LETRAS

POTEMKIN CITY LIMITS - 2005 - voltar para discografia

A SPECULATIVE FICTION voltar
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-pucks™ 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 ‘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.

FIXED FREQUENCIESvoltar
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 – lounging carefree in your cafes, absolved from sin and human grenades. Entre nous, how did your desert bloom?

FEDALLAH'S HEARSE voltar
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.

CUT INTO THE EARTHvoltar
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.

BRINGER OF GREATER THINGS voltar
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 ‘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 ‘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.)

AMERICA'S ARMY ™ (DIE JUGEND MARSCHIERT) voltar
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.

ROCK FOR SUSTAINABLE CAPITALISM voltar
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 Rebel™ 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 ‘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.

IMPENDING HALFHEAD voltar
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.

LIFE AT DISCONNECT voltar
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.

NAME AND ADDRESS WITHHELD voltar
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 – 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.

SUPERBOWL PATRIOT XXXVI (Enter the Mendicant) voltar
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!

ITERATION voltar
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.

TODAY'S EMPIRES, TOMORROW ASHES - 2000 voltar para discografia

MATE KA MORIS UKUN RASIK AN voltar
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.

Essa musica foi inspirada na história real de Bella Gahlos. Nós as conhecemos em 1997 em uma Rede de Alerta ao Timos Leste em Winnipeg. essa é sua história…
Bella Gahlos é um dos três timorenses do leste que vieram para o Canadá. Ela tinha apenas três anos quando a Indonésia invadiu seu país. Seus 2 irmãos mais novos apanharam até a morte e seu pai foi para a cadeia. Depois do massacre Dili, seu irmão mais velho foi para a acadeia e torturado por usar uma camiseta escrito "Free East Timor".
Bella começou a trabalhar com a resistencia "underground" em 1989, ajudando a planejar demosntrações e convencendo mulheres a se unir nesta causa. Em 1991, Bella ajudou a organizar a marcha pacífica arté o cemitério de Santa Cruz , em Dili. Quando os Indonésios abriram fogo, Bella se escondeu com sua tia grávida. Mais de 250 mulheres morreram no massacre.
Logo após o massacre, Bella se uniu ao exército jovem da Indonésia, para mascarar sua particpação na passeata. Por 3 anos ela foi treinada pelos Indonésios contra seu próprio povo. Ela secretamente usava o dinheiro do exército para ajudar o moviemento de resistencia.
Em 1994, depois de meses sendo interrogada e treinada, o governo Indonésio selecionou Bella para representar a juventude do Timor Leste no programa de juventude do Canadá.
Bella mudou de lado após sua chegada no Canadá, com a ajuda de seu tio, Constâncio Pinto, quee spacou do Timor Leste logo após o massacre de Dilli. Desde ai, Bella está aperfeiçoando seu ingles e anando pelo Canadá para falar pro a liberdade de seu país. Para aprender mais ou ajudar em sua luta, visite, www.etan.ca

FUCK THE BORDER voltar
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.

Algumas pessoas tem q ficar no país onde moram e lutar pela sobrevivencia, enquanto outros tem que deixar o país para sobreviver. Corporações cruzam as fronteiras o tempo inteiro para explorar pessoas e ir atrás de lucros e ninguem os impede. Eles chama isso de globalização.Por outro lado, as vítimas do dominio das corporações ouvem que eles não podem cruzar as fronteiras em busca de uma vida melhor, e são obrigados a ficar e lidar com com a bagunça social, economica e do meio ambiente que as corporações deixam pra trás quando mudam suas operações para lugare com "clima de negócios mais favoravéis" (menores salários, poucas leis de meio ambiente, ajuda financeira). Parece que capitalismo e direitos humanos não se misturam.

TODAY'S EMPIRES, TOMORROW'S ASHES voltar
The tangled webs they weave span from Pine to Ruby Ridge, way back from Shay's defeat on up to Gustafsen (now cue the ass parade of ditto-heads and commissars and pricks to drown out this faintest threat of commie faggot heretics). Conclusion: the nail that sticks up gets hammered down and the master's finest tools are found slack-jawed and placid amidst the cacophony of screaming billboards and Disney-fied history. Sometimes the ties that bind are strange: no justice shines upon the cemetery plots marked Hampton, Weaver or Anna-Mae where Federal Bureaus and Fraternal Orders have cast their shadows; permanent features built into these borders. But undercover of the customary gap we find between History and Truth, the Founding Fathers bask in the rocket's blinding red glare. The bombs bursting in air. One nation. Indivisible? The truth is when the back-country learned of ratification the People had a coffin painted black and solemnly borne in funeral procession, they buried it deep in the earth as an emblem of the dissolution and internment of their Publick Liberty. Someday, somewhere, today's empires are tomorrow's ashes.

