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PROPAGANDHI
Today's Empires, Tomorrow's Ashes
MATE KA MORIS UKUN RASIK AN
Dickheads shit-talk huddled and single-file. First-world frat-boys and prairie skinheads who will never walk a mile or mourn a murdered friend in this tiny woman's shoes. Drink up and mumble your abuse. I'm still humbled by it all: around the same time that i was riding with no hands, busting windows and getting busy behind the sportsplex (with Labonte's older sister decked out in her Speedos), Bella was flinching from the sting of a Depo Proveran "family planning", her own Pearl Harbour and a holocaust spanning 25 years to the rest of her life. A prison my country underwrote in paradise. And in the shadows of Santa Cruz, she crossed her fingers behind her back. Built Suharto a Trojan horse and lay still till the motherfucker sent her north where as night fell she emerged with a box under her arm that held her pledge of allegiance and her uniform. She laid it at the gates of the General's embassy and her whisper echoed into dawn as she disappeared:
The truth will set my people free.
This song was inspired by the real-life story of Bella Gahlos. We met her in 1997 at an East Timor Alert Network benefit in Winnipeg. We are humbled to have crossed paths with her. This is her story…
Bella Gahlos is one of three East Timorese who have defected to Canada. She was only three years old when Indonesia invaded her country. Her two young brothers were beaten to death and her father was thrown into jail when the Indonesian military entered her home in January 1976. After the Dili massacre, her older brother was jailed and brutally tortured for having made a "Free East Timor" T-shirt worn by some of the demonstrators.
Although she focused on her personal experience as a young survivor of the Indonesian occupation, Bella also addressed U.S. complicity in the invasion and occupation of East Timor and the United States government's continuing military and economic support for the brutal Suharto regime.
In her talks, Bella often recounted her experience with Indonesia's forced sterilization of Timorese women and girls. She was only thirteen years old when the military came to her school and asked all the young women to line up after forcing the boys to leave the room.
"They told us we needed to be injected to stay healthy," she explained. "I was frightened; I didn't trust them. Five of them had to hold me down, and they had a very hard time. Then they came to my home the same week and injected me again."
Much later, with the help of Bishop Belo, she discovered that she and her classmates had been injected with Depo-Provera (a birth control drug).
Bella also spoke of living under a constant fear of being raped: "Women in East Timor are raped all the time by the military. They just come into your home and force you."
Bella began to work with the underground resistance in 1989, helping to plan demonstrations and convincing other women to take an active role in the movement. In 1991, Bella helped to organize the peaceful march to the Santa Cruz cemetery in Dili. When the Indonesian military opened fire on the demonstration, Bella managed to get herself and her pregnant aunt over the high cemetery walls to safety. More than 250 of her friends were not so lucky, being brutally killed in the massacre.
In the aftermath of the massacre Bella joined the Indonesian military youth corps to mask her involvement in the demonstration. For three years the Indonesian authorities trained her to fight against her own people. During this time, Bella secretly used her army salary to help the resistance movement.
In 1994, after months of interrogation and instruction, the Indonesian government selected Bella to represent East Timorese youth in the Canada World Youth program. She was well trained to speak to the Canadian media and to portray Suharto's propaganda machine's version of a "typical" young Timorese _ educated, successful, and pro-integration.
Bella defected after her arrival in Canada with the help of her uncle, Constâncio Pinto, who had escaped East Timor shortly after the Dili massacre. Since then, Bella has been perfecting her English and touring Canada to speak for her country's freedom. To learn more or to join her struggle, visit www.etan.ca
FUCK THE BORDER
A friend of mine dropped me a line, it said, "man, I gotta run to the USA. I got no money, got no job." She skipped out of Mexico to stay alive. You've got a problem with her living here, but what did you do to help her before she fucking came? What did the country do? What did the people do? I stand not by my country, but by people of the whole fucking world. No fences, no borders. Free movement for all. Fuck the border. It's about fucking time to treat people with respect. It's our culture and consumption that makes her life unbearable. Fuck this country; its angry eyes, its knee-jerk hordes. Legal or illegal, watch her fucking go. She'll take what's hers. Watch her fucking go. Fuck the border.
Some people have to stay and fight for survival in the country they live in while others have to leave to survive. Corporations cross international borders all the time in search of people to exploit for profit and no one stops them. They call it globalization. On the other hand, the victims of corporate domination are told that they can't cross borders in search of better lives, and are forced to stay and deal with the social, economic and environmental messes the companies leave behind when they inevitably move their operations to places with even more "favourable business climates” (re: lower wages, lax environmental laws, tax breaks). Looks like capitalism and human-rights don't mix.
