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Anghola Vol. 2

by Verbese Presents

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1.
I am tire, raw rubber Burning crickets, collapsing and flayed All the fire cast asunder Waffle tickets, patsy's pay day Harry Kewell's fury will fill my body (possibly uteries) Made of anger and hate wrapped in mercy He strangles the three that disobey And casts their corpses into the sea With a zip lock bag inside your eye lids His fat book sags with it's own bleak sins A stark wood burns, from within The church falls and the wrath begins Harry Kewell where did you go? Harry Kewell come back to me They say you go to and fro Harry Kewell where are thee? The Answer was Southern African battles versus Terra Australis’ number one murderers cooking up the captain’s flea-ridden blankets with a dunducket look in the eye and Billy Budd strung up to die; the chimney sweep stuck in the flue of the boiler room’s chilled morgue tubes, the price of buying out mortgaged land is genocide, inter-generational plans and propaganda canned as spam for the islanders on sinking dry Phillip isLandis. We plotted, planned, and trained for the survivors, the old diesel engine reviving the worn out tyres; both of us in the back seat, Fisher Price instruments detuned to chip away at our tuned deceit, and reveal the truth in the lies that we compute, arrange sample and distribute to those of ill-repute: a holiday, a park, where you can watch the same gladiatorial competition that you’ve long envisioned in your heart of hearts; heartfelt art for the artists who died mid-part, abused by the pit crews and wooed by shit booze, and the women who tried too... The wisdom of the old wooden racquets, backgammon, checkers and satchels-cum-parachute backpackers all filled the bar on Church Street; the birth of sweet music wafted free, watched by three in the crowd, but heard by those milling around outside; inside the six eyes watched the guitar fall to pieces in time with the musical speeches that we gave; the doctrine of the brave, lock it in, Eddie babe, I’m repeating myself like a Bernie Mandic adlib intro that lets you know of the future already past, predicted like the Mayan Armageddon, I’m here with my harem to re-arm men and make it an apocalypse; a monumental blip, two months to go if you listened to the mountain; the saint: so step back and pray: pretend you’re an ogre and I’m a church; I’m selling wood so that after we’re all dead, we can still give birth.
2.
Daddy’s little princess, but his queen got her clitoral steamed by six year old wet dreams, and she’s safe, female paedophiles are Grey’s Anatomy, their clitorises free to defile in peace and quiet with clarity, so Bonnie and Clyde the patty cake environment, it’s a wild ride when you lie with thighs of your own loin, not grown; but still conjoined for your enjoyment and parity, return to your groin, reverse gravity, or stand on your head and levitate salary on bed spreads, or fold out couches: a lounge room brothel for neighbourly grouches; a backdoor open for the boarding school dorm hopefuls: a harem hovel where you can get a handful; a gropeful; or turn kidnapping into robbery—grovelling at the feet of the Madam then sculpt pottery in the heat of her cavern. Sitting around the basket case, their faces hidden by masks and mace, a dainty summer dress and finger paint face, the TV talking about the next election race, the cameras film the erection take place: mullets and curly hair—none down there: little fingers crawling like spiders: where? All natural, al naturale or shaven bare, this one asks her to call him bear, and her little voice twinkles as her mother takes the sock, the music stops and the TV seems to watch, as the rubber gag is poultry, salmonella infested throats sultry, tastes salty and mostly can’t be afforded to your standard backdoor whore hacksaw. Child pornography, she learnt it on the TV, tutorials on sucking dicks, use protection and still get VD Public executions shown in short bursts, military murder and open hearses broadcast just before sport, hurts; scars and heinous farce in video game play, show the kids Saving Private Ryan so they can see the dying are just pray, and the spray is indiscriminate, but never aimed at immigrants: they got here after all, didn’t they? Press play and educate: the scientists build death rays, but religion aims, cocks, and fires death-laid bare. Lolita, Lolita, lovely