BACK TO THE MOTOR LEAGUE voltar
I like to party fucking hard. I like my rock and roll the same. Don't give a fuck if I burn out. Don't give a fuck if I fade away. So back to the Motor-League with me before I'm forced to face the wrath of a well-heeled buying public who live vicariously through tortured-artist college-rock and floor-punching macho pabulum. Back to the Motor League I go. Once thought I drew a lucky hand. Turned out to be a live grenade of play-acting "anarchists" and Mommy's-little-skinheads, death-threats and sycophants and wieners drunk on straight-edge. Fuck off. Who cares? I'd rather hi-lite Trip-Tiks than listen to your bullshit. Fuck off. Who cares about your stupid scenes, your shitty zines, the straw-men you build up to burn. It never ceases to amaze me and as I'm suffering your perfection it reminds me of my own race to redress my own sad history of mouthed feet. Eaten hats. Teated bulls. Amish phone-books. Drunken brawls. But what have we here? 15 years later it still reeks of ‘Swill and Chickenshit Conformists with their fists in the air; like-father, like-son "rebels” bloated on korn, eminems and bizkits. Lord, hear our prayer: take back your Amy Grant mosh-crews and your fair-weather politics. Blow-dry my hair and stick me on a ten-speed. Back to the Motor League. I guess life is just a popularity contest. Success, the ability to perform within a framework of obedience. Just ask the candy-coated Joy-Cam rock-bands selling shoes for venture-capitalists, silencing competing messages, rounding off the jagged edges. Today is good day to die.

NATURAL DISASTERS voltar
In which god's name will we be killed? Who's most righteous? Who's most terrified? When your parents left the house we would creep up to their room, to the drawer beside the bed. We would pull out the shining dildo. One side dink, the other side Jesus. Not hedonists. Not atheists. Churchgoers. Blockparents. I wonder what lurks in neighbors' drawers? The most pristine are hiding everything. Is this our "decaying society"? These are the married ones. What about the others? Don't condemn your life to be riddled with shame. Everyone's hands cause natural disasters.

WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE, WHO THE FUCK NEEDS COINTELPRO? voltar
With friends like these, who the fuck needs cointelpro? I'm punch-drunk on the sickening cadence of iron-fists in velvet gloves. The Cheshire grins. The crippling Judas kiss to christen thee a sinking ship and …the purpose of this new counter-intelligence endeavor is to expose, disrupt, misdirect, discredit or otherwise neutralize… any parades that you can't jump in front of. Any long years of hard work that ain't yours. Sometimes I wonder if you just can't help yourself? Overhead bloodthirsty vultures circle patiently. They offer condolences (and whisper bitter eulogies). Yes, "comrades" come as thick as thieves. But you got another thing coming. With friends like these, who the fuck needs cointelpro?

ALBRIGHT MONUMENT, BAGDHAD voltar
Wadia's best friend's youngest sister was denied a proper burial because for two days they couldn't douse the flames the allied planes had showered on her tiny body. And all the paper trails that lead to all the roads that lead to all these Basras make it seem like we're all just "collateral damage" waiting to be happened in some unforeseen Pentagon budget-drill. Today's Ba'ath regime is just the Red Scare of yesteryear. And I drink myself to sleep because I'm losing faith that any of us will ever amount to anything more than reluctant human subsidies, the moving parts in a death-machine, protesting their complicity, but waiting for somebody else to throw their body on the churning gears. I drink myself to sleep because I'm losing faith that we, here in the Cradle of Affluence can cease this sickening drive for individual strength through state-powers' swinging fists or that we'll ever look back and laugh at the irony that is: an atomic murderer is enshrined in Independence, USA while 8000 miles from here (back in the Cradle of Democracy) it's another banner year for a cottage industry – a ritual at the corner of George and Constantine - as foundries scramble to recast his decapitated monument.

