30 January 2008

Invasion Day 08 - three new pieces

de Saussure signs of it

this weekly wind slashes her face in bold text
gains like 2-step garage sweat, urban connotations

yeah ah - yeah ah - mmm mmm
yeah ah - yeah ah - mmm mmm

we wept syringes like jesus credits
bleeding signifiers from finger burn grid-lock
an essay of cock stress-point monotony

we gather now in dreamscapes, sick adjectives
our houses of dead lead-carbonate birds
a syntax of bitter concrete sagas
locking the enamel cracks, a stencil joystick
those images of truncheons at my neck

yr knee in my back, yr nails blunter than that
but my solid nipple scream, a jet stream of stash
and he bellows, guffaws in my face at the thought
of a paradigmatic fuck

yeah ah - yeah ah - yeah ah - yeah ah

this capital ending in torn sheets, stained walls
and frequent avocado killer points
the blood on my hands of you
this bashed mango narrative

seeking one lover
one hand - one head
one mouth - yeah ah mmm


this bitter cuntry

its yr biceps catchin my attention
yr flexi conduit of skin and hair
a bronzed fish kissed and drowned
in the taut brick of him/her

the suburban tarmac eats my fingers
a mouthful of australian drinkers
on beaches, a swag of knobs
a manchasm of fuckwits

and them flags as capes an imperial slaughter
a genocide of culture, a rapacious bowl of cunts

her blue-headed boat-face keepin secrets
makin fists at the sans-white petrol child
her sunk eyes swell, a pool of reflective
immigration and yet a nation races to
popular suicide - a broken backed hill
girt by pills to kill the chill, the shit swill of
muscular dick-headed cubbies in stupid pink utes
a post-modern bloc party - a fuck off we're full sticker

the domestic blood on the binary sand
the public transport slippin thru the sphere
my cut hands now a jingoistic carrier pigeon

so, hey, the keys creak and sway - a chablis of stars
stripes, union jacks and four wheel drive nonsense

though for a moment
I caught the point here, somewhere
not this one



our steel feedback, daft punks in the strobe
the rush of low-pass filter builders
a cowboy hat for god and nation

later we send pics of sticks to each possible cell
sleeping in tandem on benches, backs of cars
leaving our territorial pissings behind
in a beautiful boxed set - that cobainish rant

folded and guity we set sail for the red edges
consumed pussy and cock on our beds
waitin for sleep, or mobiles to roam

all our nutrition consisting of cables and input points
a mirror preposition, an environmental impact statement

but years before, i taught them to use a pick
watching the veins bulge in anticipation
collapsing a pool of t-shirts and flesh in the tub
rub dub a dub - she giggled for lack of conversation

and we swallowed as much as we could fit
we boarded the virgin and split
watchin the burnt bridges become brides
from 40,000 metres - they all become insects