(planning to perform this piece at perth poetry club sat 29 aug 09)well, I stand up next to a mountain - and I chop it down with the edge of my hand.. (voodoo chile: jimi hendrix)
listen: listen - my sisters – to the syllables, the syllables
poet: yr sitting on this wasted red country - a political dystopia: a brand new system now recommended by most post-sheep’s-back billionaires and rabid-rim-job taxation-officers – in cars
theme: ultra-violent cashed-up-nutritionists, plus twenty-two-percent of flammable psychologists - and fifty-five point five solid-cream-fat neurologists - bangin at the gates of a detention centre urologist – in cars
and now they listen at apology speeches wrapped in union jack n stars on beaches
and i stand up next to a mountain... in cars
and then our sorry generation of tears to break the droughts of murray-darling cotton farms, remembering Anzacs like broken biscuits on the sweetest shores of cannon-fodder obedience – of blind dominance of rats on a boat – in cars
a porn-skool swimming-pool gorgon nightmare, the flatback turtle happy to hurt the carnivorous expansion of another island, wheelbarrows of cunts, telling each other to fuck off because we’re somehow full of burning racist stubble, the fascist bubble, an intellectual equivalent of a one-digit gesture at a festival of poets – in cars
back on the mainland we’re peeling back our foreskins, aiming at the pigs, barking at the dogs, gnashing at the bacon, baking at the bikini tensions – the syllables, oh syllables –in cars
well, I pick up all the pieces and make an island - might even raise a little sand - I don’t take no for an answer - well, I stand up next to a mountain - and I chop it down with the edge of my hand
simile: like stunning corporate laces of a perfect corset, snapping at the straining eyelets, busting out in terrorist gangs, leaping the ethnic fences of air-conditioned harbour bridges - our naked backs lashed n split skin the rock-salt of the left divided by the right - like an anarchist knitting circle, a moshpit of broken dreams, the guitar hammers waltzing matilda, yr neck arched high at the strobes, the crucifix of my baritone manifesto – in cars
metaphor: tearin up the tree-lined streets on the way to buy more vitamins i sold my steel soul to titanium, rubber and lube – my erection of utterances, of stanza upon fucking stanza – together man we make the meaning – like shaving yr triangle with my broken angle grinder – in cars
and the sixteen muscles of my flexing tongue, the semiotic syllable the syllable, the syllable...
well, I pick up all the pieces and make an island - might even raise a little sand - I don’t take no for an answer - well, I stand up next to a mountain - and I chop it down with the edge of my hand... in cars
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allanboyd antipoet- august 28, 2009