TODAY'S EMPIRES, TOMORROW'S ASHES
The tangled webs they weave span from Pine to Ruby Ridge, way back from Shay's defeat on up to Gustafsen (now cue the ass parade of ditto-heads and commissars and pricks to drown out this faintest threat of commie faggot heretics). Conclusion: the nail that sticks up gets hammered down and the master's finest tools are found slack-jawed and placid amidst the cacophony of screaming billboards and Disney-fied history. Sometimes the ties that bind are strange: no justice shines upon the cemetery plots marked Hampton, Weaver or Anna-Mae where Federal Bureaus and Fraternal Orders have cast their shadows; permanent features built into these borders. But undercover of the customary gap we find between History and Truth, the Founding Fathers bask in the rocket's blinding red glare. The bombs bursting in air. One nation. Indivisible? The truth is when the back-country learned of ratification the People had a coffin painted black and solemnly borne in funeral procession, they buried it deep in the earth as an emblem of the dissolution and internment of their Publick Liberty. Someday, somewhere, today's empires are tomorrow's ashes.
BACK TO THE MOTOR LEAGUE
I like to party fucking hard. I like my rock and roll the same. Don't give a fuck if I burn out. Don't give a fuck if I fade away. So back to the Motor-League with me before I'm forced to face the wrath of a well-heeled buying public who live vicariously through tortured-artist college-rock and floor-punching macho pabulum. Back to the Motor League I go. Once thought I drew a lucky hand. Turned out to be a live grenade of play-acting "anarchists" and Mommy's-little-skinheads, death-threats and sycophants and wieners drunk on straight-edge. Fuck off. Who cares? I'd rather hi-lite Trip-Tiks than listen to your bullshit. Fuck off. Who cares about your stupid scenes, your shitty zines, the straw-men you build up to burn. It never ceases to amaze me and as I'm suffering your perfection it reminds me of my own race to redress my own sad history of mouthed feet. Eaten hats. Teated bulls. Amish phone-books. Drunken brawls. But what have we here? 15 years later it still reeks of ‘Swill and Chickenshit Conformists with their fists in the air; like-father, like-son "rebels” bloated on korn, eminems and bizkits. Lord, hear our prayer: take back your Amy Grant mosh-crews and your fair-weather politics. Blow-dry my hair and stick me on a ten-speed. Back to the Motor League. I guess life is just a popularity contest. Success, the ability to perform within a framework of obedience. Just ask the candy-coated Joy-Cam rock-bands selling shoes for venture-capitalists, silencing competing messages, rounding off the jagged edges. Today is good day to die.
NATURAL DISASTERS
In which god's name will we be killed? Who's most righteous? Who's most terrified? When your parents left the house we would creep up to their room, to the drawer beside the bed. We would pull out the shining dildo. One side dink, the other side Jesus. Not hedonists. Not atheists. Churchgoers. Blockparents. I wonder what lurks in neighbors' drawers? The most pristine are hiding everything. Is this our "decaying society"? These are the married ones. What about the others? Don't condemn your life to be riddled with shame. Everyone's hands cause natural disasters.
WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE, WHO THE FUCK NEEDS COINTELPRO?
With friends like these, who the fuck needs cointelpro? I'm punch-drunk on the sickening cadence of iron-fists in velvet gloves. The Cheshire grins. The crippling Judas kiss to christen thee a sinking ship and …the purpose of this new counter-intelligence endeavor is to expose, disrupt, misdirect, discredit or otherwise neutralize… any parades that you can't jump in front of. Any long years of hard work that ain't yours. Sometimes I wonder if you just can't help yourself? Overhead bloodthirsty vultures circle patiently. They offer condolences (and whisper bitter eulogies). Yes, "comrades" come as thick as thieves. But you got another thing coming. With friends like these, who the fuck needs cointelpro?