ORDINARY PEOPLE DO FUCKED-UP THINGS WHEN FUCKED-UP THINGS BECOME ORDINARY voltar
Words can't do justice to pain. Seems like they can't feel a thing. Ordinary people do fucked-up things when fucked-up things become ordinary. I can't promise utopia or a better world. I have no clever lures. No harsh punishment if you don't bite the hook. It's a world of shit or bust. There's no escape from disappointment. When you commit heart and soul to earning your place, someone else will have to cheer you on. What are you capable of? You can be the one to string them up and beat them to death. When you cut the bodies down, you'll see the face of your failure and shame. This is a world of professional liars: a bleating chorus of tempered truths, who like pealing church-bells echo its' virtues sung over and over and over again. Rotting at the bottom is better than living as a fool. I can't find the meaning in the great achievement. When you commit heart and soul to earning your place, opportunity kills common sense

LADIES' NITE IN LOSERVILLE voltar
Drains her fifth and spits out a greek translation*. She slurs "how much more bullshit you got left? Cuz you been feeding me this crap about ‘free speech' and ‘thought-police' like I'm supposed to sit and swoon". It takes three more rounds till the subject changes and in that time she lays it down: "Fuck Larry Flynt and any campaign to silence women standing up and fighting back. And I fuck to cum, so don't lay your ‘repressed' shit on me. I fuck to cum. Fuck your blessed Trinity. I'm so sick of needle-dicks and (selective) first-amendments. I can out-think, out-drink, out-fuck-you-all so fuck your bullshit ‘femi-nazi' crap, no needle-dick's gonna silence me. I fuck to cum."

* graphos = graphic depiction, pornos = female sexual slave

EGO FUM PAPA (I AM THE POPE) voltar
"Live like an angel, die like a devil." Don't let it worry you, we're down here together. We're all here: heathens, heretics, kids with blue socks. I asked some questions and wasn't satisfied with the answers. It seems that's the biggest crime since not fitting in. But we're all here: King Diamond, todd's mom, fallen angels, the decimated cultures, the kid in the corner in sweat pants. We'll find our own way.

NEW HOMES FOR IDLE HANDS voltar
Suburbs tremble again, fearing the have-nots at the window, collecting their fair share. Guns and alarms aren't enough. They demand justice, and every criminal locked away, as well as any kid who might do something wrong. There's a jail out of town with fences so high we won't think about who's inside. Neighbours are disappearing behind the bars. Kids are doing time for petty crimes. It don't matter who they are. It don't matter that they're alive. A warehouse for victims of circumstance. Cops are rounding up slaves; workers that can't complain or come late. A workforce behind bars. They'll make gadgets, circuit boards or fix cars. It don't matter who they are. It don't matter that they're alive. Crime pays, ask the bankers floating bonds to build cages for the inner-city's "idle-hands” instead of schools. Factories with fences meet the prisons without walls. We shall have your skulls. They'll kick you to the ground. You'll find yourself employed again. On the inside.

BULLSHIT POLITICIANS voltar
Every fucking day our cities tell us what they think of justice. They lock the courageous away as the cowards plaster the cracks spreading through the monolith. But if this man isn't freed, this city burns. "On this Day of Remembrance let us not kneel and pray for the dead. Let us stand and activate for the living, to rescue those about to die" at the hands of bullshit politicians; bloated pin-dick motherfuckers who bow and curtsy to the seats of power. We'll never learn and nothing will ever change as long as we stay this course of followers and slaves. I can't believe we're still content reshuffling the same old decks of kings and queens and faux-democracies. I say we hand it back to the bullshit politicians. Brick by brick, wall by wall…

MARCH OF THE CRABS voltar
We stood our ground waiting for the fight to begin. My eyes squinted at the sun, wondering if they'd swing or run. I tell no lie: jackknives in socks, they're all gonna die. Tensions rise. Pre-pubes swarm the hill like flies. Get the caskets ready, we're going to tear right through this city. That's if the anger don't, that's if the boredom don't, the drinking don't intercept this north-end horde. Who am I? Fighting a war that I can't win. Swelling with things we try to hide. You never leave anyone behind. A harsh return that slaps you in the face. For one last chance, we leave this place. We're all packing up and moving on. I've got a war in the head. Fear our lives won't pass as great events. A better prospect hides up ahead. Do you feel it in the air? We've been crushed beyond oblivion. Farce and death walk hand in hand. Graves and memorial walls hold my family name. Pills and bottles do the same. I hope that freedom's coming our way.

The fight never happened. The crowd petered out. We all dribbled home. Mission accomplished.

