Propagandhi Filmography

• Noisy! The First Punkervision Comp (2003)

• Lyrics: play full screen play karaoke
• Sixty Billion Served - Propagandhi
• Life At Disconnect - Propagandhi
• Iteration - Propagandhi
• Fedallah's Hearse - Propagandhi
• Die Jugend Marschiert - Propagandhi
• Cut Into The Earth - Propagandhi
• A People's History of the World - Propagandhi
• Ego Fum Papa (I Am the Pope) - Propagandhi
• With Friends Like These Who the Fuck Needs - Propagandhi
• Stand up and be Counted - Propagandhi
• Ska Sucks - Propagandhi
• The Cryptically-Entitled Mutual Friend... Deep? No. - Propagandhi
• T.I.Y (Title It Yourself) - Propagandhi
• Superbowl Patriot XXXVI - Propagandhi
• Rock For Sustainable Capitalism - Propagandhi
• Remain - Propagandhi
• Ordinary People Do Fucked-Up Things When... - Propagandhi
• NO TITLE - Propagandhi
• No Exchange - Propagandhi
• Name And Address Withheld - Propagandhi
• Nailing Descartes to the Wall/ (Liquid)Meat is Still Murder - Propagandhi
• Laplante/Smith - Propagandhi
• Laplante Song - Propagandhi
• Just Between Friends - Propagandhi
• Impending Halfhead - Propagandhi
• I Was a Pre-teen McCarthyist - Propagandhi
• Haillie Does Hebron - Propagandhi
• Gamble - Propagandhi
• Fixed Frequencies - Propagandhi
• Fine Day - Propagandhi
• Bringer Of Greater Things - Propagandhi
• Bent - Propagandhi
• Appliances And Cars - Propagandhi
• Apparently, I'm a "P.C. Fascist" (Because I care about both human and non-human animals) - Propagandhi
• A Speculative Fiction - Propagandhi
• ...And We Thought Nation States Were a Bad Idea - Propagandhi
• Less Talk, More Rock - Propagandhi
• Cognitive Suicide - Propagandhi
• True - Propagandhi
• Things I Like - Propagandhi
• Ordinary People Do Fucked Up Things When Fucked Up Things Become Ordinary - Propagandhi
• Natural Disasters - Propagandhi
• Nailing Descartes To The Wall(Liquid) Meat Is Still Murder - Propagandhi
• Duplicate Keys Icaro (an Interim Report) - Propagandhi
• Devil's Creek - Propagandhi
• Degrassi Jr. High Dropouts - Propagandhi
• Dark Matters - Propagandhi
• With Friends Like These (Who The Fuck Needs Cointelpro) - Propagandhi
• Stick the fucking flag up your goddam ass, you sonofabitch - Propagandhi
• Status Update - Propagandhi
• Government Cartoons (Entertain Your Thoughts) - Propagandhi
• Rio de San Atlanta, Manitoba - Propagandhi
• Resisting Tyrannical Government - Propagandhi
• Refusing to Be a Man - Propagandhi
• Purina Hall Of Fame - Propagandhi
• Homophobes Are Just Mad Cuz They Can't Get Laid - Propagandhi
• Hidden Curriculum - Propagandhi
• Head? Chest? or Foot? - Propagandhi
• Hate, Myth, Muscle, Etiquette - Propagandhi
• Hadron Collision - Propagandhi
• Apparently, I'm A P.C. Fascist (Because I Care About Both Human And Non-human - Propagandhi
• Anchorless - Propagandhi
• A Public Dis-service Announcement From Shell - Propagandhi
• Mate Ka Moris Ukun Rasik An - Propagandhi
• Who will help me bake this bread? - Propagandhi
• White, Proud and Stupid - Propagandhi
• Utter Crap Song - Propagandhi
• Unscripted Moment - Propagandhi
• Todd's Incredibly Professional Station ID For 4ZZZ Brisbane - Propagandhi
• Today's Empires, Tomorrow's Ashes - Propagandhi
• This might be satire - Propagandhi
• Mutual Friend - Propagandhi
• The State-Lottery - Propagandhi
• The Only Good Fascist is a Very Dead Fascist - Propagandhi
• The Banger's Embrace - Propagandhi
• The About-as-close-to-emo-as-we'll-ever-get Song - Propagandhi
• Talk On Violence - Propagandhi
• Middle finger response - Propagandhi
• SHOWDOWN - Propagandhi
• Rattan Cane - Propagandhi
• Pigs Will Pay - Propagandhi
• Oka Everywhere - Propagandhi
• Note To Self - Propagandhi
• New Homes for Idle Hands - Propagandhi
• March of the Crabs - Propagandhi
• Lotus Gait - Propagandhi
• Leg-Hold Trap - Propagandhi
• Ladies' Nite in Loserville - Propagandhi
• I Would Very Much Like To See What Happened In Oka In 1990 Happen Everywhere - Propagandhi
• I Want You To Want Me - Propagandhi
• Haillie Sellasse, up your ass - Propagandhi
• Gifts - Propagandhi
• Fuck the Border - Propagandhi
• Fuck Machine - Propagandhi
• Firestorm, My Ass - Propagandhi
• Failed States - Propagandhi
• Bullshit Politicians - Propagandhi
• Back To The Motor League - Propagandhi
• Anti-manifesto - Propagandhi
• Albright Monument Baghdad - Propagandhi
• ...And We Thought That Nation-States Were a Bad Idea - Propagandhi

Don't tell me that you say you care
while you're fucking sacrificing nothing.
Don't even mention the word oppression
while you're driving Daddy's Jaguar.
Our prosperity is their death.
Pat us on the back, third world wallets gone.
There's blood on our hands,
it's your choice if you want to see it or not.
It could change. It comes down to you. Oppression is in your pocket.
It's all personal, it's not enough to cry.
This time you can start by cooking your flag.
You can stop doing what you're told.
Don't believe what you see on TV.
CNN reporters, they're all ex-generals.
Democracy, big fucking joke. It's just one big capitalist enterprise.
Smaller countries, they have no hope.
USA crushes self-government.
It's your choice, you could help to limit your contribution by restraint.
It could change. It comes down to you. Oppression is in your pocket.
It's all personal, its not enough to cry.
This time... you can start by leaving the line.
You can stop doing what you're told,
because today freedom is bought and sold. Bought & Sold.