Lolita, middle name: hardcore bone eater. I love sex with sweet sixteens, legal and clean, no dirt; most certainly, certifiably innocent, incense so romantic; enjoy their breath as much as their young breasts, but the thought of sex with a fifteen year old makes me sick, that’s why I always see their birth certificate before I see their clit, welcome to the world of sexual pleasure, I don’t deflower, I plant seeds and caress leather, young bed wetters don’t be embarrassed, I’ll take you to the sweet streets of Paris, away from the Moulin Rouge, and the sleaze because two’s, just enough for you to lose your childhood, no booze it’s better if you’re good and sober, and no bruises unlike those losers who blabber at babies to young ladies, and treat children as play things, they deserve the wrath of Hades, I just want soft skin, an innocent grin soon to know of more evil things: flesh liniment pencilled in, sex immigrant let me in, no wrinkles except for the dimples, not simple, but thoughts innocent, the sheets crinkle and we stretch ligament, find a place to hide from parents, keep secrets but afterwards remember it; wear it as a badge of honour, I didn’t steal your honour, or take it from ya; you gave it to me, you were crazy, but I was crazy too, a year ago I wouldn’t know you, but that time has passed, you’re a woman now, in two years time, which means you’ve gone from apple of my eye, to a cherry between thighs. It was just an unrelated video, playing the bottom of the screen, which side of the mind left it unseen? Logged by the IP; he’s arrested and she’s dead, he may as well be, did he see red? ISPs bleed backdoors into blacklisted dread; the unknown fear spreads most easily, just like the youngest of flesh bruises so pleasingly.
3.
Smile, the ancient teacher said, with awesome hearing students read, the words that slipped, dripped and bled, infecting minds like asinine cyanide trips mixed with lead: formed to feed, feelers spread, forced to feed, seedlings bred, a need for Weeds: dealer dread, for newly born newlyweds, force fed wine, communal bread, drunken diners dash, unruly dead come back to life to fuel the head, aim for the brain, you cannot maim what’s already dead; salted bullets for possessed Brocas, imbibe both lobes with Barocca performance: placebo offers; you cannot stop, the deed’s been sown, signed and the line’s dotted; already, the mind’s forgotten: The electrical signal that signals the two voices to whittle away at the lost memories, lets us see the instruments through diving goggles filled with Hennessey; the water in the dorm room is algae-mystified by degenerates, the noise is generated by The Residents as we pick the best bits to play plagiarist with, we don’t play with the other kids, though they play with us through words masquerading as spit; Worlds forged by Warcraft, it’s better to be up shit creek without a paddle, than floating on lava in a raft, your ears still ringing from judgement’s pounding gavel. Grovel at the feet of those surrounding the hovel, a portal, my mother ought to wait 4-4-2, but she parked the bus not far from the park, so we wade through puss floods, marked by Gus hearts and mud, poisoned waters; a late July autumn jaunt for power walkers, by the river where the haughty snorters mix with low class heroines of abortion theory lauders, Iraq goats laud students who ride them hitherto war torn escape routes for detainees of computer room Doom session commutes that pick mushrooms to accompany the plastic tunes; John and (July’ll) I’ll leave ‘em behind, followed by two Thompsons through ‘70s exploitation mansions fuelled by bourgeoisies masturbation as they watch the news in the nude, skinny dip across the Yarra, saving old Yeller from drowning, share a cigarette in the suburbs, John chewing Nicorette, our saviours Mother Hubbards, their bosses Other Mothers. The living room so called, so cold; her father so old, the bread’s mould grown in the cupboards by the fridge, wedged in between two cardboard lips, the kitchen door ajar, the buzz of the motor floating in; a mechanical, electronic ghost, our toast wolfed down to the joy of our hosts, freedom tonic rang out as the front door broke. I knew him from the computer room, the super gloom tuned just to the right note, so that the wrong quote could set off a barrage of Faust hope; he sat at the keys, at play with teens, for days and weeks he wouldn’t speak, his actions told his story: gory, thoroughbred and