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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.
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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.
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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.
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“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!
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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-aryan, 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.
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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!).
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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.
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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.
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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!
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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?
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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 and gurlz. I’d rather know my enemies and let you know the same. Whose windows to smash and whose tires to slash and where to point the fucking blame. One future. Two choices: oppose them or let them destroy us.
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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.
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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.”
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Songs by 90ies Propagandhi deconstructed and taped back together by s.m. snider