Had they been the ones dying under the cooking sun, picking through the dust, scratching at the barren earth, had it been THEIR insides spilling into the sand, they'd see on cracking land their spirit cannot triumph. Take a breath. Sit back and relax. Enjoy your moment of peace. You'll soon be back in the middle. Prepare for this one to make you flinch in disbelief. When you catch a glimpse of those just following the paths that got us to where we are. Who are these human shadows with still-beating hearts? Scratching at the door to our paradise. Why do corpses litter the road? Who are these humans? So this is paradise. Beyond the distant hands of the world. Here we all think we don't belong but still bow our heads to our Emperors. Is this all there is? Maybe we really have nothing to say. Maybe we truly are just shallow and lame and we're all just waiting for the end, the spectacle, or some kind of catastrophe to bring us back to earth to stun our ever nodding heads. To introduce us once again to the one incorruptible as she flushes us from her veins. Kills us to live again. In case you wonder - I'm not trying to be cynical. I know how you feel - If your life's disconnect. In case you wonder - "What the fuck's wrong with me?" If it all makes sense you're the furthest fucking gone. They've got badges that they cover with their hands while they're bashing your fucking head. They've got graveyards that they'll fill with that head if you start getting anywhere. I won't pretend that we're on the winning end. But when did that matter before anyway? That never mattered before anyway.

Donald wept through the proceedings. His tears soaked through the canvas that cloaked his twisted face and they stained his orange jumpsuit where with such rare distinction he once displayed the evidence of his outstanding contributions to the maintenance of a kingdom come. But those days are gone. He's nothing more than a number on a docket thick with shareholders, engineers, PR firms, politicians: war-profiteers. How the fuck did I end up here? This just isn't fair. Ain't no place for a millionaire. He searches for the words to stop this table in mid-turn, like "we are but old men" and "we only did what we were told," but the laughter from the gallery drowns out these vestiges of a profession's oldest defense. The court will direct the record to reflect compliments from the bench; you sir, are central casting's crowning achievement. And for your outstanding performance in a comedic role, I'd like to dedicate the findings of the jury to the dead. But how can one man ever repay a debt so appalling? Can't gouge 10,000 eyes from a single head so I think we should observe a sentence that will serve to satisfy both a sense of function and poetry: so you will spend the rest of your days drenched in sweat, with your face drawn in a rictus of terror as you remove another buried land mine fuse. Meanwhile, 100 yards back behind the sandbags, a legless foreman pulls the trigger on a red megaphone. Squelching feedback. Drunken laughter. Broken English. His dead daughter's picture. Time and tide, no one can anticipate the inevitable waves of change.

As so many practiced diplomats, so too your vaunted laureates, whose access to the higher rungs of the cultural priesthood is hinged upon their flair for sophistry. Well, I vote you the best-equipped to shrink from speech that might suggest any thoughts your key target-market might not have already signed-off on and ratified. And I vote you most likely to clutter your language with so much deadwood that no amount of pruning will reveal your intensive, protracted campaign of saying nothing at all. Your daydreams of black tie affairs at Rideau Hall. Your acceptance speech. Your dramatic pause. Don't forget to thank those bitter ex-musician cum embedded rock-journalists frantically applauding the latest artist-formerly-known-as iconoclast, giddy from the fumes of a fresh defection, moping to the maudlin beat of a hat rack rhythm section, a tacit understanding of mutual non-aggression enjoyed by every nauseating do-nothing functionary. Really, it's not so much the incessant ruse of assigning profound meaning to the meaningless curios you decorate your sets with in your extraordinarily mundane fictions. It's the (colossal) arrogance of the subtext: the province of human affairs is a field best left to dilettantes with an extraordinary gift for the feigning of paralysis. For saying nothing at all. For daydreams of black tie affairs at Rideau Hall. An acceptance speech. Sustained applause.

Welcome to the offices of Economic and Manpower Analyses here at our historic and sprawling West Point Academy campus! My name is Mindy! It is my distinct pleasure to introduce you to a loving father of three (and a champion of the sanctioned use of armed force in pursuit of policy objectives). Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the project director of our newest recruitment strategy; our mission to staff future combat systems through current technologies. Without any further ado, I give to you Colonel Casey Wardynski!
(warm applause)
Thank you! Let me begin with some sentimental appeals to our national myths; assorted clichés coined by the state; the ideological shorthand meant to sweep your private doubts [away] of this virtual training course. This portal; this Trojan Horse that you living idiots paid for and actually rolled into your own kids' rooms.
(stunned silence)
Oops, did I just say that out loud? Oh, well, it's not like it's something new. It's just the logical extension of the decades of bilge water that you've let us pump into your homes. The pink noise that hums away in the background while you run the gauntlet we force on you everyday. The billowing candy floss that helps to soften the blow. Deep down you've always known that your children already belong to us, so why don't you cut the outraged parent routine, shut your mouth and get back in your seat. Your children already belong to us. What are you? You will pass on. And they won't know a fucking thing but this 'community,' this real life Ender's Game. Forget what you think you know.

Is this life? To stand here and wait. In this city forged of scraps. Is this life? To stand on the dead. On feces and sweat. Is this life? It's all starting again. Quick, gather your belongings and go. Run while it's still dark. Out here you're as good as dead. Leave the shots echoing behind. Don't look back until you run out of land. When you think there's a second that you can't be seen, the current can decide how this night will end. Don't try to imagine what's ahead. Let nothing cripple your will. You will cross enormous distance only to arrive with nothing. You will give all you have. If you navigate your way with endurance and success, if you pass the obstacles and still have your life, if you've escaped death, if your guts haven't withered away, if you haven't broken under the strain. They won't be welcoming. They forget a time when their land was swelling. A monstrous movement across the sea. When she relieved her bowels all over the world. Don't try to imagine what's ahead. Let nothing cripple your will. Just follow the paths that they cut into the earth right back to their door.

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,

"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.

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?

We are the tyrants Messangers of Satan We pledge you all Raise your hands This is the solstice Hail legions arise We'll raise the roof Touch the skies. Were praying for The wings of Mayhem to arrive The screaming fury burns Brings us alive Stand up and be counted, Stand up and be counted. We are the demons Children of fire Your turn has come Live your desire Burning ambition Were were staying wild We stand as one never denied Defyant and proud We stand together Metlallic and loud we will fight Devestation, pure Hell Legions of the night Come on, raise your hands We are the black metal gods V. E. N. O. Fucking M. Are you with us Right until the end? Come on right at the back You wanna be counted as well? Stand up! And be counted..

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. yo ho. yo ho. rudy, a message to you rudy, a message to you rudy. fuck you rudy!