warring with teachers; yeast fed sugar in red cordial pitchers, he’d gather up a small collection of disorderly bitches and eat them up; Lucky Dogs, some called them sluts, a plucky song for pureed priests, preachers and devil prongs; but he’d speak with me, and I’d just watch, counting each and every moment we lost; he’d recount each and every memory he forgot, and asked me for advice; he asked me twice: he asked me for advice, and both times I gave him nun; he gave in and told me: “run!” but I stood my ground; we shared the spoils of the lost and found, until she told him with her wrinkled skin that his winkidink would produce milk, not kids... We sipped Ice-T together, watching as he was arrested, his mink coat wet with our tears, and his blood; their saliva—she told me he was ‘a bed wetter, but a survivor’ and I tipped my cap, the poison melting my teeth; though her eyes were moist, she did not weep, and as they hoisted our bodies high up in the trees, our souls from a distance laughed at the thought of our own plea bargains... The living room so called, so cold; her father so old, the bread’s mould grown in the cupboards by the fridge, weighed in between two cardboard lips, the kitchen door ajar, the buzz of the motor floating in; a mechanical, electronic ghost, our toast wolfed down to the joy of our hosts, freedom tonic rang out as the front door broke. Freedom tonic ran out... Outside the cinema ***** parked, and one of his hubcaps may have fallen off. Perhaps it was someone else’s; his car a hatchback, old and rusted. Just in case I pointed it out to him, and he thanked me: I was stalking him, but he was only talking in the traffic. ****, *****, ***** and I continued into the cinema; he disappeared amongst the footpath pedestrians; ***** spoke to one of the people working inside about the tickets. She had bought them from eBay; she already had them she said; they had arrived. I sat down. I was holding *****. He barked, and the cinema’s dog trainer came over to us with some Lucky Dog biscuits; he wore Steve Irwin cargos and a propeller head hat. He kept patting *****. **** told him to stop. I pushed his hand away; so over eager was he that I had to stop him physically. His hands were covered in biscuit crumbs and dog saliva: a filthy child. He was slow to leave us; he left us eventually, but... We went into the Angry Boy’s screening without tickets, though we were there for Batman’s Beginnings. It was not much of a screening; a very small room for educational purposes, and instead of projected, it was played on an overly-large television screen, but the quality was no worse for it; it was only a television show after all. The audience was composed mainly of teenagers; we sat at the very back, but it was hard to see over the heads of the teenagers in front of us, though there weren’t many there; the show dragged on for ages, bleh.
4.
1: The Relief Next door salted cakes and poisoned wood, traded for seven hours of The Woodsman goods, a small price to pay at an Age like The, newspaper flavour mulched in the bay of Torquay, so we were talking; yeah, we were haughty, the arthouse films were fourteen, each half an hour a thief: time wasters for when the digital arms flicker to the taste of wine tasters, and we play the roles of villain and hero, Nero and His pirates so we can keep the flyest flicks with the nipplest tits to suckle on with eyes as they perform tricks, candy sweeter than the salted cake, too young to be baked, but still tried by the Hague for baking Jewish fat cake, drum skins and fun things, like curly hair, dick noses, mascara and wedding rings absent, the lab spent most of his time on the foot path, the short succulent grass before the draught had a chance to laugh, and the rain clouds were not quite so crass; he’d run and play, small and Fluffy, aptly named for a four and twenty pie filler puppy; still the grass was dirty with plastic and paper, and in between these two distant neighbours, was the oldest of wicket keepers with plastic floors, newly painted walls, and the smell of darkness, hatred and dust: we must make the regular pilgrimage to the gilchurch for rubber and fizz, chocolate biscuits and other kids, nothing other than the most important biz, six points to discuss for the backyard whizz, one world routinely hit; when the syringes were just another hit for kids with bare feet, mostly in New South Wales but the fear spread to the Rich, and in the suburbs the Mondo