PURINA HALL OF FAME voltar
Sleeping masters roused to burning homes from beds. Steeping toddlers plucked from their watery deaths: ribbons, plaques and soft-soap are the ephemeral rewards paid to the slaves whose selfless acts accord a higher value to their masters, while parting gifts (bolt pistols) console the rest. The remainder. Too bad the tributes paid to lives that relegate these thrones to lives spent valuing the runners-up, are known to be neither fleeting nor desirable. But nothing surprises me these days. I just sit and watch the box-cars roll by and wait. Patient. Unattended. A package under a terminal bench. A short fuse to scatter steady hands if I forget to remember that better lives have been lived in the margins, locked in the prisons and lost on the gallows than have ever been enshrined in palaces.

LESS TALK, MORE ROCK - 1996 voltar para discografia

APPARENTLY, I'M A "P.C. FASCIST" (BECAUSE I CARE ABOUT BOTH HUMAN AND NON-HUMAN ANIMALS) voltar
Some of my otherwise brilliant and productive friends (like scoundrels and their flags) take final refuge in character assainations; they ignore the issue and deny the relation between our consumption and brutality. So you can go ahead and roll your eyes and marginalize me/socially penalize me: play on my insecurities. And you can feign ignorance, but you're not stupid, you're just selfish. And you're a slave to your impulse. And I kinda thought we all shared common threads in that we gravitated here to challenge the conventions we've been fed by a culture that treats (living, breathing, feeling) creatures like (biological) machines. And if you buy that shit then how long 'till it's me who serves as your commodity? Through (for example), institutionalized violence and opression of workers and women raped by sexism (and how about native americans?). Do you still insist on feigning indignance (aka: indignation) to reason? To collective self-interest? Tell you what- I'll call you on your shit, PLEASE CALL ME ON MINE. Then we can grow together and make this shit-hole planet better in time. So why not consider someone else: STOP CONSUMING ANIMALS.

NAILING DESCARTES TO THE WALL/(LIQUID) MEAT IS STILL MURDER voltar
I speak outside what is recognized as the border between "reason" and "insanity". But I consider it a measure of my humanity to be written off by the living graves of a billion murdered lives. And I'm not ashamed of my recurring dreams about me and a gun and a different species (hint: starts with "h" and rhymes with "Neuman's") of carnage strewn about the stockyards, the factories and farms. Still I know as well as anyone that it does less good than harm to be this honest with a conscience eased by lies. But you cannot deny that meat is still murder. Dairy is still rape. And I'm still as stupid as anyone, but I know my mistakes. I have recognized one form of oppression, now I recognize the rest. And life's too short to make another's shorter-(animal liberation now!).

LESS TALK, MORE ROCK voltar
I'd like to actively encourage the toughest man to dance as hard as he can to this, my song. And bring your stupidest friends along. We wrote this song because it's fucking boring to keep spelling out the words that you keep ignoring. And your mscho shit won't phase me now. It just makes us laugh, we got your cash, court-jester take a bow. Because did you know that when I was nine, I tried to fuck a friend of mine? HE was 8, then I turned 10. 14 years later it happened again (with another friend). This time me on the receiving end. And all the fists in the world can't save you now. Cuz if you dance to this, then you drink to me and my sexuality. With your hands down my pants by transitive property.

ANCHORLESS voltar
They called here to tell me that you're finally dying, through a veil of childish cries. Southern Manitoba prarire's pulling at the pant-leg of your bad disguise. So why were you so anchorless? A boat abandoned in some backyard. Anchorless in the small town that you lived and died in. I've got an armchair from your family home. Got your P.G. Wodehouse novels and your telephone. I've got your plates and stainless steel. Got that way of never saying what you really feel. I don't want to live and die here where we're anchorless.

RIO DE SAN ATLANTA, MANITOBA voltar
Our cities seem to function quite the same: sweeping ghettos undeer one big rug makes them easier to contain, so the upper-middle class can sleep (or shop in peace) and convince themselves that "trickle-down" will solve this poverty. Yes, murderers walk our streets and their weapons are their pens, desks, policies and P.R. campaigns (fed by the spoils of war) against the "lazy, shiftless" populations of the poor. This system cannot be reformed...(so how about we try something different?) A