There was nothing remotely romantic about it.
No hand-me-down sob-stories, either nurtured or genetic.
So what exactly did I consider so god-damned important
that I had to shelve each and every one of my convictions?
Secured. Mutually reassured... of our consistency.
But your defense rejects what (you claim) you believe.
Because what the fuck is so "sociable"
about animal confinement, torture, union-busting, sexism and...
isn't it strange how you don't call anymore?

Self-doubt, and people saying we're not worth shit.
Talking behind our backs.
They say we're a walking contradiction of ourselves.
Our message isn't getting through.
Fucker, even you got the message...
our shitty band created a discussion.

Superbowl patriots cheer half-time propaganda, fake titties, tooting trumpets. "FREEDOM" is in lights and is shitting itself out of Post-Hippy "Call me Sir" Paul McCartney's multi-millionaire fucking mouth. Machine guns raised. Kegs secure. Beers held high! The (Presidential) Liar is in the house. Bono's in the house! We're DOOMED! FUCKING DOOMED! FUCKING DOOMED! FUCKING DOOMED! FUCKING DOOMED! FUCKING DOOMED! FUCKING DOOMED!

I fuckin' love that one rock video where that fucking jack-ass mohawked millionaire prances around by far the worst sausage party on earth, where by mere chance he's caught on film shaking hands with an incredibly diverse collection of patriotic skins. I like the message it sends: With a Rebelâ„¢ yell, Just Do Exactly What You're Told. One million douche bags can't be wrong? "When did punk rock become so safe?" You'll excuse me if I laugh in your face as I itemize your receipts and PowerPoint your balance sheets. I hear this year's Vans Warped Tour is "going green!" I guess they heard that money grows on trees. Hope they ship all those shitty bands overseas like they did the factories. Music's power to describe, compel, renew ... It's all a distant second to the offers you can't refuse. Anyone remember when we used to believe that music was a sacred place and not some fucking bank machine? Not something you just bought and sold? How could we have been so naïve? Well, I think when all is said and done, just cuz we were young doesn't mean we were wrong. And I'll rock back and forth on this two-bit hobbyhorse â'til she splinters and gives way. I'll tend the flowers by her grave. And whisper her name. If anyone out there understands can I please see a show of hands just so I know I'm not insane? Ever get the feeling you been played? Well, that's rock for sustainable capitalism and you know, we may face a scorched and lifeless earth, but they're accountable to their shareholders first. That's how the world works.

I can't believe the things that have been said
Remain for the purpose of remaining.
I can't believe all the things we've done
and still we've learned nothing.
I can't believe all the things we've done
and I can't believe all the tears we've spent
just to remain full of sadness.
Those same old emotions remain.
I Never did the things I wanted to
or said the things I should have done,
but there's a part of me wouldn't let them go,
keeps them down, won't let it slide.
Maybe next time I'll say the things I should have said.

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

Disregard their suffering. Spoon-fed fuck taught not to care.
It's easy for you to think everything is okay. This is OK?
I've never seen worse. They want what you have.
Flaunt your privilege. You will fall.
Do you really think your life is worth more?
You have no idea what it's like to live like that.
They'd love a minute to give you back that suffering.
This life, I don't need it. They want what you have.
Flaunt your privilege. You will fall.

I never promised you nothing,
never said I'd be your perfect shackled slave.
If success to you is measured in dollars and cents then I decline.
That's nothing. That's not my dream.
It comes between everything.
Someday we'll divide because for so much effort some people starve.
They've got everybody working for something they could care less about.
That's nothing. That's not my dream.
It comes between everything.
Someday we'll divide. Would somebody here fill my soul with purpose?
There's something here, my friend.
Don't step on me on your quest for millions.

The following views expressed do not necessarily reflect those of the prevailing order, who prostrate to their naked kings, tailor the seams of funeral shrouds on foreign shores, but shed no tears for the dead of the endless list of informal wars â- the justification for will be spelled out coming soon to a screen near you. I'm feeling less hopeful and so much less human as my days are reduced to little more than settling for revenge and wondering whatever happened to the kid that pledged "first do no harm"? Chalk it up to an overdeveloped sense of unbridled vengeance. Somebody fed me too much New Hope for breakfast, cuz as the empire preemptively strikes back (again) and the voice of Luke's father baritones this is CNN I recall Arab kids slaughtered reduced to sand-niggers and rag-heads. And now I'm expected to mourn dead Americans? The executioner's willing citizens? I'm so sorry and I'm trying to think it through, but when the chickens came home to roost and hand-delivered matching funeral urns to the bully that never learns I could've swore I heard a chorus rise and fall wishing them so many more unhappy returns. But in every war waged, only kings emerged unscathed.

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!).

hey hannah, how's it going? is that you i see slappin' dicks with brad? fuck you got a hairy ass! a hairy fuckin' ass! hairy ass! hey jord, how's it going? you fucking fat piece of shit, i could trash your drum kit right now and maybe i will or maybe i won't-no, i won't.

hey hannah, how's it going? can i borrow some records you punk rock piece of shit? hey jord, join the chicken-fight, is that a sub you've got in your face you piece of shit fat mother-fucker?

"I've got my hands up her dress and it means nothing.
It's not about love, its not even about sex.
This time it feels like I've got control.
At this time tomorrow I'll be able to look back and call her a slut.
We were wondering who would fuck her first, another point for me.
I know my friends will be so proud of me. Just between friends.
How come they want to separate?
They've got all the rights that me and my buddys do.
You fucking talk about degradation.
You stupid bitches haven't got a clue.
We were wondering who would fuck her first, another point for me.
I know my friends will be so proud of me. Just Between Friends."
...When someone thinks like this and the attitude is spread,
our dream is dead

He had a stack of dimes for a dink that he kept hidden from his young tormentors. She crapped her pants and when it started to stink they laughed her up a railing high above the river. A goddamn beige curse. She couldn't imagine worse. She once was known for her art. Not anymore. His mom caught him jerking when she got home from work and it drove him to stick needles in his arm. She gave one blow job in the back of a van and the clap quickly spread across her lips. Oh fuck! There's a fucking curse! She couldn't imagine worse. They thought she was such a nice kid. Not anymore. A bumpy road for thimbledicks and pube-less dweebs. You with the natural perm! The brown-toothed the bald-spotted bottle-glassed puds (Fucking Halfhead). Boneracked spazzes with limp handshakes, zit cream ordered by mail. No-boobed girls, man-boobed boys. His mom picks his clothes and SHE smells like pee. These are the mean streets. Don't kill yourself yet. Adulthood's worse. Don't kill yourself at all. Yet.