sticks looked like metal twigs glistening in the autumn leaves and piss, smelling of alcohol but holding the horrors of older kids, smouldering in the hot sun as the drought appeared, rearing its ugly head and feared in Rugby, denim, but that was a few years later, it was yet to come; the metal was infected and jettisoned by dumb, the junkies would come like come, fester and run; play with the bums, and run and run; we’d play hide and seek, and wait once more for the thief: another excursion to where words are learned; black and white or Technicolour illegible, written in faces, nebulas and vestibules; VHS plastic, black smears that were tragic, that we could devour for another seven hours of heaven: flowers, bouquets, bees and celluloid showers; the flickering is written in benevolent power. 2: The Tummy This verse was recorded with a gun to the stomach, so if the flow don’t fit blame it on birettas and gullets. 3: THE Book NICKED, NICOTINE STICKS, STICK IN THE GULLY TRAPS, IT’S A DREAM SNAPS; PINCHES FIEND FOR FRESH NAPS BUT FIND SAND, DOGS ON THE BEACH, SAND CLEAN; FROGS ON THE GROUND LEACH, COCONUTS SPEAK IN AFRICAN RHYHTHMS, BRAZILLIAN ANY MAN CAN FEEL THEM, LICK THEM AND TAKE A TRIP, CHOCOLATE FROGS AND LICORICE, BUT WHAT I GOT WAS NOT A LOT; A LITTLE BIT OF BURIAL FISH, SALTY AND BITTER BUT BETTER WITH, AN OASIS BY THE SHALLOW WATER, THE JAPANESE ONASIS OUGHTA BOARD THE COMBI VAN, THEYVE GOT A PLAN: WHITE LINES LEAED THE WAY, MARKS ON THE MAP PLEAD AND PRAY AS THEY SLIP AWAY, A BLIP ON THE RADAR SAYS THAT THEY ARRIVED YESTERDAY, BUT WE NEVER MET THEM, THOUGH WE KNOW THEM WELL, I’M STUCK HERE WITH ****, *****, **** AND THE REAL **** SWIMS, THE JAPANESE CLIMB THE CLIFF; THEY MIGHT SLIP BUT THE STAIRS ARE TOO BIG FOR ME TO CLIMB WITH THEM, MIME ARTISTS MOVE SILENT RHYME ARTISANS, LIP SYNCHING ON STAGE, BUT SINGIN IN THER MINDS IN ANOTHER AGE: Book a description and turn the page— 4: The Poseur He was so impressed, just because the spine was glued, not stitched in dressed up leather jackets stretched, golden leaves—not autumn—and rhymes lewd—not awful—but that didn’t bother him when it was official, so I ground my teeth and let him laud it; chewing gristle: silent, no audit... He was costumed up, long hair, one cigarette and stumps stuck between paper as bookmarks, the ink hardly dried on the paper, but already he scored full marks; all he had to do was roll it, rule it and look hard; it was enough to impress, no need for book smarts, but fancy dress was the modus important aspect to his success, the words forged and fourteen woodlands had been felled for this good man; for his dream that we can now see illustrated on screens, perhaps better than just as words visualised mid-dream. 5: The Concrete It was time to leave the, Rod Laver Arena, but I was hungry and the pretzel stands smelt strong over the petrol fumes and whistling fizz of tramline hiss, the compressed breaks sung in time with the car horns; the backfiring exhaust pipes and the early morning drunken walks, resembling stumbling devil forks; at each corner one leg turned left, one turned right, and if anyone was to offer help they’d be in for a fight: the officers yelped, and the Kebab stands were manned by Baghdatis’ number one fans, serving capsicum spray sauce on their doners, and donating red light to the blind, red eyed Zonas; I’ll take some cheese on my pretzel, the dough sweet, but it’s salty food; my ****** can pay, but spare the rude comments; save them for another day, pass the condiments and abolish sugary treats procured from underground swap meats, the thunder clouds stop to street sweep. Nearby the river creeps along concrete banks; in underground tunnels the loneliest children give thanks for shelter from the honest streets; social workers watch as they break knees; a football game gone wrong if only they’d played free; a real sport like cricket or AFL, watch the bogans bash one another when the wickets’re felled; under a bitter spell, a little hell to be enjoyed so close to the hooligans where litter wells up, slowly floating to the serfice; the crème de la crème of the nervous and worthless. 6: The Sheep Welcome to the orient, the disoriented rent with paper cheques, metal money pays for petal honey; tuner imports blaze when jackals hurry, the racquet of those with no tax bracket slaps bitumen tax men who come hungry: they leave with a runny nose from asphalt grazes, baking powder, and chowder shared with lily flowers
5.