ALBRIGHT MONUMENT, BAGDHAD
Wadia's best friend's youngest sister was denied a proper burial because for two days they couldn't douse the flames the allied planes had showered on her tiny body. And all the paper trails that lead to all the roads that lead to all these Basras make it seem like we're all just "collateral damage" waiting to be happened in some unforeseen Pentagon budget-drill. Today's Ba'ath regime is just the Red Scare of yesteryear. And I drink myself to sleep because I'm losing faith that any of us will ever amount to anything more than reluctant human subsidies, the moving parts in a death-machine, protesting their complicity, but waiting for somebody else to throw their body on the churning gears. I drink myself to sleep because I'm losing faith that we, here in the Cradle of Affluence can cease this sickening drive for individual strength through state-powers' swinging fists or that we'll ever look back and laugh at the irony that is: an atomic murderer is enshrined in Independence, USA while 8000 miles from here (back in the Cradle of Democracy) it's another banner year for a cottage industry – a ritual at the corner of George and Constantine - as foundries scramble to recast his decapitated monument.
ORDINARY PEOPLE DO FUCKED-UP THINGS WHEN FUCKED-UP THINGS BECOME ORDINARY
Words can't do justice to pain. Seems like they can't feel a thing. Ordinary people do fucked-up things when fucked-up things become ordinary. I can't promise utopia or a better world. I have no clever lures. No harsh punishment if you don't bite the hook. It's a world of shit or bust. There's no escape from disappointment. When you commit heart and soul to earning your place, someone else will have to cheer you on. What are you capable of? You can be the one to string them up and beat them to death. When you cut the bodies down, you'll see the face of your failure and shame. This is a world of professional liars: a bleating chorus of tempered truths, who like pealing church-bells echo its' virtues sung over and over and over again. Rotting at the bottom is better than living as a fool. I can't find the meaning in the great achievement. When you commit heart and soul to earning your place, opportunity kills common sense
LADIES' NITE IN LOSERVILLE
Drains her fifth and spits out a greek translation*. She slurs "how much more bullshit you got left? Cuz you been feeding me this crap about ‘free speech' and ‘thought-police' like I'm supposed to sit and swoon". It takes three more rounds till the subject changes and in that time she lays it down: "Fuck Larry Flynt and any campaign to silence women standing up and fighting back. And I fuck to cum, so don't lay your ‘repressed' shit on me. I fuck to cum. Fuck your blessed Trinity. I'm so sick of needle-dicks and (selective) first-amendments. I can out-think, out-drink, out-fuck-you-all so fuck your bullshit ‘femi-nazi' crap, no needle-dick's gonna silence me. I fuck to cum."
* graphos = graphic depiction, pornos = female sexual slave
EGO FUM PAPA (I AM THE POPE)
"Live like an angel, die like a devil." Don't let it worry you, we're down here together. We're all here: heathens, heretics, kids with blue socks. I asked some questions and wasn't satisfied with the answers. It seems that's the biggest crime since not fitting in. But we're all here: King Diamond, todd's mom, fallen angels, the decimated cultures, the kid in the corner in sweat pants. We'll find our own way.
NEW HOMES FOR IDLE HANDS
Suburbs tremble again, fearing the have-nots at the window, collecting their fair share. Guns and alarms aren't enough. They demand justice, and every criminal locked away, as well as any kid who might do something wrong. There's a jail out of town with fences so high we won't think about who's inside. Neighbours are disappearing behind the bars. Kids are doing time for petty crimes. It don't matter who they are. It don't matter that they're alive. A warehouse for victims of circumstance. Cops are rounding up slaves; workers that can't complain or come late. A workforce behind bars. They'll make gadgets, circuit boards or fix cars. It don't matter who they are. It don't matter that they're alive. Crime pays, ask the bankers floating bonds to build cages for the inner-city's "idle-hands” instead of schools. Factories with fences meet the prisons without walls. We shall have your skulls. They'll kick you to the ground. You'll find yourself employed again. On the inside.
BULLSHIT POLITICIANS
Every fucking day our cities tell us what they think of justice. They lock the courageous away as the cowards plaster the cracks spreading through the monolith. But if this man isn't freed, this city burns. "On this Day of Remembrance let us not kneel and pray for the dead. Let us stand and activate for the living, to rescue those about to die" at the hands of bullshit politicians; bloated pin-dick motherfuckers who bow and curtsy to the seats of power. We'll never learn and nothing will ever change as long as we stay this course of followers and slaves. I can't believe we're still content reshuffling the same old decks of kings and queens and faux-democracies. I say we hand it back to the bullshit politicians. Brick by brick, wall by wall…
MARCH OF THE CRABS
We stood our ground waiting for the fight to begin. My eyes squinted at the sun, wondering if they'd swing or run. I tell no lie: jackknives in socks, they're all gonna die. Tensions rise. Pre-pubes swarm the hill like flies. Get the caskets ready, we're going to tear right through this city. That's if the anger don't, that's if the boredom don't, the drinking don't intercept this north-end horde. Who am I? Fighting a war that I can't win. Swelling with things we try to hide. You never leave anyone behind. A harsh return that slaps you in the face. For one last chance, we leave this place. We're all packing up and moving on. I've got a war in the head. Fear our lives won't pass as great events. A better prospect hides up ahead. Do you feel it in the air? We've been crushed beyond oblivion. Farce and death walk hand in hand. Graves and memorial walls hold my family name. Pills and bottles do the same. I hope that freedom's coming our way.
