock-apes we slid east in scratchplate collage monologue bile.
we draw these red/pink lines in webcam dust.
sticks like static to brim in clean. cop-shop licker.
they test bombs in my sheds. lean nasty phrases.
and softwear. sanity and treasure always bite yr product.
but they all bleed in packs on steps n stages.
forget clandestine robot misleaders; anal bitch-loops n circuit.
queen's severed headjobs. till art came in wads.
and the haze-halogen faux-city-of-blues-apathy strikes deep.
our short white arms flailin'. cuts to credits.

fascist whingers club

hooked on sheep and micro-capitalism.
all those jesus penises do shrivel in time; waxy to the core.
we smile in blankets of words. suburbs get monopoly money for cancer.
razor-wired and confident on the correct side.
this duco is tainted one day; this box; these knobs; those trees.
some boil hard at direct action. we waved flags like pilots.
lethargic in bent apathy. and got the cash - warm, soft.
we put lights in drawers and wasted mahogany trips.
denying dreadlocked compassion;
art-school dribblers in propella hat goodness.
lookin for meaning in ergonomic cyberjobs. lost in bitchumen diatribe.
some say: we all fall down in piles of spent werds. they sip nice beer.
nothing was ever realm, they said. poking the poet's cold flesh.
we wank in teams and laugh nervous - shrill popes in glass boxes.
my karaoke brain spits bits. products for slots.
and these fishes get bread. we burn large. eat bags.
and die fast here in america, exchangin corporate shell glances.
hopin to connect without fear of borders.
bold gutter bitches [old golden shower]

alto skunk hijinx [over -down on- him totally]
her shields down he packs massive buds.
genetik kidz - they pray for rain/shiraz here in neon bomb-shops.
her overt concrete freedom nipples erect. his statik butterfly-effect.
werds grate/scrape/explode bending his holy petroleum goods,
like redgum honey against bedhead wiped.

ceaselessly texting each others heart - phone-shatter remedy.
gimme a brick to bite on. my sincere stench of corporate sweat.
we breed hard lakes in suburbia. our sausage-machine cocks scantily.
open/devise/wreck generica brandname hogs; candles. her novice fingers.
she leads them not into ovarian cupboards; baffled showbag gurus.
best hurt weekly now, she retorts in tandem clouds.
sharp bank west thru structureless nightclub friends.
first left gets u in her. her final clitoris waits for no man.

she pines for holes; lips; sweet lusty carrot-coloured in brine.
worshipping his/her next body; [now available here]
showers without girls need skinyards without pencils.
sexual avoidance gets lusty results. mouth-filled to bursting.
tore his skin into shapelessness. she ignores terror;
runs passion-facts into red-sailed sunsets;
flute-gloss n lipstick her enemy. she waits in creme.
welcome to this bloated cunt fanbase.

12 October 2002

incarcerate the bleeding childrn
tailor-made slogans crushing bones snapping
like brittle majorcorp perfect scarred
in diesel fumes and bullet wounds
and diarrhoea/vomit til the babies scream
held high in total disparate subjugation
to policy stained trousers
survival of the meanest
trancending suburban obligation
without allstar clarity, tiger snakes and frozen bread

and the politic collective moron monopoly
gaols muslim babies so u.s. dictators get tax breaks to damage masses
the corrective institutions guarantee doublespeak
and descretation where transparency is redundant;
and cloaks of sand become harsh cellos of humanity
round number crunching carnival of white mans persecution


they swapped heads and trailed forth in fat bundles
some gathered in solar groups and swept vast channels
we always play blackjack in tenderline shells - wincing hard

we're alla pack of loungewise
armchair neo-nazi corporate slaves
half the poulation overweight on prozac-driven
production-line special edition shit.
swallowing mass hegemonik chunx of monoculture mindset.
break my face with yr brand new slogans.
we're all a bunch of mediocre concentration camp - lovin
consumer-driven fashion sheep sucking hard sweaty fat-cop grease
the baton cold against yr screaming bloated face.
we're a fearful lockemout kick yr hed rip it up burn it down
spesh-fx addictive fetish sound byte
whip-out yr small-town mass-mind robot talker
band-aid finger neatly mown n bordered..
make sure you lock yr door fast when the revolution breaks,
HARK! the matrix-cult of nu tru blu believrs
pullin at the razor-wire and trample in the rocket desert dust.
we're all a flock of xeno-homophobic
beautifully supra skin perfect faced illusions
sitting sucking blendin into main stream trance
all the fucking interest rate n plastic bags accumulated
bottles of expensive wine to work for thirty percent
of yr life subjugated to freeway trains n concrete
when the loungeroom goes stale toast
we realise the channel is empty white noise
filled with products placed between products
and sometimes i wish i wasn't dead or
suffocating in an imaginery fear of compassion
by defacating processed and preserved nasty brown
and masticating the cold fat in yr mouth
we're all a pack of mindcrushed
baby boomer products peppered with genxbigmacnintendos
asking why why why and the last generation
in the sun turns to bleach