The lens is my shepherd, I see nothing He makes me lie down in eruptions He leads me beside the loudest of liquor He refreshes my lips with capsicum pitchers Even though I walk through the alley of the shadow of bets I will fear no Tim Sharky For You’re with me through all malarkey Your revolver and Your baton Comfort me with balaclava hats on You prepare a table before me In the presence of my enemies You anoint my head with water: sweet nectar; serenity My nostrils overflow Surely Your goodness and love will follow me For the few days of my life I have left I will dwell in the cell of the Lens forever, we March at the parade for the gil mayor Close to where they made the remains, rejoice at the stage where They were laid bare, before cavorting at the farewell, snatch keepsakes of hair Like pages and write eulogies for the ages, truly missed, the unruly kiss Never felt, but watched by kids, melt into the masses, Trade myki tickets for bus passes to the abyss, it’s safe to walk the street if we pray Ought to eat vegetables, wheat and farewell the meat cases Turn sceptics into carcases, CC’d arse out on Hospital TV Not even House can diagnose the blues sung by Hugh Laurie The sweets taste sweeter from a position of privilege The tweets make creepers into public envisioned with The leaps that make faith seep into relevance if Combined with the sleet of concrete asleep with fishes, watched, from a distance the crackle and hiss of static mixed with crackers and piss, metal blades glisten in five fingering, grasping discount missionaries, watched by the visionaries and commanded with mechanical, electrical voices, the electorate was aborted, fought for by war torn council members, dismembered by the public for an ounce of pills and mescaline, but remembered in celluloid: in time with the weaponry... Elaborate, the metal room marooned with the plastic tune, haptic controls evolve without programming, a sentient séance of circuitry and rote learning; conditioning, operators did not re-route the yearning for control, discerning good from evil and learning the roles of thieves and Knievels, not evil but they bleed too, lenses flicker like eyes blink, the wise don’t wink; they walk with eyes at their feet; stomped on by shoes, not boots; no need for military rule when the written rule does not compute: biology allows mechanics and magic to rule, not you, stop or I’ll shoot, Loot the bars; rock guitars smashed out of view and glass those not yet deformed; unrecognise them from algorithms and fawn, over the beat that the guitar is smashed to, rest in Church Street just outside such innovation, devoid of cliché and imitation: this way we remain anonymous, but remember it’s the TV that watches you because you’re on it too; rewrite the script; take The Brady Bunch apart as part of your performance, debauch the whole family and George Forman; grill him too, Meryl Streep sport coverage with news microwaves that flash Cleverly, stand United with Tom Tom drums indicted, remember you’re Tom Thumb, grab a hold of the Concorde and run, while I sit here watching, plotting...dumb Here lies Tom Thumb, King Gillard’s night Who died by his own cruel bite He was well known in parliament’s question time Where he played parlay to others’ despot minds He watched with eyes that sparkled death And behind the screen a-hunting went Alive, he’d fill the hard drive’s evidence Folder full of fruitful fancy, let ‘em spread From town to town, and coast to toast And cry ‘alas, Tom Thumb, we’re toast.’ Sitting atop the throne, not yet known and hardly grown, they stop to moan, gold kisses for toes, they’ve got to go, their mission in throes. The coconut trees sway in the breeze, the sweet sea spray tastes salty on teeth; taste test the Deku Nuts, playing N64; recording evil stuff, make haste if baked by the hot sun, reflected on the white, foamy tips of the waves, blinding those without black military grade sun glasses; the lens flare flickers as the sun sets, a few polygons short of a realistic picnic, yet still believed by the thieves and knees that support the kneeling; the ceiling was made of glass, but shattered, now your skin’s peeling and harsh, the sun Burns and kisses your