The fight never happened. The crowd petered out. We all dribbled home. Mission accomplished.
PURINA HALL OF FAME
Sleeping masters roused to burning homes from beds. Steeping toddlers plucked from their watery deaths: ribbons, plaques and soft-soap are the ephemeral rewards paid to the slaves whose selfless acts accord a higher value to their masters, while parting gifts (bolt pistols) console the rest. The remainder. Too bad the tributes paid to lives that relegate these thrones to lives spent valuing the runners-up, are known to be neither fleeting nor desirable. But nothing surprises me these days. I just sit and watch the box-cars roll by and wait. Patient. Unattended. A package under a terminal bench. A short fuse to scatter steady hands if I forget to remember that better lives have been lived in the margins, locked in the prisons and lost on the gallows than have ever been enshrined in palaces.
Less Talk, More Rock
APPARENTLY, I'M A "P.C. FASCIST" (BECAUSE I CARE ABOUT BOTH HUMAN AND NON-HUMAN ANIMALS)
Some of my otherwise brilliant and productive friends (like scoundrels and their flags) take final refuge in character assainations; they ignore the issue and deny the relation between our consumption and brutality. So you can go ahead and roll your eyes and marginalize me/socially penalize me: play on my insecurities. And you can feign ignorance, but you're not stupid, you're just selfish. And you're a slave to your impulse. And I kinda thought we all shared common threads in that we gravitated here to challenge the conventions we've been fed by a culture that treats (living, breathing, feeling) creatures like (biological) machines. And if you buy that shit then how long 'till it's me who serves as your commodity? Through (for example), institutionalized violence and opression of workers and women raped by sexism (and how about native americans?). Do you still insist on feigning indignance (aka: indignation) to reason? To collective self-interest? Tell you what- I'll call you on your shit, PLEASE CALL ME ON MINE. Then we can grow together and make this shit-hole planet better in time. So why not consider someone else: STOP CONSUMING ANIMALS.
NAILING DESCARTES TO THE WALL/(LIQUID) MEAT IS STILL MURDER
I speak outside what is recognized as the border between "reason" and "insanity". But I consider it a measure of my humanity to be written off by the living graves of a billion murdered lives. And I'm not ashamed of my recurring dreams about me and a gun and a different species (hint: starts with "h" and rhymes with "Neuman's") of carnage strewn about the stockyards, the factories and farms. Still I know as well as anyone that it does less good than harm to be this honest with a conscience eased by lies. But you cannot deny that meat is still murder. Dairy is still rape. And I'm still as stupid as anyone, but I know my mistakes. I have recognized one form of oppression, now I recognize the rest. And life's too short to make another's shorter-(animal liberation now!).
LESS TALK, MORE ROCK
I'd like to actively encourage the toughest man to dance as hard as he can to this, my song. And bring your stupidest friends along. We wrote this song because it's fucking boring to keep spelling out the words that you keep ignoring. And your mscho shit won't phase me now. It just makes us laugh, we got your cash, court-jester take a bow. Because did you know that when I was nine, I tried to fuck a friend of mine? HE was 8, then I turned 10. 14 years later it happened again (with another friend). This time me on the receiving end. And all the fists in the world can't save you now. Cuz if you dance to this, then you drink to me and my sexuality. With your hands down my pants by transitive property.
ANCHORLESS
They called here to tell me that you're finally dying, through a veil of childish cries. Southern Manitoba prarire's pulling at the pant-leg of your bad disguise. So why were you so anchorless? A boat abandoned in some backyard. Anchorless in the small town that you lived and died in. I've got an armchair from your family home. Got your P.G. Wodehouse novels and your telephone. I've got your plates and stainless steel. Got that way of never saying what you really feel. I don't want to live and die here where we're anchorless.