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 speak of rastafari, but how can you justify belief in a dog that's left you behind? you've simply filled 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 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

your hips are swaying and your eyes are saying that you need two gamblers for this game you're playing, and i might want you, but i don't need you and you won't sleep in my bed anymore, it seemed like a dead-end ta seven years after seven to sing for this country instead of raven or venom, cuz your god was dead then and he's never been back again, and i don't think about it anymore, yeah, it's a gamble when your fingers bum from the last time that you flew and bled and ' the shadows that you walk around will still be there when the sun goes down. venus fly trap, 20 yeare now. and the chance is just te is fat as a union bureaucrat that the life you wanna live ain't the one you're looking at. there's more risk in a brain cell than any vegas hotel and you can't find the pit-boss anywhere.

Here in the land that Abraham was promised to receive we listen to you catechize from your pulpit overseas. You mourn the proofs of our barbarity. Dry your eyes, oh Pharisee. We both speak a settler's cant. We both read from the same old played out scripts and hum familiar tunes, broadcast on fixed frequencies, stuck in locking grooves. We both profess noble intent as we civilize human impediments. So if your hands are clean then noblesse oblige that you wipe that "who me?" look off of your face and concede our designs separated by nothing more than place and time. Different scenes, same crimes. Pray, let him who's without sin cast the first statues of the former rogues turned folk heroes that your forefathers hung. Don't lecture me about plundered soil while you loaf upon your father's spoils. We want nothing more than what you already have: a comforting set of exculpatory "facts" like, say, the myth of an empty land and a conquest so complete we can pull these tanks from our streets and hand the loose ends over to bureaucrats and become just like you â- lounging carefree in your cafes, absolved from sin and human grenades. Entre nous, how did your desert bloom?

fine day in river heights, fine day for your skateboards and bikes, fine day in your cute little world, fine day for tough boys and ( submissive girls, a fine day to see that the government's got the drop on you. watching everything that you do. but you tell yourself that i you're exempt from their stare and that rules are rules and the system's fair and square, but with wired phones and two-way mirrors, they've {' been watching you for 20-some years, they regulate your idleness, (get a load of this next line) you aglutinate and acquiesce, this whole goddamn world's a fucking mess, but it's a fine-day in river heights (whammy bar mayhem

Look at our collection of hands, heads and feet to see where we've been. Embrace this parody: the ending of things you can believe. We'll drive you â'til you're skin and bones and when we finally reach the end, you'll fall into our open arms, accept our tears of sympathy. Make way for our emptiness. A descent that never ends â'til the one last living thing is the next thing to go. You should know by now that we never come in peace. Endure this tragedy, wrap yourselves in our fantasies. When you think of all you've lost, weigh it with what you've gained in trade. We've given the greatest gift: this savior that will never rise. The Bringer of Greater Things. Creator of Brighter Days. The city cops, a sub-zero night. A midnight ride out of town. The passenger was found frozen to the snow. Our enduring legacy. We bring a better way. Our handshake crushing bone. The blankets that keep you warm, we've soiled with disease. The Bringer of Greater Things. Creator of Brighter Days. The hollow songs you'll sing at the ending of your day.
(Dedicated to Rodney Naistus, Neil Stonechild and Lawrence Wegner, murdered by members of the Saskatoon Police Department.)

weight on your shoulders is heavy, you've been suppressing these urges far to long. you're sick of acting the right way: it's wrong for you but it's right for them. these urges inside you grow and grow till one day it happens, you explode, pretending that you belong, why the fuck do you have that mask on? same thing all over again, this time in a different way. your life's controlled by other's rules, forget it man, be yourself, bent's ok. no way. fuck straight-edge, get bent

This isn't business, its our hope and its our voice.
You're not a product, so tell them you can't be bought.
I don't want corporate backing, five hundred thousand bucks a year,
that's not what it's about. it's something so much more. More than money.
Dissent rolled into words, they don't belong here.
Do you really think they care?
This music belongs to us, it's finally something we control.
I won't let it get torn away. It won't be torn away.
What's the message sent when your actions contradict your words?
I don't want to play, you can keep your quarter.
I'll have no part. I won't stay in line or keep in order.
Yeah, you know what it means.
Hey, Mr. Superstar do you really believe we think you care?
You think you're saying something? You're saying fucking nothing.
Your message is killed by the paycheck in your hand.
It's already hard at work as your capitalist machine destroys.
What's the message sent when your actions contradict your words?
I don't want to play, you can keep your Quarter.
I'll have no part. I won't stay in line or keep in order.
You don't know what it means.
To me the message is the most important thing.
Communication is more important than entertainment.
This music saved my life,
so I'll be dead and fucking gone before it's bought and sold
just like appliances and cars.

Some of my otherwise brilliant and productive friends (like scoundrels and their flags) take final refuge in character assasinations; hey 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 oppression 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.

A new iron curtain drawn across the 49th parallel. Cut all diplomatic ties as we expel all American dignitaries and issue a nation-wide travel advisory for any others left inside. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. The burned out shells of south-bound traffic lay strewn along a cold stretch of would-be interstate. Still visible below their charred remains: Pax Americana plates. Your stupid fucking laser-pucksâ„¢ were just the start. And while you may stand six full cubits and a span, we got a shepherd's sling and five stones in our hand and the battle of 1812 lives in our hearts. We don't care if we're destroyed. We'll never capitulate. We'll take the whole fucking world down with us in flames. Just a speculative fiction. No cause for alarm. We got a good 15 years left â'til the United We Stand murals on West Broadway finally fade and we wave good-bye to such sad, childish refrains. Replaced with other stupid lullabies like you can have my guns when you pry them from my cold dead hands. Just a speculative fiction. No cause for alarm.

"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'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 macho 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.