skin with radioactive lips, still you bow before megatons of depleted uranium, delete craniums and never run; the ultimate hypocrite full of wordy spit, but dribbles from the mouth as verbal diarrhoea: worthless shit, nutritious for nothing, even the neutrinos make fun of us both; but as the sea waters rise where you reside, I’m the one that owns your fishing boats, holidays on a luxury yacht in a manmade moat, and watches in my own cinema as I keep your family afloat, MervGottI’ves moustache ash hues that bruise Maldives, plus these popcorn enemas for my dirty, dittery dopes, why do you think Richard Nixon looks just like the pope? It’s not a coincidence, the incidence of words as quotes help build and destroy minds as hindrance or both to pacify and control; the first word you learn is the last, you’re told to learn it fast, you lap it up and your brain turns to Playdo mush; let me play, though, hush, just a child; a metaphorical member of half The Brady Bunch plus both parents and split the children in half, but my family makes follicles fade to dust in blasts; bare scalps are but bear pelts to us; a hunter’s trophy; a wife a-doting, when we’re in love, who said murder wasn’t fun? It flattens out above, the clouds run, but those below are flattened, housed in blood. Sitting atop the throne, not yet known and hardly grown, they stop to moan, gold kisses for toes, they’ve got to go, their mission in throes.
6.
Feaver dreams are made of cheese Who am I to disagree? I sampled the curds and the seven Bries Everybody’s looking for Kesong Some of them want Danish Blue Some of them want Danish Tilsit Some of them want some Danbo Some of them want some Fynbo too Manouri, Hervat, Halloumi (Hold your Urda up--Keep your Urda up—Brunost’s gone) (Hold your Urda up -- Brunost’s gone -- Keep your Urda up -- Brunost’s gone) (Hold your Urda up -- Brunost’s gone -- Keep your Urda up -- Brunost’s gone) (Hold your Urda up—Brunost’s gone-- Keep your Urda up) I can eat brie without a blink of mine eyes Look at my size, I got girth from my birth and I'll be dreaming until I dies These ain't no lies, I'm from the soil of this earth I got sweet dreams made of swiss cheese 50k gold watch bought with a lease Booker T ain't got shit on me Cuz I'm a Wizard an MC and a Deputy Richard be dreaming of my nuts His bust is burly but he's a sex deviant Shirley He's staring alluringly, his eyes show he wants to be in me I just had a dream my body sued me... if I was my body I'd sue me too Big Town Wizard and the WZRR doing sexual motions Not without some lotions and some viagra potions A locomotion of rock hard dicks causing a commotion Some emotion from those mirrin chicks we're causing conception An inception of our love making, he's gonna give me lockjaw What's with all the hoopla? We're just depicting kamasutra I can eat brie without a blink of mine eyes Look at my size, I got girth from my birth and I'll be dreaming until I dies These ain't no lies, I'm from the soil of this earth (Hold your Urda up--Keep your Urda up—Brunost’s gone) (Hold your Urda up -- Brunost’s gone -- Keep your Urda up -- Brunost’s gone) (Hold your Urda up -- Brunost’s gone -- Keep your Urda up -- Brunost’s gone) (Hold your Urda up—Brunost’s gone-- Keep your Urda up) Feaver dreams are made of cheese Who am I to disagree? I sampled the curds and the seven Bries Everybody’s looking for Kesong Some of them want Danish Blue Some of them want Danish Tilsit Some of them want some Danbo Some of them want some Fynbo too Danmark? Backyard, yes the backyard. In the original veggie patch was a television, or a little further down where the ship used to be, and on the television was some sort of cooking show; or torture porn: shrimps were being slowly roasted—perhaps by smoke—above a large collection of other live shrimps. Though, it was hard to tell if they were alive, I eventually decided that they were. It seemed to take place in our backyard—the footage on the television shard; I could see the side fence behind the screen, though it looked as if it had been filmed during the ‘70s; or at the very least it was full of ‘70s pastiche and bogan pride; Aussie pride, whatever, Pride It got dark; we didn’t watch