RIO DE SAN ATLANTA, MANITOBA
Our cities seem to function quite the same: sweeping ghettos undeer one big rug makes them easier to contain, so the upper-middle class can sleep (or shop in peace) and convince themselves that "trickle-down" will solve this poverty. Yes, murderers walk our streets and their weapons are their pens, desks, policies and P.R. campaigns (fed by the spoils of war) against the "lazy, shiftless" populations of the poor. This system cannot be reformed...(so how about we try something different?) A
PUBLIC DIS-SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT FROM SHELL
"People have the right to the truth. Unvarnished. Even uncomfortable. But never subjugated to a cause, however noble or well-meaning. They have the right to clear thinking. Slogans, boycotts and protests don't offer answers... (I)t has been suggested that Shell should pull out of developing nations altogether. The oil would certainly continue flowing. The business would continue operating. The vast majority of the employees would remain in place. But the sound and ethical business practices synonymous with Shell, the environmental investment, and the tens of millions of dollars spent on community programs would all be lost. Again, it's the people of developing nations that you would hurt. It's easy enough to sit in your comfortable homes in the West, calling for sanctions and boycotts against a developing country. But you have to be sure that knee-jerk reactions won't do more harm than good. Some campaigning groups say that we should intervene in the political process in developing nations. But even if we could, we must never do so. Politics is the business of governments and politicians. The world where companies use their economic influence to prop up or bring down governments would be a frightening and bleak one indeed." (ha. ha.)
...AND WE THOUGHT THAT NATION-STATES WERE A BAD IDEA
"Publicly subsidized! Privately profitable!" That's the anthem of the upper-tier (the puppeteer untouchable). We focus a moment, nod in approval and bury our head back in the bar-codes of these neo-colonials while our former nemesis (ah, the romance!): the nation-state, now plays fund-raiser for a new brand of power-concentrate. Try again, but now we're confused- what is "class-war"? Is this class war? Yes, this is class war. And I'm just a kid- I can't believe that I gotta worry about this kind of shit! What a stupid world! Yeah, this is just beautiful... absolutely no regard for principle. What a stupid world. (We're): 1) born 2) hired 3) disposed! Where that job lands, everybody knows and you can tell by the smile on the CEO's that the environmental restraints are about to go. You can bet that laws will be set to ensure the benefit of unrestricted labor-laws (all kept in place by displaced government death squads). They own us. They produce us. They consume us. Can you fucking believe this? What a stupid world. Fuck this bullshit display of class-loyalties. The media and "our" leaders wrap it all up in a flag- their fucking shit-rag. hooray!
I WAS A PRE-TEEN McCARTHYIST
At Harold Edward's Elementary you pay respect to Our God, Our Flag, Our Military. In grade 3 I had a written composition about the global threat of communism. And I was the luckiest 8-year old McCarthyist of 1979: I spent spring break on the flight line of a base in the Carolinas- the U.S. version of my dad had signed us in. And 12 years later, the Gatling I'd touched that was strapped to the nose of a U.S. A-10, separated flesh from bone and honed its' skills on "lesser humans". And thus confirmed the suspicions earned in the 7 years preceding about the lies I was told and if the truth be known, I'm probably better off believing (well, they said I'm better off believing... somehowbetter off believing). But how could they do this to me? Born head first and brought up ankle deep. And maybe you're a lot like me- identified for 14 years without a choice. Terrified the morning you woke up and realized that if and when you jump ship, you either swim for shore or drown. Don't let the fuckers drag you down.
RESISTING TYRANNICAL GOVERNMENT (It's a dirty job- but somebody's gotta do it)
Why don't we all strap bombs to our chests and ride our bikes to the next G-7 picnic? It seems easier with every clock tick. But whose will would that represent? Mine? Yours? The rank-and-file's? Or better yet: the Government's? But I don't want to catalyze or synthesize the second Final Solution. I don't want to be the Steve Smith of the Revolution. Do you see the analogy? We're the Oilers. The World Bank- the Flames! And just 2 minutes remain in the 7th game of the best of 7 series! Yeah, Jesus saves! Gretzky scores! The workers slave. The rich get more. One wrong move and we risk the cup. So play The Man, not the puck. Why don't we plant a mechanic virus and erase the memory of the machines that maintain this capitalist dynasty? And yes, I recognize the irony that the very system I oppose affords me the luxury of biting the hand that feeds. But that's exactly why priviledged fucks like me should feel obliged to whine and kick and scream- until everyone has everything they need.