You were a flash of light across a sky of total dark.
You saw their shocked and gaping jaws then it all
returned to black.
There was a brief surge of panic, their eyes pressed
tight.
You brought a swarm of confusion to their bleak but
simple lives.
Cognitive suicide. Insular, pathetic minds
try to cut you off at the knees so they won't be left
behind.
If everything is bland and unambiguous,
maybe they can understand how they fit into this place.
Every time they fail they seek a victim for their
spite.
Some dismal need to crush someone beneath their feet.
All their acrid words can't ease their wounded hearts.
Despite their claims they have no maps, no keys to any
gates.
Cognitive suicide. Insecure, regressive minds
try to cut you off at the knees so they won't be left
behind.
Petrified, frozen to imaginary times.
Pay no mind, I hope they pass you by.
Live your life and don't apologize
to the cowards of this world, they're a waste of time.
Everything's in between.
Are they terrified of unobscured and brilliant colours?
Perhaps you cracked the door to their own forbidden
worlds.
Everything's in between.
Everything's in between.

when i've had enough, ill get a pick-up truck and drive away. ill take my last 10 bucks just as far as it will go. yeah, sometimes i'm easily fooled, i take a painful step and get knocked back two. i do all i can and it's all i can do. true. and if i had the choice, i'd take the voice i got, cuz it was hard to find. y'know, i've come to far to wind up right back where i started. they tell me who i should be, but ill never let you flickers make a mess of me. i do all i can and it's all i can do. true. one more sunset, lay my head down. true. one more sunrise, open my eyes. true. yeah, and ill stop breathing the day that i can't walk proud, rather walk away. i do all i can and it's all i can do. i do all i can and i do it for you. true.

I like Kurt Russel as Captain Ron.
Grace Under Pressure on in almost any circumstance.
I like dark planetariums.
I like when she wears them low-cut shirts and yoga
pants.
I like unbroken snow on lodgepole pine boughs.
The rusty pump of a jay's forest communiqué.
And I like a rowdy fuckin' Pride parade.
I like how Hedges tells it like it is.
I like the sciences. I like profound mysteries.
I like The Supremes' "You Can't Hurry Love"
and the emergence of competing histories.
And I like the Maple Leafs
cuz they remind me of me:
inconsistent, fragile, internationally reviled.
I like allegories. Cinderella stories.
Ahow ndinawemaaganiidog (Hello my relatives).
Wabanakwut ndigo (My name is Grey Cloud).
Aapijii iinzan miwenzha kete-Anishinaabeg gii-
soongide'ewag
(Long, long ago the old Aboriginal people were strong
hearted).
Kii-gichi-anokiiwag, gii-jiikendamoog
(They really looked the way they moved).
Kete-Anishinaabeg ogiiwiidookaawaawaa' shaganaashiiwag
(Those old Aboriginals supported and helped the
Europeans).
Gegoo wiin wiikaa oniikesiidaa (Let us never forget).
Pizaanigo Nagamok (Go ahead and sing you guys).
Nagamog isa naa! (Sing you guys!)
I like speculative fiction: dark narratives

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.

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.

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.

A primordial flow across the blood-brain barrier.
Cryptic ring structures bind to receptors.
These duplicate keys throw the floodgates open
on a raw datasphere of pure information.
An inner path to outer space
or a facile article of faith?
Falsifiable fantasies
or freestanding parallel realities?
We're so frequently seduced
by such novel, exotic views.
Our confirmation biases
leverage everything we perceive.
Visions so astonishing, preposterous, impossible.
A cosmic lattice of calligraphies, geometries
unthinkable.
Infinite Jaali screens, alive, florescent
as I shatter, melt. Annihilation.
Rolling hills. The water flows. The flowers bloom.
There is no me. There is no you. There is all.
There is no you. There is no me. And that is all.
A profound acceptance of an enormous pageantry.
A haunting certainty that the unifying principle of the

Take me back to those sweltering summer days.
Bike down the gravel road to the creek outside the base.
Sun on skinny arms, chin on knobby knees.
Squatting in the cool of the rotting of the reeds.
Enveloping.
No one here but me.
Never understood the other kids.
The adults even less.
So I hung out by myself
in a backroad drainage ditch.
I called it Devil's Creek
so it wouldn't seem so sad.
When you can't have what you want,
you learn to want what you have.
These adaptive preferences
have their way with you. Shape world events.
In the wake of an ancient, shallow late Cretaceous sea -
just this side of a clay-packed extinction boundary -
a biome breathing, buzzing, humming in the heat.

wake up in the morning feeling fucking burnt out, shit i got to go to school, don't think i can make, don't think i can take it. what the fuck am i going to do besides doing hot-knives in home-ec and dropping acid in phys-ed? wait! nil that narc is staring at me, time to my stash out back, where we'll playing games with real guns, .selling dope to grade ones. c'mon ga kid give it a try, degrassi jr. high.

Another day of life, I was drifting off in thought
but I can't escape this nightmare very long.
Young girls flag the johns who troll the block in
circles,
waiting for their moment to take the plunge.
All of us crossing paths.
We're all in the same place but it seems
we're living in parallel worlds.
I try to imagine the predator's stinking breath,
his body against mine, the foulness when he's spent.
All of us passing by.
Somewhere in the alleys of our minds
we all have our secret worlds.
Some are haunted by memories,
some have an impulse to be cruel,
and they're watching intently
to see who they can use.
You don't know who's a freak,
and on this street they're out here lurking all the
time.
Amidst the swirling snow I saw a friend out jonesing
and cold,
she was pacing and waiting alone for an unknown.
I guess that life has taken its toll.
The vultures circle close.
At any moment we might slip and fall.

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 Othe purpose of this new counter-intelligence endeavor is to expose, disrupt, misdirect, discredit or otherwise neutralizeO 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?

My father told me "son, it's futile to resist,
You can topple 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 fuckin dumb enough to believe him.
Cuz if this country is so goddam free,
Then I can burn your fucking flag wherever I damn well please.
I carried their anthem, convinces it was mine.
Rhymeless, unreasoned conjecture kept me in line.
But then I stood back and wondered what the fuck had they done to me.
Made accomplice to all that I'd promised I would never fucking be.
Never be.
You carry their anthem convinces that it's yours.
Invitation to honor. Invitation to war.
Bette Midler now assumes sainthood.
Romanticize murder for moral.
Tie a yellow ribbon round the oak tree my friend,
And "Gee Wally, that's swell!"

It's like I'm a fucking fuse
and you're a fucking hot flame.
And now I'm daring you
to step up into my path.
You're a billboard in my face.
A bullhorn in my ear.
Thanks for the status update.
You've made it crystal clear.
I'm a fucking fuse
and you're a big, dumb flame.
And now I'm daring you...
You're a bullhorn in my face.
A billboard in my ear.
Thanks for the status update.

when fred and barney rubble (please kill me) indocrinate me in my own home and . try to tell me that mr. slate's got it rough on his corporate throne, "yeah, mr. slate, boys, has bigger problems than we've ever known, and j ' a man like deserves respect and your respect alone" indocrination to keep you in your place, brainwashing to enslave the human race. they'll j i get you when you're young and forever they embrace (were you dropped as a baby? cuz brains you lack-anthrax) a gov't self-portrait, an evil we must face (and replace), you've convinced me' that a working class stiff (but a proud one!) is what i am and that for minimum wage in this state-run cage that should always do the best that i can. just do what i'm told till i'm to old to move my broken, twisted carcass out of bed. don't take a stand, just take commands until i'm dead.