PUBLIC DIS-SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT FROM SHELL ("Clear Thinking in Troubled Times": Winnipeg Free Press, Nov 21st, 1995) voltar
"People have the right to the truth. Unvarnished. Even uncomfortable. But never subjugated to a cause, however noble or well-meaning. They have the right to clear thinking. Slogans, boycotts and protests don't offer answers... (I)t has been suggested that Shell should pull out of developing nations altogether. The oil would certainly continue flowing. The business would continue operating. The vast majority of the employees would remain in place. But the sound and ethical business practices synonymous with Shell, the environmental investment, and the tens of millions of dollars spent on community programs would all be lost. Again, it's the people of developing nations that you would hurt. It's easy enough to sit in your comfortable homes in the West, calling for sanctions and boycotts against a developing country. But you have to be sure that knee-jerk reactions won't do more harm than good. Some campaigning groups say that we should intervene in the political process in developing nations. But even if we could, we must never do so. Politics is the business of governments and politicians. The world where companies use their economic influence to prop up or bring down governments would be a frightening and bleak one indeed." (ha. ha.)

...AND WE THOUGHT THAT NATION-STATES WERE A BAD IDEA voltar
"Publicly subsidized! Privately profitable!" That's the anthem of the upper-tier (the puppeteer untouchable). We focus a moment, nod in approval and bury our head back in the bar-codes of these neo-colonials while our former nemesis (ah, the romance!): the nation-state, now plays fund-raiser for a new brand of power-concentrate. Try again, but now we're confused- what is "class-war"? Is this class war? Yes, this is class war. And I'm just a kid- I can't believe that I gotta worry about this kind of shit! What a stupid world! Yeah, this is just beautiful... absolutely no regard for principle. What a stupid world. (We're): 1) born 2) hired 3) disposed! Where that job lands, everybody knows and you can tell by the smile on the CEO's that the environmental restraints are about to go. You can bet that laws will be set to ensure the benefit of unrestricted labor-laws (all kept in place by displaced government death squads). They own us. They produce us. They consume us. Can you fucking believe this? What a stupid world. Fuck this bullshit display of class-loyalties. The media and "our" leaders wrap it all up in a flag- their fucking shit-rag. hooray!

I WAS A PRE-TEEN McCARTHYIST voltar
At Harold Edward's Elementary you pay respect to Our God, Our Flag, Our Military. In grade 3 I had a written composition about the global threat of communism. And I was the luckiest 8-year old McCarthyist of 1979: I spent spring break on the flight line of a base in the Carolinas- the U.S. version of my dad had signed us in. And 12 years later, the Gatling I'd touched that was strapped to the nose of a U.S. A-10, separated flesh from bone and honed its' skills on "lesser humans". And thus confirmed the suspicions earned in the 7 years preceding about the lies I was told and if the truth be known, I'm probably better off believing (well, they said I'm better off believing... somehowbetter off believing). But how could they do this to me? Born head first and brought up ankle deep. And maybe you're a lot like me- identified for 14 years without a choice. Terrified the morning you woke up and realized that if and when you jump ship, you either swim for shore or drown. Don't let the fuckers drag you down.

RESISTING TYRANNICAL GOVERNMENT (It's a dirty job- but somebody's gotta do it) voltar
Why don't we all strap bombs to our chests and ride our bikes to the next G-7 picnic? It seems easier with every clock tick. But whose will would that represent? Mine? Yours? The rank-and-file's? Or better yet: the Government's? But I don't want to catalyze or synthesize the second Final Solution. I don't want to be the Steve Smith of the Revolution. Do you see the analogy? We're the Oilers. The World Bank- the Flames! And just 2 minutes remain in the 7th game of the best of 7 series! Yeah, Jesus saves! Gretzky scores! The workers slave. The rich get more. One wrong move and we risk the cup. So play The Man, not the puck. Why don't we plant a mechanic virus and erase the memory of the machines that maintain this capitalist dynasty? And yes, I recognize the irony that the very system I oppose affords me the luxury of biting the hand that feeds. But that's exactly why priviledged fucks like me should feel obliged to whine and kick and scream- until everyone has everything they need.

GIFTS voltar
Wake up, coughing, tired, with my face in my hands, staring at the window as the sunlight demands action. All the energy it takes to close these bedroom blinds. Wrote this selfish sadness on a bathroom wall, spent half the span of some lost culture's rise and fall, but I'm as clueless as a drooling four year old. Still hoping I might find the capacity to let you know I know you're lonely. So here's the last call for regrets, a final slow dance through the days that we all hold on to. Here's the promises I've made, tied too tight to undo. An unwrapped gift from me to you. All the slightly insane on the 18 North Main, reaching for a small-town downtown, night rain, nothing I could say could be worth saying anyway today. Like "Hey, whatever happened to what's that guys' name?", we get a little older and it looks the same: askance. Excuse my failing sense of humour. Here's the promises I've made; a razor blade and this broken piece of chain. A history left to rust out in the rain.