GIFTS
Wake up, coughing, tired, with my face in my hands, staring at the window as the sunlight demands action. All the energy it takes to close these bedroom blinds. Wrote this selfish sadness on a bathroom wall, spent half the span of some lost culture's rise and fall, but I'm as clueless as a drooling four year old. Still hoping I might find the capacity to let you know I know you're lonely. So here's the last call for regrets, a final slow dance through the days that we all hold on to. Here's the promises I've made, tied too tight to undo. An unwrapped gift from me to you. All the slightly insane on the 18 North Main, reaching for a small-town downtown, night rain, nothing I could say could be worth saying anyway today. Like "Hey, whatever happened to what's that guys' name?", we get a little older and it looks the same: askance. Excuse my failing sense of humour. Here's the promises I've made; a razor blade and this broken piece of chain. A history left to rust out in the rain.
THE ONLY GOOD FASCIST IS A VERY DEAD FASCIST
Swastikas and Klan-robes. Sexist, racist, homophobes. Aryan-Nations and Hammerskins: you can wear my nuts on your nazi chins! God, I love a man in uniform! (But, uh, before we get too intimate here, big fella): what exactly are the great historical accomplishments of "your" race that make you proud to be white? Capitalism? Slavery? Genocide? Sitcoms? Guns? War? Pollution? Addiction? NAFTA? Thigh-Master? This is your fucking white-history, my "friend". So why don't we start making a history worth being proud of and stat fighting the real fucking enemy: the white male capitalist supemacist. Swastikas and Klan-robes. Sexist, racist, homophobes. This one's for the "Master Race": my brown-power ass in your white-power face! Kill them all and let a Norse God sort 'em out!
A PEOPLE'S HISTORY OF THE WORLD
At some turning point in history, some fuckface recognized that knowledge tends to democratize cultures and societies so the only thing to do was monopolize and confine it to priests, clerics and elites (the rest resigned to serve), cuz if the rabble heard the truth they'd organize against the power, privilege and wealth hoarded by the few- for no one else. And did it occur to you that it's almost exactly the same today? And so if our schools won't teach us, we'll have to teach ourselves to analyze and understand the systems of thought-control. And share it with each other, never sayed by brass rings or the threat of penalty. I'll promise you- you promise me- not to sell each other out to murderers, to thieves... who've manufactured our delusion that you and me participate meaningfully in the process of running our own lives. Yeah, you can vote however the fuck you want, but power still calls all the shots. And believe it or not, even if (real) democracy broke loose, power could/would just "make the economy scream" until we vote responsibly.
THE STATE-LOTTERY
Does it seem strange to you? The confetti. The balloons. The mile-wide grins and the victory dance to welcome in the heir to a state of (utter and complete) disrepair? Because it sure seems strange to me: they're acting like they won the fucking lottery! I mean, shouldn't they feel terror at the task that lies ahead: to feed and house the people that this system's left for dead. And could I have hit the nail much harder on the head? It's profits before lives. They are motivated by greed. First they taught us to depend on their nation-states to mend our tired minds, our broken bones, our bleeding limbs. But now they've sold off all the splints and contracted out the tourniquets and if we jump through hoops then we might just survive. Is this what we deserve? To scrub the palace floors? To fight amongst ourselves? As we scramble for the crumbs they spit out, frothing at the mouth about the scapegoats that they've chosen for us. With every racist pointed finger I can hear the goose-steps getting closer. They no longer represent us so is it not our obligation to confront this tyranny?
REFUSING TO BE A MAN
I'm not going to try to tell you that I'm different from all the rest. I've been subject to the same de-structure of desire and I've felt the same effects; I'm a hetero-sexist tragedy. And potential rapists all are we. But don't tell me this is natural. This is nurturing. And there's a difference between sexism and sexuality. I had different desires prior to my role-remodelling. And at six years of age you don't challenge their claims. You become the same. (Or withdraw from the game and hang your head in shame). I think that's exactly what I did. I tried to sever the connections between me and them. I fought against their further attempts to convince a kid that birthright can bestow the power to yield the subordination of women and do you know what patricentricity means? I found out just a couple of days/months/years/minutes ago. It means male values uber alles and hey! Whaddaya know... sex has been distorted and vilified. I'm scared of my attraction to body types. If everything desired is objectified then maybe eroticism needs to be redefined. And I refuse to be a "man".