Our cities seem to function quite the same:
sweeping ghettos under 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...

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.

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 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 eroticism needs to be redefined. and i refuse to be a "man". dead men don't rape. a gender war in your fucking face. a battle hymn to celebrate the fact that we don't have to become or remain what we've come to hate...

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.

nothing i can say will change your little mind. it's your clique and right or wrong you won't be left behind, but you're weak. equality's your trip when all your friends agree, but freedom's just not hip when it's of sexuality, so you hate. i hope i live to see the day when you sexually repressed hatred is finally washed away. it seems that you're trying to prove it to yourself--build up those defences, you're just like everybody else. you wave your fist like you wave your fucking flag and you'll prove it to me now: you're no 'fag'. but that's fucking weak (or, as regal thought it said for 8 years: "so we fight!")

"knowledge dispels fear!" yeah, i hear you loud and clear, just take note of where it's from. a reliable source? or educated by force in this hidden curriculum? obey all day and back from lunch by one. you can't reverse the damage done. Your knowledge is a bullet in their gun. they've taught you well, destroyed every last brain cell with their methods, 10 on 1. little man, here's your number, here's your plan to .serve the hidden curriculum, i'm dumb.

Three choices. One bullet. One trigger. Guess who gets to pull it.
One leader. A thousand slaves.
For every throne there's a thousand graves.
You're all the same. Just part of their machine.
Perpetuate their dream.
They subsidize your nightclubs and they subsidize your malls.
They herd and brand the masses within painted prison walls.
'Til 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 part of your fucking machine.
I'll jeopardize their dream.
I'd rather be imprisoned in a George Orwell-ian world
Than your pacified society of happy boys and girls.
I'd rather know my enemies and let you know the same.
Whose windows to smash and whose tires to slash
And where to point the fucking blame.

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 I realized we don't need rules 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!".

Ride fucking free, forty below,
it's the car that kills the punk.
Pedal for momentum, feel the fucking vibe,
blaze through traffic, burn the red, push my luck.
There's not much I need, I ride a single speed,
my toque and mitts protect me from the freeze.
Hadron Collision.
I'm ripping through a cloud of exhaust.
A fucking conniption,
in their cages on wheels they fucking rot.
And I might be trapped in a world going backwards
but nothing's in vain -
right now I'm happy just to clog up your lane.
There's not much I need, I'll leave you with your greed
to wallow in your shit 'til you can't breathe.
A head-on collision,
a species that's lost all control.
We'll learn by extinction:
we don't need all that shit we've been sold.
And we might be headed to the brink of disaster
but nothing's in vain -
right now I'm happy just to clog up your lane.
If all that I can do
is just stay on the move,
keep a few cents from your grasp -
that's all I need to prove.
I'll see you on the bus. It's the car that kills the

Some of my otherwise brilliant and productive friends
(like scoundrels and their flags)
take final refuge in character assasinations;
hey 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 oppression 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.

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.

("Clear Thinking in Troubled Times": Winnipeg Free Press, Nov 21st, 1995)
"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

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.

I speak my mind. I question theirs.
It seems to me like no one really cares.
Peripherally blind. Intellectually numb.
Ignorance by choice? Or just plain fucking dumb?
You're threatened by my mind. You want everything the same.
But my questions still remain.
You boycott your brain. You answer with fists.
But my questions still persist.
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.

he's a good boy, he loves his mamma. he loves jesus and his country too. he's a good boy, working class white male. loves violence and his dumb girlfriend too. and that's enough to make me... that's enough to make me sick! i am white, proud and stupid, i am much smarter than you kid (good rhyme), cuz you don't know what's right, you're black instead of white and you gotta be like me if you wanna be free in my world. in my world i can't believe what you say, do you really think that way? every time you talk you tear the human race limb from limb. limb from limb the first generation with the racial segregation (dunno) turn in her grave nazi skins and aryans pollute our land: skrewdriver (dead), white pride (broken up) and warzone (not nazis) and other nazi bands, they're a bunch of 'fag'-bashing goons, nationalist buffoons, and, they don't even know what the fuck they're singing about at all. that's enough to make me sick! i am white, proud and stupid, i am much smarter than you kid (good rhyme), cuz you don't know what's right, you're black instead of white and you gotta be like me if you wanna be free in my world, in my world. the first generation with the racial segregation...

i hid inside my room like a fucking coward (what? please kill me). the past eighteen months flashed before me in the last eight long hours. it was amazing you finally got a rise out of me. i laughed, i cried (well i tried, but i laughed again). who the fuck needs a caricature to be their friend? it's so fucking stupid. i'm just as scared and insecure as you (maybe even x2). and i wonder what you really thought of me. an intimate friend? a loud-mouth jerk or just a novelty? this is not an apology, just therapy, cuz as we all know (and apparently), i don't need anybody.

We describe the sensation
as a tearing in our chests
and there is a quality
in Feiburg's father's
post-war wail that reaches
through the world's worst speakers
and beseeches
anyone who happens by,
on their way to somewhere else -
clicking through the endless screens
for the garbage on the shelves
reflections of ourselves -
to consider the cost
of all this shit we seem to think
will fill our perforated souls.
We're more hole than human being,
can't wash away that stink.
13 billion years in the making:
a live, unfiltered moment.
An unscripted encroachment
upon the province of routine evil -
of all-too-human people.
So pious, so peaceful.
So quick to turn on you.
Thought I was fucking outta here
with two middle fingers in the air.
Then like a mile-wide meteor,
he came crashing through my door.
That's just how it goes.
And everybody knows
ain't too much can be done.
All the avarice and greed
and puny human hatreds
that dare to come between two human hearts.
I try not to live in fear
and I'm truly grateful
for every happy moment here.
Upstairs I hear her voice
she softly singing
to him and I come undone.
Something wicked this way comes.
And that's just how it goes
and everybody knows

hello, this is jord from propagandhi here. uh, besides the itching of my crabs, i'd like to say subscribe to 4zzz don't take this for granted, eh. fuck off.

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.

