19 August 2010
electionista
walking up to the microphone
the subtle smile-wince
here he is casting verbs not votes
and you're there like some
glee club reject, red wine
beads of sweat at yr brow
the creases of yr forehead
in the shadows baby
breathing each molecule of freedom
til we're emastacated, domesticated
and ludicrously lubricated
the fried starch, the malted hops
the joint, the taste of cock and cunt
and all you see is a man at the microphone
and all you hear is a vocal drone
as each sheet dropped brings another gasp
fist grips, head twitchin
like post-coital wallpaper
and today my 3 minutes of democracy
emptied the bag into ballots
not bullets,
just the threat of it
of violence
or instead we're gripping the shaft tight
we're lusting at the moon tonight
waiting for the worm
and the black flag to fly
texting futures from jesus
to drink thine own piss
these trunks crashing around us
all blanket fire
and feathers
out here we're smoking sides of mountains
in seconds, pulling off the iron, the uranium
swallowing hard-drive sound-bytes
demanding microwave superiority
examining your legs on my back
in the mirror as the thing kicks in
this new-kid old-kid banter
at bus-stops, outta the rain
cuffs sopping black mud crust
and all you see is a man at the microphone
and all you hear is a vocal drone
as each sheet dropped brings another gasp
another gasp
at the cardboard fortresses
poised to mark boxes
to smash back viral memescapes
to mortgage belt herds
dressed in marginal best-book face
updating my aspirational profile
our shopping-centre clusterfuck
journeys, like an anti-bogucki run
then to me
on all fours
in the sand
its the mall rush blur
then back to me
licking glass, the bitumen
the fattest sun in our faces
back to him
cut.fade
then back to me
the thing you like
action.cut
reset
and the 24 hour news cycle
repetition kicks in
the outline of his little birdy
smuggling little brown people
in his little red trunks
using yr precious gift
to keep the bastards honest
and all you see is a man at the microphone
and all you hear is a vocal drone
as each sheet dropped brings another gasp
another gasp
like wearing bob brown's skin
in a rainbow church
screaming i do i do i do at the rafters
the blood of christianity on the dew
from the carpark, the gallops
we see white horses in masques
riders with sharpened steel
the fleshy peterloo of it all
and at the ballot box
i pull the lighter
from my pocket. flick
and set the corner
of this ticket alight
that the edges of this
infallible paper construction
aflame
and we yell fire fire fire
as we rush from the school
an anarchistic panic
alarms piercing in
heroic disenfranchisement
in radical repetition
shifting gears
and all you see is a man at the microphone
and all you hear is a vocal drone
as each sheet dropped brings another gasp
another gasp
at the oval then
we gather en mass
discuss the merits
of a rulerless society
a culture without borders
no nations or bosses
or capital
or pigs with batons
at elections
we are crushed with choice
or no choice
no real voice
no participation
no actual engagement
like 13 million
8 hundred - 69 thousand
and 29 people
voting in unison
can make a real difference
to this cafe ecosystem
and all you see is a man at the microphone
and all you hear is a vocal drone
as each sheet dropped brings another gasp
another gasp
and when i say fuck shit up
i'm serious
not just spray painted
on a bass guitar case
and this is never a game of skill
just a competition of popularity
this discursive blood-letting
of ideology, of coercive authority
whislin for dogs in chorus
everybody now
a war of the haves
and the have-a-lots
and the have-somes
and the have-a-littles
and the have fuck alls
and all you see is a man at the microphone
and all you hear is a vocal drone
as each sheet dropped brings another gasp
another gasp
this is a great big new tax on yr mindshare
they spit smiling eloquent stone each night
mirrored heads on my big-screen
yet n velvet ottoman splendour
for a fraction of the price
he you we
sit
and
desire
something
and all you see is a man at the microphone
and all you hear is a vocal drone
as each sheet dropped brings another gasp
another gasp
21 Aug 2010: ANTIPOET at the Moon
allan boyd (the antipoet)... for those who don't know...
has been delivering performance poetry at and organising dynamic poetry arts and music events since 1995.
He has performed his "difficult and acerbic words" as featured guest of the Queensland Poetry Festival; Melbourne Overload Poetry Festival; Newcastle This Is Not Art; Electrofringe and National Young Writers Festivals; the WA Poetry Festival; Artrage; Perth International Arts Festival; WA Fringe and others.
He is also singer/songwriter/guitarist for Perth original bands, MiteyKo and Blac Blocs - and creates music and soundscapes for film, theatre, tv and radio as well as live laptop sonics as Bozo.
Whilst studying creative writing at Curtin University he founded the popular Openmouth Poetry sessions at PICA Bar in Perth from 1996-2001, published a regular poetzine: Woodwork - as well as organised countless other poetry/music events since in WA, NSW and Melbourne.
His radical poetry and experimental short stories have been published in various journals and underground publications around Australia.
08 August 2010
fuck this city
![](http://web.archive.org./web/20231123041217im_/https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4OxOUqzL4_g/TGBN5VNBJRI/AAAAAAAAAUE/DLfjGlFvZ-E/s320/travd.jpg)
this is the page of the city
a haze of cigarette smokers at doors
a bitumen testament to freeway bruises
a piece of wet paper in the street gloss
there's a taste of cut copper here, salt
a sour mash remedy - a bitumen foundation
a new dead friend - steel in our skins
as we breathe
we breathe in
particles of stars
breathe out
words, inhale ourselves
we all fuck in neat packs
all dominant cultural microphone stance
our avant garde handshake in the light of god
a chemical mortgage
a pre-paid funeral plan
burning dinosaurs
in mountain-tops
as city skylines rise
these granules of once
bold black rock-face
squeezed and flogged into chains
and stains and stories
and i wish i wasn't dead
or regurgitating in today tonight
monstrosities
our corporate slaves
and capital philosophy
all our anarchisms
empty and flake
all our relationships
devoid of taste, our gods
of products, an autotune body
the pages of this city
are digital
(written for Travis - The Ballad of Nick Chopper)
![](http://web.archive.org./web/20231123041217im_/https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4OxOUqzL4_g/TGBMOq2-XCI/AAAAAAAAAT0/VwLkOvCu3No/s400/travis.jpg)
04 August 2010
The Ballad of Nick Chopper
"The Ballad of Nick Chopper is the story of people who have lost direction in their lives.
It is the journey of Travis; a lost voice, someone who reaches boiling point and Amie; a teacher who has lost the passion she has for her job and her life and is searching for more.
Throughout their journey we meet other characters that fill the world of Nick Chopper who represent the decline of the society they are a part of.
All of these different characters lives collide in a story about staying true to yourself and finding the right path to realize your dreams. "