THE ONLY GOOD FASCIST IS A VERY DEAD FASCIST voltar
Swastikas and Klan-robes. Sexist, racist, homophobes. Aryan-Nations and Hammerskins: you can wear my nuts on your nazi chins! God, I love a man in uniform! (But, uh, before we get too intimate here, big fella): what exactly are the great historical accomplishments of "your" race that make you proud to be white? Capitalism? Slavery? Genocide? Sitcoms? Guns? War? Pollution? Addiction? NAFTA? Thigh-Master? This is your fucking white-history, my "friend". So why don't we start making a history worth being proud of and stat fighting the real fucking enemy: the white male capitalist supemacist. Swastikas and Klan-robes. Sexist, racist, homophobes. This one's for the "Master Race": my brown-power ass in your white-power face! Kill them all and let a Norse God sort 'em out!

A PEOPLE'S HISTORY OF THE WORLD voltar
At some turning point in history, some fuckface recognized that knowledge tends to democratize cultures and societies so the only thing to do was monopolize and confine it to priests, clerics and elites (the rest resigned to serve), cuz if the rabble heard the truth they'd organize against the power, privilege and wealth hoarded by the few- for no one else. And did it occur to you that it's almost exactly the same today? And so if our schools won't teach us, we'll have to teach ourselves to analyze and understand the systems of thought-control. And share it with each other, never sayed by brass rings or the threat of penalty. I'll promise you- you promise me- not to sell each other out to murderers, to thieves... who've manufactured our delusion that you and me participate meaningfully in the process of running our own lives. Yeah, you can vote however the fuck you want, but power still calls all the shots. And believe it or not, even if (real) democracy broke loose, power could/would just "make the economy scream" until we vote responsibly.

THE STATE-LOTTERY
Does it seem strange to you? The confetti. The balloons. The mile-wide grins and the victory dance to welcome in the heir to a state of (utter and complete) disrepair? Because it sure seems strange to me: they're acting like they won the fucking lottery! I mean, shouldn't they feel terror at the task that lies ahead: to feed and house the people that this system's left for dead. And could I have hit the nail much harder on the head? It's profits before lives. They are motivated by greed. First they taught us to depend on their nation-states to mend our tired minds, our broken bones, our bleeding limbs. But now they've sold off all the splints and contracted out the tourniquets and if we jump through hoops then we might just survive. Is this what we deserve? To scrub the palace floors? To fight amongst ourselves? As we scramble for the crumbs they spit out, frothing at the mouth about the scapegoats that they've chosen for us. With every racist pointed finger I can hear the goose-steps getting closer. They no longer represent us so is it not our obligation to confront this tyranny?

REFUSING TO BE A MAN voltar
I'm not going to try to tell you that I'm different from all the rest. I've been subject to the same de-structure of desire and I've felt the same effects; I'm a hetero-sexist tragedy. And potential rapists all are we. But don't tell me this is natural. This is nurturing. And there's a difference between sexism and sexuality. I had different desires prior to my role-remodelling. And at six years of age you don't challenge their claims. You become the same. (Or withdraw from the game and hang your head in shame). I think that's exactly what I did. I tried to sever the connections between me and them. I fought against their further attempts to convince a kid that birthright can bestow the power to yield the subordination of women and do you know what patricentricity means? I found out just a couple of days/months/years/minutes ago. It means male values uber alles and hey! Whaddaya know... sex has been distorted and vilified. I'm scared of my attraction to body types. If everything desired is objectified then maybe eroticism needs to be redefined. And I refuse to be a "man".

HOW TO CLEAN A COUPLE OF THINGS - 1993 voltar para discografia

PIGS WILL PAY voltar
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 that we'd warned. Morality enforcement based on the interest of a state. Coerced into concordance and threatened into place. It's not just isolated incidents of cop-jocks kicking ass. It's a fucking war machine protecting the wealth of the employing class.