I wanna chew my bubble gum with you.
And I wanna walk you home from school.
And I wanna carry your books to every class.
And I wanna fuck you up the ass.
Girl, don't you know it's true, how much I love you.
I wanna sing it 'cross the land, oh 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 are my priorities?

there was nothing remotely romantic about it. no hand-me-down sob-stories, either nurtured or genetic. so what was so goddamn important that i felt i had to shelve each and every one of my convictions? secured and mutually reassured of our consistency. but your defence rejects what (you claim) you believe. because what the fuck is so "sociable" about animal-confinement and torture, union busting, sexism and isn't strange how you don't call anymore ?

Now the real prospects for authentic democracy depend on something else.
They depend on how the people in the rich and priveliged societies learn some other lessons.
For example the lessons that are being taught right now like the Mayans in Chiapas, Mexico.
They are among the most impoverished and oppressed sectors in the continent.
But unlike us they retain a vibrant tradition of liberty and democracy.
A tradition that we've allowed to slip out of our hands or has been stolen from us.
And unless people here in the rich and privileged society,
unless they can recapture and revitalize that tradition,
the prospects for democracy are indeed dim.
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.

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 start fighting the real fucking enemy:
the white male capitalist supremacist.
Swastikas and Klan-robes. Sexist, racist, homophobes.
This one's for the "Master Race": my brown-power ass in your white-power face!

The Banger’s Embrace
The day The Equinox arrived our pilgrimage began: 1200 miles, a cruise missile to our unholy land. We were fucking stoked unlike we’d been since we were pimpled, pubeless teens. From every corner of the world our fellow maniacs arrived to prove the meaning of the tunes had not been lost through time’s antiquity, but had survived to leave this monumental sign. They say you can’t relive the past, but as the lights went down it all came rushing back: half a life away, the night, for the first time in a lonely life, a young soul took flight. They stormed the stage a thrashing rage, we all screamed, “Terminate!!!” A half-head in a whale shirt went and breathed it in face. I didn’t care. It could not impair this rhapsodic, transcendental state. When the music died, two ends of time had been neatly tied. Descending lights had scorched the plains. Returning kings back to reclaim lost disciples that remained to tend the flames. We stormed into streets a pack of raging troglodytes! We waited for our bus then rode it hard into the night! Far beneath the cold, robotic sweep of the radar operator’s pale green glow. 20,000 leagues below. To the place where all the best bands go.

i hid inside my room like a fucking coward and the past 18 months flashed before me in the last eight long hours. a little less than amazing: you finally got a rise out of me. so i laughed, i cried (well, i tried, but i laughed again). see? who the fuck needs a caricature to be their friend? it's so fucking stupid. i'm just as scared and insecure as you (maybe even x2) and i wonder what you really thought of me. an intimate friend? a loud-mouthed jerk? or just a novelty? (and, hey, do you think i could sing this a little more out of key?) this is not an apology. it's just therepy. because as we all know (and apparently), i don't need anybody.

i think that, i'm of course opposed to terror or any rational person is but I think that if we're serious about the question of terror serious about the question of violence, we have to recognize that it is a tactical and hence moral matter. incidentally, tactical issues are basically moral issues. they have to do with human consequences and if we're interested in let's say diminishing the amount of violence in the world, it's at least arguable and perhaps even sometimes true that a terroristic act does diminish the amount of violence in the world. hence a person who is opposed to violence will not be opposed to that terroristic act.

Bowl of cherries in Waskasoo Creek.
A sylvan way of life for those who seek none beyond a parkland mall.
This land scape oasis now feigns city hall.
And they call this peace.
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 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-aryan, mother fucking, cock sucking dream.
Oh yeah!
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 humyns I haven't irritated.
I've got a lot of work to do. 3 billion people.
That's 3 billion snotty Fuck you's

We spoke our minds too clearly.
We assumed fundamental rights were inherent
not as pawns but humyns.
I do not require a gauge for freedom 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 colored 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 this song I sing. Inside me ring.
Final words are boring, never touch,
I know you whispered something in my ear.
I couldn't hear you.
Girls with the greenest eyes. The first time you have kissed.
Our quiet softest sighs.
A song for all of those who shot and missed.
Welcomed to this world, imputed identity.
Born, tagged, tattooed, 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 bear
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.

Accept this moment, your spiritual cleansing.
As your hair falls to the floor consider this
your conversion, your final warning.
Recite these words as we clean you of your filth.
Are you defying God?
What are you trying to prove?
Spare your family the shame
and yourself the sting of a rattan cane.
This is the last night you'll sleep corrupt and naïve.
You'll wake before the sun for your first steps down
the path.
Your childish dreams are gone,
this time must come for everyone.
You think you're one of a kind?
I see your type here all the time.
I am patient, I am fair, but I am tired of you.
Your treatment is just, our conscience remains clear.
Let us be judged in the ever after.
I look at you and I see nothing but a fool.
To help you understand,
your roommate will tell you about his journey to free
his soul.
While you're listening take a closer look at his arms
and his face,

thought, word and deed once sloganeered, a reaction undefined, the battle-hymn, the mantra of a once unfocused mind. but as logic tempered anger, still inspired but now informed, the 'pigs' we'd turned to caricature became far worse than we'd warned, morality enforcement based on the interests of a state, coerced into concordance and threatened into place, it's not just isolated incidents of cop- jocks kicking ass. it's a flicking war machine protecting the wealth of the employing class! and you pigs will pay in a big way. what a stupid ^ thing to say. you'll pay for the guns that you've used. the minorities you've abused, you'll pay for the blood that you've spilled and the innocent (or 'guilty', for that matter) people you've killed.

the best thing i ever saw on tv was that s.q. (securite quebec) cop catching a bullet with his teeth. condolence, madame canadiana, but your husband was a fucking (stuck) pig. but this song's not about some romantic account of history. it's not about martyrs or mythos or heroes or burnings-in-effigy. it's about a native kid flipping her lid just trying to keep some self-respect intact. it's about an oka the size of a fist in resistance and a will to fight back... and the girls at work, they still deny their racism. they claim tolerance for all. but it seems the degree of (only) racial slurs is their gauge (and it defines tolerance as hate). and there's 27 million "girls-at-work" here. imagine fighting that for 500 years. and golly-gee! how valient! how the white oppressor makes allowance for calculated gestures of insurgence (all tightly tethered to their purses/purpose). oka had this orchestra(tion) aborted. oka fucked their rules to choose a future self-determined and i, for one, support it... ...and the smartest thing i think i ever said: "if a kevin kostner kavalry is your means to their end, then the struggle is dead". why do we pretend that our approval is upon what they depend?

