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RESISTING TYRANNICAL GOVERNMENT (It's a dirty job - but somebody's gotta do it)
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.

THE ONLY GOOD FASCIST IS A VERY DEAD FASCIST
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!

("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.

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.

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 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
Who live vicariously through
Before I'm forced to face the wrath of a well-heeled buying public

Look at our collection of hands, heads, and feet to see where we've been.
Embrace this parody: the ending of things you can belive.
We'll drive you 'til you're skin and bones and when we finally reach the end, you'll fall 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.

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,

Die Jugend marschiert mit frohem Gesang
bei Sonnenschein und Regen;
die Jugend marschiert mit sieghaftem Drang
dem großen Ziel entgegen.
Wir stürmen die Welt, geh'n fest unser'n Schritt
wer jung ist der fügt sich freilich mit,
die Jugend marschiert, kein Pfad ist zu steil,
dem Siege entgegen zu eil'n.

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

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.

As so many practiced diplomats, so too your vaunted laureates, whose access to the higher rungs of a cultural priesthood is hinged upon their flat 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-musicians cum embedded rock-journalists frantically applauding the latest artist-formerly-known-as iconoclast, giddy from the fumes of a fresh detection, 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 and extraordinary gift for feigning of paralysis.
For saying nothing at all. For daydreams of black tie affairs at Rideau Hall. An acceptance speech. Sustained applause.

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 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.

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,
In line, yeah

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.
Youґve got a problem with her living here,
But what did you do to help her
Before she fucking came?
What did the country do?

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,

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.

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.

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 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.

"Last Will And Testament"

Here in the few remaining moments we have left,
just what do you propose we say in our defense?
That much was decided before any one of us were born?
That we were nothing more than objective observers to the madness
and throw up your hands in sadness?
“We’re powerless to change anything anyways.”

All answers seem to come too easily
To you the word rhetorical is wrong
These questions blur the things we need to see
and hide simplicity beneath a song
With catches of some phrase that you have heard
and dated stories dug up from your past
You've caught truth in a leg-hold trap of words
I swear to you this will not be the last time I will

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Francis didn't give a fuck about the rollbacks,
overproduction, reduced demand.
He never gave much thought to disputed contracts.
In his short life he'd only ever known

panic, fear, pain, darkness and pandemonium
(in the hell that was his home).
Fourth quarter earning expectations

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.
[whispered:]
It's not your fault, there's nothing we can do, it's just the way it is, there's nothing we can do.

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.

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.

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.

When the credits finally
Roll for this, the
Worst story ever
Told, don't bother...

Sifting through the names
For yours or anyone you know,
Unless they

Relive the words you heard spilling from your mouth.
Taste that sickness once again, pretense peels away.

Exposed in anger, in tragedy, amidst our failure.
All the things that you do, everything that you say,
All the paths that you choose.

There are things that just can't be reversed.

The funeral procession passed by here today,
Confusion and questions left strewn in its wake,
But I feel like I knew his pain.

A mechanical failure while enduring the norm.
Some of us fracture, others simply deform
And lose their elasticity.

Swastikas and Klan robes,
Sexist, racist homophobes.
Aryan-Nations and Hammerskins,
You can wear my nuts on your Nazi chins.

I love a man in uniform.

Just what exactly are the great historical accomplishments

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.

All in nature ends in tragedy, and I
Was the first to finally fade away from my
Grandfather's memories. Well how long till the day
My memories of him finally fade away?

Dissolving into grey.

Is breathing just the ticking of an unwinding