HOW TO CLEAN EVERYTHING -1993 voltar para discografia

ANTI-MANIFESTO voltar
Dance and laugh and play. Ignore the message we convey. It seems we're only here to entertain. A rebellion cut-to-fit. Well I refuse to be the soundtrack to it. While we entertain we're still knee-deep in shit. There's something wrong inside. We've played it safe, enjoyed the ride. You won't like this but I have something to confide. We strive for something more than a faded sticker on a skateboard. Now we've rained on your parade and we're out the door. And I don't even care any fucking more. Witness this pair in accomplice. Witness a pair; lethargic, unconscious. No brows furrowed in question, complacent, completing their tasks (no questions asked). Consider this critic a cretin. Just resting on laurels (completely invented). Word acrobatics performed with both harness and net. I am so full of shit. But I will remain until this self-awareness fades. Until I defeat the the purpose served by this soapbox that you made. That you made.

HEAD, CHEST OR FOOT? voltar
Three choices. One bullet. One trigger. Guess who gets to pull it? One leader. One thousand slaves. For every throne there's one thousand graves (give or take a grave). You're all the same. Just part of their machine. Perpetuate their dream. They subsidize their nightclubs and they subsidize your malls. They herd and brand the masses within painted prison walls. Until your freedom of assembly becomes the missiles they create or just mass delusion dancing to this music that you fucking hate. But I'm not the same. I'm not a pat of your fucking machine. I'll jeopardize their dream. I'd rather be imprisoned in a George-Orwellian world, than this pacified society of happy boyz + gurlz. I'd rather know my enemies and let you know the same. Whose windows to smash + whose tires to slash + where to point the fucking blame. One future. Two choices: oppose them or let them destroy us.

HATE, MYTH, MUSCLE, ETIQUETTE voltar
Mark your point of failing. It begins where you concede. Hesitate. Procrastinate. Sedating. All configured to impede your path. You need a good kick in the ass. Now take a step back and have a long, hard look. Hold it to the light and read it like a book. Analyze the past and present to see what is to come. Now wrap your lips around the barrel of the gun. Mark my point of failing. It began where I gave in. Comfort. Convenience. Placating. Construed to suck me in to their trap. I need a good kick in the ass. As time passed by I realized we don't need rule(s) to survive. Just common sense and means to subsist. So from here on in I will resist. I've finally realized. I've found my way at last. It's finally evident. We all need a kick in the ass... The basis of change: educate! Derived from discussion, NOT hate, NOT myth, NOT muscle, NOT etiquette. Intellect, not "re-elect!". Status symbols yield to respect between sex, species, environment.

SHOWDOWN (G.E./P.) voltar
We spoke our minds too clearly. We assumed fundamental rights were inherent not as pawns but humynz. I do not require a gauge for freedoms of speech cuz I never asked to be a citizen. I never have and never will pledge allegiance... Waking up each morning with confusion in my eyes. The wind is biting through to wave hello. Seeing my reflection, an exterior of lies. I hope this shaky feeling doesn't show. As if I had to tell you, there was little left to say. Stilted conversations coloured blue. You were sitting down and you got up to walk away. I tried to stay, but I was right behind you. Tension in the stair, I cannot bear so close to helpless as the songs I sing inside me ring. Final words are boring never touch I know you whispered something in my ear. I couldn't hear you. Gyrls with the greenest eyes. First time you have kissed. Our quiet softest sighs. A song for all of those who shot and missed. Welcome to this world impuded identity. Born, tagged, tattoed, pacified. Generously bestowed my rights and privileges replete. Arbitrary values ascribed. There's nothing I can tell you. There's nothing I can say. Stunted conversation, censored thought. I'm completely free at liberty guaranteed. Unless, of course, you decide I'm not. But I'll not be resigned to fall in line behind you. Tension in the air I cannot ear so what the fuck am I accomplishing? Absolutely nothing. All these words are boring. It's time for action. But you've taught me to be a pawn. It won't last for long. Those who see through the lies are quickly gagged and bound. Their ambitions realized. Tear the whole fucking thing down.

SKA SUCKS voltar
Ska sucks. Ska revival isn't cool, you stupid fuck. The bands are only in it for the bucks. And if you don't believe me you're a schmuck. But the trend will die out with any luck. Rudy, a message to you Rudy... Fuck you Rudy!