How to Clean Everything
ANTI-MANIFESTO
Dance and laugh and play. Ignore the message we convey. It seems we're only here to entertain. A rebellion cut-to-fit. Well I refuse to be the soundtrack to it. While we entertain we're still knee-deep in shit. There's something wrong inside. We've played it safe, enjoyed the ride. You won't like this but I have something to confide. We strive for something more than a faded sticker on a skateboard. Now we've rained on your parade and we're out the door. And I don't even care any fucking more. Witness this pair in accomplice. Witness a pair; lethargic, unconscious. No brows furrowed in question, complacent, completing their tasks (no questions asked). Consider this critic a cretin. Just resting on laurels (completely invented). Word acrobatics performed with both harness and net. I am so full of shit. But I will remain until this self-awareness fades. Until I defeat the the purpose served by this soapbox that you made. That you made.
HEAD, CHEST OR FOOT?
Three choices. One bullet. One trigger. Guess who gets to pull it? One leader. One thousand slaves. For every throne there's one thousand graves (give or take a grave). You're all the same. Just part of their machine. Perpetuate their dream. They subsidize their nightclubs and they subsidize your malls. They herd and brand the masses within painted prison walls. Until your freedom of assembly becomes the missiles they create or just mass delusion dancing to this music that you fucking hate. But I'm not the same. I'm not a pat of your fucking machine. I'll jeopardize their dream. I'd rather be imprisoned in a George-Orwellian world, than this pacified society of happy boyz + gurlz. I'd rather know my enemies and let you know the same. Whose windows to smash + whose tires to slash + where to point the fucking blame. One future. Two choices: oppose them or let them destroy us.
HATE, MYTH, MUSCLE, ETIQUETTE
Mark your point of failing. It begins where you concede. Hesitate. Procrastinate. Sedating. All configured to impede your path. You need a good kick in the ass. Now take a step back and have a long, hard look. Hold it to the light and read it like a book. Analyze the past and present to see what is to come. Now wrap your lips around the barrel of the gun. Mark my point of failing. It began where I gave in. Comfort. Convenience. Placating. Construed to suck me in to their trap. I need a good kick in the ass. As time passed by I realized we don't need rule(s) to survive. Just common sense and means to subsist. So from here on in I will resist. I've finally realized. I've found my way at last. It's finally evident. We all need a kick in the ass... The basis of change: educate! Derived from discussion, NOT hate, NOT myth, NOT muscle, NOT etiquette. Intellect, not "re-elect!". Status symbols yield to respect between sex, species, environment.
SHOWDOWN (G.E./P.)
We spoke our minds too clearly. We assumed fundamental rights were inherent not as pawns but humynz. I do not require a gauge for freedoms of speech cuz I never asked to be a citizen. I never have and never will pledge allegiance... Waking up each morning with confusion in my eyes. The wind is biting through to wave hello. Seeing my reflection, an exterior of lies. I hope this shaky feeling doesn't show. As if I had to tell you, there was little left to say. Stilted conversations coloured blue. You were sitting down and you got up to walk away. I tried to stay, but I was right behind you. Tension in the stair, I cannot bear so close to helpless as the songs I sing inside me ring. Final words are boring never touch I know you whispered something in my ear. I couldn't hear you. Gyrls with the greenest eyes. First time you have kissed. Our quiet softest sighs. A song for all of those who shot and missed. Welcome to this world impuded identity. Born, tagged, tattoed, pacified. Generously bestowed my rights and privileges replete. Arbitrary values ascribed. There's nothing I can tell you. There's nothing I can say. Stunted conversation, censored thought. I'm completely free at liberty guaranteed. Unless, of course, you decide I'm not. But I'll not be resigned to fall in line behind you. Tension in the air I cannot ear so what the fuck am I accomplishing? Absolutely nothing. All these words are boring. It's time for action. But you've taught me to be a pawn. It won't last for long. Those who see through the lies are quickly gagged and bound. Their ambitions realized. Tear the whole fucking thing down.
SKA SUCKS
Ska sucks. Ska revival isn't cool, you stupid fuck. The bands are only in it for the bucks. And if you don't believe me you're a schmuck. But the trend will die out with any luck. Rudy, a message to you Rudy... Fuck you Rudy!
