there is secondary sentiment, there is foaming at the mouth...my rendition of a vicious charm, my head cant stay still in your skinny vampiric professional arms...your throat at my knife; the blade is a ghost inside the machine, a broken bone sucked dry fertilised the ground in the nova sun...the filthpigs blind blank canvas, bleached and alone, unable to join its suckling children, its mutinous slaves, and their now systematic exchange of excess...
there is secondary sediment blocking the drain and the wind has calmed...the smells and sounds of a poem stop their breathing and the poem learns to behave itself in the presence of other, more noteworthy works, by important artists...the poem drinks itself into dust and is ground into the pavement by a passing streetcleaner...
So daybreak came and we where still not satiated. I tried not to pay attention to the change, falling instead into a dangerous mood, fuming and intoxicated and slack-eyed, i started hurling mostly empty beer bottles at the wall for a laugh. The violence of my humour is immediately infectious and Hilary "Bimbo" Jones puts her 8" heels on over her HelloKitty socks and runs into the kitchen to score for more glass containers, emerging seconds later now cradling half a carton of crown lager (which tastes like "premium" VictoriaBitter, and is therefore no way anywhere worth thinking about drinking unless its the last piece of sheep's piss in the esky on a hot day in uluru) which she drops on her feet before she gets to throw any of it, falling over she pisses her pants and starts moaning grotesquely begging anyone to fuck her shove something up her and play with her mad cunt. Lord "Franco" Fritz Henessy was a real nasty fucker and right left right before i talked him into disemboweling himself and he was in the backyard hiding behind a fig tree fucking himself with three fingers in his arse, i saw him first and thought o shit this bastard is gonna smack me in the forehead with an eggplant [insert kevin mudds decapitated impregnated head brain long dead now impaled on satan's big black cock of death] and then he did it the cunt started firing eggplants into the shitfaced crowd. Someone, I think it might have been "Fingers" John Bickford, started pouring Zippo fluid on the floor so i threw the candles after the bottles and figured we had a good measure of time before the whole fucking shithouse went up in flames. Turns out i was right and me and a couple of the serving boiz cut up a whole bunch of ketamine and castor sugar with an unused medicare card and proceeded to get fucked up. I gave them both an hour off to enjoy the high after one of them gave me a blowjob, expert and hungry and real tasty, he was a gazer, while the other boi watched and learned. Eventually the union jack and swaztika flags we had stolen from parliament house to burn later caught on fire and the house turned into an inferno, waking the neighbours on all sides out of their olanzapine induced sleep and with the sound of cracking, burning, falling timber and thick black smoke choking their lungs. I was long gone by this stage, i left everyone and everything behind bathing and ecstatic baptised by the flames, annointing eachothers blank tv eyes with methylated spirits, the stench of petro chemical smoke and cooking vomit everywhere... The only other surviving guest from the party , told me later, while i was visiting him in the burns unit of the hospital, that he had been interviewed at length by SAPOL officers. He confessed, laughing cynically, that when he had told them the truth of the nights events, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, they were still absolutely baffled.
Pushing against the dry winds, we cruised through the concrete jungle. Uncertain of our future, anaesthetized by alcohol, wearable CRT screens, monotonous elevator music, existential with boredom, dogmatic cultural insitutions, and this electricity all around us, the lifeblood of our cities is a cold river and we are too tired to sleep under its warm glow. Our gods are lonelier everyday, we are no longer ecstatic in our excesses even! look at your saints! they have abandoned you! they were the whores, when they left their bodies, who stole babylons love! Our shamans are being dried out and imprisioned, with fools, rehabilitated daily for their re-entry into the "First World", mostly without success, at least by the terms of their imprisionment , their slaveship.
Some of us hold our breath sometimes, stuffing our mouths with flowers and long lines, looking, by the light of reason, to make some sense of it all...to make some sense of ourselves in the flood.
Before i could change my mind,
I fell into the wound and you smiled.
...that smile, venomous as it is delicious; decadent; empty.
I tried cuttting holes through
my palms
my long face
(so I couldn't hide from you)
but you turned your back
turned up your collar
until the moment i stopped weeping
then you slept at my feet...
There were flies climbing our walls and we were in unison...fever dreams even you and i were demons...paranoid and anxious...open the curtains! its xmas time!
The books are fallig open at the autobiographical supplement...our chests on fire...fair haired children of Gaul, sent forward with virulent data streams...voices that crackle with the weight of our own turbulent transmissions...Brackets around my shallow arches, banging my head, breaking grudges...
We are the black and the pink! cutting the heads off the overrated judicial judges...step on the fucking gas!
When i left for the love of life, but my chemical marriages; all of them in kind, are entirely temporary
like an inflight movie; disposable headpones... handjob in the tiny toilette: Swedish girl named Ludwig...backpacking accross the desert abandoned stolen dune buggys...rabbit holes now occupied by giant brown snake...
I held on for dear dear god while they dumped cum in me all night long...every grunt and moan, every hot load or slap on the arse felt better than the one before...the host was generous and fair; everyone had a go and noone was greedy anyway...the fucktoy session lasted six hours in total, the last two of which i spent flat on my stomach, too fucked and exhausted to even climb on my knees, let alone suck a cock too...
Everyone else is following my ripple effect...necrotic highways separating the dead hands from the living pedestrians walking tall with wet, melting shoes, empty wine glasses...
Tall grass to disguise the collateral damage - bottle caps, cigaretter butts, empty wine bottles, cum soaked condoms (when you look up close you can see the specks of shit and blood dried stuck to the latex)...today, I suddenly feel, is ripe for some wine fueled public servitude...
The blanket is wrapped around me, binding me to a sentimental and tidal totem pole. My feet are flat on the solid rocks. Everything is as it should be, and i'm losing it...
p.s. that rants : australian parliamentary politicians are all fucking cowards! fight internet censorship! fly the black flag in the face of this fucking bullshit! protest with your words and your minds! lets win this war with ideas and visions! this poem is also dedicated to the mainstream media and their puppet journos! in my book journalists are just writers who create what they're told! this one is for kevin bloody mudd and his sick mongrel colleagues around oz!
all words by AudryAutonomy 2666
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