MIDDLE FINGER RESPONSE voltar
Bowl of cherries in Waskasoo creek. A sylvan way of life for those who seek none beyond a parkland mall. This landscape oasis now feigns City Hall. And they call this peace. That's not how it seems to me. Sugar coated disease. Buckle at the knees. Your members of parliament lining their garments with hides of the masses (their heads stuck up their asses). Bald little soldiers, flags sewn to their shoulders. This insight spawns despair. Why am I not a part of this? Pine cone wealth and cedar fence bliss? All your novel themes that keep you amused on your way to the Canadian, flag-waving-aran, a)cunt/cock/ass/mother/father/finger/butt/blood/booger b)sucking/fucking/shitting/farting/picking/flicking/dicking... ...dream!!! Nobody cares about the state of affairs. You can turn blue in the face, but you cannot erase. Oblivious to the obvious, I'm making perfect sense but I'm not getting through. Progress overdue. But don't expect to find me with a note left to be read. Pistol in my hand and a bullet in my head. Because this census indicates and this atlas has related 3 billion humynz I haven't irritated. I've got a lot of work to do. 3 billion people. That's 3 billion snotty fuck you's.

STICK THE FUCKING FLAG UP YOUR GODDAMN ASS, YOU SONOFABITCH (Not to be gender-specific, of course!) voltar
My father told me "Son it's futile to resist. You can topple the ideology but not the armies they enlist." I questioned the intentions of the boy scouts chanting "WAR!" "Well, that's the sound of freedom, son", he said (free to say no more). But wait a minute "dad", did you actually say freedom? Well, if you're dumb enough to vote, you're fucking dumb enough to believe them. Because if this country is so goddamned free, then I can burn your fucking flag wherever I damn well please. I carried their anthem convinced it was mine. Rhymeless, unreasoned conjecture kept me in line. But then I stood back and wondered what the fuck they had done to me. Made accomplice to all that I promised I would never be. You carry their anthem, convinced that it's yours. Invitation to honour. Invitation to war. Bette Midler now assumes sainthood. Romanticize murder for morale. Tie a yellow ribbon 'round the old oak tree my friend and "Gee, Wally. That's swell!" Fuck the troops (Insert corny but relevant/ poignant catch phrase here).

HAILLIE SELLASSE, UP YOR ASS
You speak of Rastafari, but how can you justify belief in a God that's left you behind. You simply fill the gap between the upper and lower class and your faith merely keeps you in line. An amalgamation of jewish scripture and christian thought. What will that get you? Not a fucking fuck of a lot. Take a look at your promised land. Your deed is that gun in your hand. Mt. Zion's a minefield. The West Bank. The Gaza strip... Soon to be parking lots for American tourists and fascist cops. Fuck zionism. Fuck militarism. Fuck americanism. Fuck nationalism. Fuck religion.

FUCK MACHINE voltar
It's something physical. It's a conditioned reaction. It's something physical. It's a conditioned attraction. But, have I finally escaped? Will my eyes no longer rape the innocent womyn, chyldren, humyn beings? Seeing the pain that it brings. Shallow, superficial decision(s). Real beauty obscured by my tunnel/ tele-vision. But this just in! Bikini film at 10:00 pm! The female anchor just smiles and ahrugs it off, "Boys will be boys!". But do you really want to be our fucking toys? And in again, just condone it with a grin. Sit back, idly chat, smile, prove you're just a fuck machine. Is that what you realy want to fucking be? Conditioned reaction. Conditioned attraction. Conditioned suggestion. Conditioned rejection. And yet again, subjecting women. The female anchors' fist finally clenched, "I'm not your fucking toy!". And though I long to embrace, I will not replace my priorities: humour, opinion, a sense of compassion, creativity and a distaste for fashion.

THIS MIGHT BE SATIRE voltar
I wanna chew my bubble gum with you. And I want to walk you home from school. And I want to carry your books to every class. And I want to fuck you up the ass (not). Oh girl, you know it's true how much I love you. I want to sing it across the land. Won't you hold my hand? She tells me that she loves me, now I'm gonna tell her that I love her. She tells me that she loves me. Now I'm gonna try and fuck her. But where the hell ae my priorities? Left in the hands of the authorities. Yeah, baby!

WHO WILL HELP ME BAKE THIS BREAD? voltar
I speak my mind, I question theirs. It seems to me like noone really cares. Peripherally blind, intellectually numb. Ignorance by choice, or just plain fucking dumb? You boycott your brain. You answer with fists. But my questions still persist (you fucking asshole). You can rearrange my face but you can't rearrange my mind. You can beat this shell about me, but you can't touch what's inside. SO now, who will help me bake this bread? Who will be the first to speak and leave complacency for dead? I've done all that I can on my own. But stagnant minds persist to squeeze blood from this stone. But I won't bleed for you. I have no need for you. Death will be the day I concede to you (As you can see, I really mean business. Poot!).