MIDDLE FINGER RESPONSE
Bowl of cherries in Waskasoo creek. A sylvan way of life for those who seek none beyond a parkland mall. This landscape oasis now feigns City Hall. And they call this peace. That's not how it seems to me. Sugar coated disease. Buckle at the knees. Your members of parliament lining their garments with hides of the masses (their heads stuck up their asses). Bald little soldiers, flags sewn to their shoulders. This insight spawns despair. Why am I not a part of this? Pine cone wealth and cedar fence bliss? All your novel themes that keep you amused on your way to the Canadian, flag-waving-aran, a)cunt/cock/ass/mother/father/finger/butt/blood/booger b)sucking/fucking/shitting/farting/picking/flicking/dicking... ...dream!!! Nobody cares about the state of affairs. You can turn blue in the face, but you cannot erase. Oblivious to the obvious, I'm making perfect sense but I'm not getting through. Progress overdue. But don't expect to find me with a note left to be read. Pistol in my hand and a bullet in my head. Because this census indicates and this atlas has related 3 billion humynz I haven't irritated. I've got a lot of work to do. 3 billion people. That's 3 billion snotty fuck you's.
STICK THE FUCKING FLAG UP YOUR GODDAMN ASS, YOU SONOFABITCH
My father told me "Son it's futile to resist. You can topple the ideology but not the armies they enlist." I questioned the intentions of the boy scouts chanting "WAR!" "Well, that's the sound of freedom, son", he said (free to say no more). But wait a minute "dad", did you actually say freedom? Well, if you're dumb enough to vote, you're fucking dumb enough to believe them. Because if this country is so goddamned free, then I can burn your fucking flag wherever I damn well please. I carried their anthem convinced it was mine. Rhymeless, unreasoned conjecture kept me in line. But then I stood back and wondered what the fuck they had done to me. Made accomplice to all that I promised I would never be. You carry their anthem, convinced that it's yours. Invitation to honour. Invitation to war. Bette Midler now assumes sainthood. Romanticize murder for morale. Tie a yellow ribbon 'round the old oak tree my friend and "Gee, Wally. That's swell!" Fuck the troops (Insert corny but relevant/ poignant catch phrase here).
HAILLIE SELLASSE, UP YOR ASS
You speak of Rastafari, but how can you justify belief in a God that's left you behind. You simply fill the gap between the upper and lower class and your faith merely keeps you in line. An amalgamation of jewish scripture and christian thought. What will that get you? Not a fucking fuck of a lot. Take a look at your promised land. Your deed is that gun in your hand. Mt. Zion's a minefield. The West Bank. The Gaza strip... Soon to be parking lots for American tourists and fascist cops. Fuck zionism. Fuck militarism. Fuck americanism. Fuck nationalism. Fuck religion.
FUCK MACHINE
It's something physical. It's a conditioned reaction. It's something physical. It's a conditioned attraction. But, have I finally escaped? Will my eyes no longer rape the innocent womyn, chyldren, humyn beings? Seeing the pain that it brings. Shallow, superficial decision(s). Real beauty obscured by my tunnel/ tele-vision. But this just in! Bikini film at 10:00 pm! The female anchor just smiles and ahrugs it off, "Boys will be boys!". But do you really want to be our fucking toys? And in again, just condone it with a grin. Sit back, idly chat, smile, prove you're just a fuck machine. Is that what you realy want to fucking be? Conditioned reaction. Conditioned attraction. Conditioned suggestion. Conditioned rejection. And yet again, subjecting women. The female anchors' fist finally clenched, "I'm not your fucking toy!". And though I long to embrace, I will not replace my priorities: humour, opinion, a sense of compassion, creativity and a distaste for fashion.
THIS MIGHT BE SATIRE
I wanna chew my bubble gum with you. And I want to walk you home from school. And I want to carry your books to every class. And I want to fuck you up the ass (not). Oh girl, you know it's true how much I love you. I want to sing it across the land. Won't you hold my hand? She tells me that she loves me, now I'm gonna tell her that I love her. She tells me that she loves me. Now I'm gonna try and fuck her. But where the hell ae my priorities? Left in the hands of the authorities. Yeah, baby!
WHO WILL HELP ME BAKE THIS BREAD?
I speak my mind, I question theirs. It seems to me like noone really cares. Peripherally blind, intellectually numb. Ignorance by choice, or just plain fucking dumb? You boycott your brain. You answer with fists. But my questions still persist (you fucking asshole). You can rearrange my face but you can't rearrange my mind. You can beat this shell about me, but you can't touch what's inside. SO now, who will help me bake this bread? Who will be the first to speak and leave complacency for dead? I've done all that I can on my own. But stagnant minds persist to squeeze blood from this stone. But I won't bleed for you. I have no need for you. Death will be the day I concede to you (As you can see, I really mean business. Poot!).
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