No-fly list. No-drive list. No-walk list. No-talk list.
No muckraking journalist left to take stock of
the wholesale omission of outside perspectives.
How does it make you feel to know that you voted for
this?
So much for your hopes and your dreams and your children.
You just sat there believing in this bullshit system.
Just wishing the mob would magically come to its senses.
How does it make you feel to know you just stood by and
watched it?
Dazed. Numb. Powerless. Stunned.
While we frantically click our heels, already home.
The bands. The sports. The booze.
It's all that's left of you.
When the cops and the courts refuse
To confess the sins of the few,
What is there left to do?

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-handsi 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.

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.

I have this recurring nightmare:
flailing pigeon, her broken feet
frozen solid to the freezing pavement.
I turn away as if I do not see.
I have this childhood memory
of my old man screaming from the driver's seat
to turn away from an unfolding horror,
but he could not undo what I had seen.
We never spoke of it again.
Two more hapless citizens of
the new post-traumatic stress worldwide disorder.
A stockholm syndrome fifth estate,
desperate to batten down the mounting horrors
and shuffle on in a global lotus gait.
Content to marinate in the plasma glow of the
home entertainment prisons we
commune before like dime-store shrines.
Are these but votive lives?
It's a strangled, twisted truss
that shores-up each of us.
Anything to dull the pain
of a splintered lotus gait.
As for me a filigree of psychic police tape
tends to cordon-off the darker scenes.
But the wandering mind stumbles through it
and relives them all eventually.
Pries open wide your eyes and shines a painful light
on the guilt, the fear, the shame.
The courage never came
from the plasma glow of the
home entertainment prisons we
cling to like dime-store shrines.
Are these but votive lives?
Conservative at heart.
A conformist from the start.
A stockholm syndrome fifth estate.
A staggering lotus gait.
It's a strangled, twisted truss
that shores-up each of us.
Anything to dull the pain

all answers seem to come to easily, to you the word rhetorical is wrong. these questions blur the things we need to see and simplicity beneath a .song. i try to make her .see there is no way. attempts at comprehension always miss. she lays her body down and tries to say. i guests there is no answer to a kiss so then you turn around, tell me why we have to wait and .see. turn around and you sigh good-bye, we always disagree, you just cannot stand to see me free to fly away.

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 efree speech' and ethought-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 erepressed' 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 efemi-nazi' crap, no needle-dick's gonna silence me. I fuck to cum."

the best thing i ever saw on tv was that s.q. (securite quebec) cop catching a bullet with his teeth. condolence, mme. canadiana, but your husband was a fucking (stuck) pig. but this song's not about some romantic account of history. it's not about martyrs or mythos or heroes or burnings-in-effigy. it's about a native kid flipping her lid just trying to keep some self-respect intact. it's about an oka the size of a fist in resistance and a will to fight back... and the girls at work, they still deny their racism. they claim tolerance for all. but it seems the degree of (only) racial slurs is their gauge (and it defines tolerance as hate). and there's 27 million "girls-at-work" here. imagine fighting that for 500 years. and golly-gee! how valient! how the white oppressor makes allowance for calculated gestures of insurgence (all tightly tethered to their purses/purpose). oka had this orchestra(tion) aborted. oka fucked their rules to choose a future self-determined and i, for one, support it... ...and the smartest thing i think i ever said: "if a kevin kostner kavalry is your means to their end, then the struggle is dead". why do we pretend that our approval is upon what they depend?

I want you to want me.
I need you to need me.
I'm begging you to beg me.
And I want you now.
Yeah, I want you to want me.
I need you to need me.
I'm begging you to beg me.
I'd love you to love me.
I'd buy brand new shed
And put on brand new shoes
I would do anything if you say that you love me.
Didn't I didn't I didn't I see ya crying?
Didn't I didn't I didn't I see ya crying?
Sittin all alone I know you felt like dying.
And I want you now!
Megan.
She don't eat bacon.
She'd never kill a sweet little innocent piggy to get bacon.
She's one of them vegans.
She's so sweet loving sweet talking loverboy vegan.

You speak of Rastafari, but how can you justify belief
In a god that's left you behind?
You've simply filled 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 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.

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 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.

It's something physical, conditioned reaction.
It's something physical, conditioned attraction.
But have I finally escaped?
Will my eyes no longer rape the innocent womyn, children, humyn beings?
Seeing the pain that it brings.
Shallow, superficial decision.
Real beauty obscured by my television.
But this just in! Bikini film at ten.
The female anchor smiles and shrugs it off,
"Boys will be boys!"
Do you really wanna be our fucking toys?
And in again, condone it with a grin.
Sit back, idly chat, smile, prove you're just a fuck machine.
Is that what you really wanna fucking be??
Conditioned reaction. Conditioned attraction.
Conditioned suggestion. Conditioned rejection.
And yet again, subjecting womyn.
The female anchor's fists finally clinched,
"I'm not your fucking toy!"
And though I long to embrace, I will not misplace my priorities:
Humor, opinion, a sense of compassion, creativity,

heard a song and i counted out loud the two-steps, the goose-steps back. back from square one, from where we'd just begun, and then it rang a bell-but is this kristallnacht or what the fuck is your plan? would you care to expand? and i don't deny the choice, but I defy you as the voice of anything i've stood for in these past 9 years, i've conquered the nurturing and found that anything worth conquering is powered, built and backed by fear, not by fact. and having said 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.

29 years in human history:
The total duration of time without war.
What the fuck am I acting so surprised for?
'Cause if I had a dime
For every single idiotic time
I felt like strangling some goof on the street,
I could afford a business class seat
On fucking Soyuz 13.
Straight sandwiched between
Tom Hanks and Lance Bass.
Already fighting, nowhere near space.
Each of us a failed state in stark relief
Against the backdrop of the perfect worlds we seek.

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...

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 eSwill and Chickenshit Conformists with their fists in the air; like-father, like-son "rebelsi 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.

dance and laugh and play. ignore the message we convey. it seems we're only here to entertain. a rebellion cut-to-fit. 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've something to confide. we stand 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 this 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 purpose of this soapbox that you made. that you made. hope, perseverance, a vision (some doubt). green ink, a 26 oz., a bad case of big-mouth. a sum of our parts and i've never laughed harder. a song in our hearts and i've never laughed harder. it don't really matter cuz nothing's ever felt as right as this. (by the way, i stole this riff)

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.

"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!