the show for long. It was probably turned off once we worked out that the shrimps were being cooked alive. ***** was walking around, and near the gully trap, or rather not the gully trap, but the hole in front of the bathroom, which is near the gully trap anyway, and was attacked by a gigantic koala/badger/polar bear/panda combo, but really only the first two. I chased the koala/badger off, up the ladder and onto the roof; it was very loud on the roof, and ***** jumped into Mrs. ********’. I had to climb in after him, over the fence; he had hurt his legs in the confrontation, and I carried him back to our own sovereign nation; neighbourly segregation. I discussed with **** and ***** what could be done about the koala/badgers (badgager if you prefer) as they were a regular problem, and they kept attacking *****. Though they never succeeded in hurting him, he often succeeded in hurting himself due to the attack; it was his fault as much as theirs, of course, but it was not up to us to protect the koalas/badgers or badgager if you prefer. ***** and **** didn’t have many suggestions, nor seemed very worried by it: **** was angry with *****, and ***** was wearing rubber gloves, and doing something in the laundry; cooking? Washing dishes? Perhaps something dangerous; thus the gloves and haziness. I was playing Resident Evil 6 with *****, not *****; what’s the difference, though? Really. It wasn’t so much that we were playing it, as that we were caught up in a zombie apocalypse, but obviously we were actually playing it, even though Resident Evil isn’t actually about zombies anymore. In any case we were by the Yarra; it was a sunny day, and we needed some food. Across the Yarra was our house—or rather, my home—and we swam across, or took a raft, or floated; some sort of game mechanic to get us bloated, and we weren’t wet; we scravanged in ****’s room for biscuits, chocolates, and sweets; savoury biscuits too; good eats for me and you. Once outside, and across the Yarra in the park, the other survivors gathered around. The daughter of the two lesbians from ******* came up to us, and she told us that we were about to be ambushed by a group of zombie dogs (mostly cocker spaniels and lassies as we would soon find out, though she did not tell us this) and we had to flee; they were special dogs, and we would not be able to defend ourselves against them—so we fled, I carried ***** with me, but the dogs were too fast for us; I climbed up a tree, but I wasn’t safe, and nor was he, though ***** and **** didn’t seem to mind; though they were eaten too in good time. Eventually we all were killed, and ended up discussing what had happened in a hospital; ******’s nurse and secretary were both there, and they were adamant that we shouldn’t have fled; eventually the poor girl admitted that she had lied, and didn’t want to hurt the dogs, because she had always wanted a dog as a pet when she was a child; though she still was one, no one was really a child anymore. Not after the zombie apocalypse and the world war. In any case we decided to try again, this time fighting back; this time with a rocket launcher—and whatever else we had; I had the rocket launcher (I had more weapons than I should have had). I had hoarded them in my video game grade backpack. It worked. Once we had survived, we ended up in a suave French comic book; it was rather synthetic and fake, and boring too; it was no Tintin, but we couldn’t help that—it wasn’t our fault! Everything was blue and futuristic and fantastical. It was science fiction, and set in the future; a French dystopian full of friction, and very Deus Ex-y future. The French people in it were annoying and obnoxious, probably like the famous French stereotypes that don’t really exist, in any case it was actually written by an American; probably the Buffy guy. It was overrated enough to have been written by him, and that made it all the more annoying, and strangely uplifting. Jamie Oliver’s show was on, and he was cooking something with $100 beef—steaks. His friend had roasted the vegetables for him; his friend was very gay, and he gave him his vegetables in his apartment—no euphemism—in Jamie’s, and although the meat was cooked, they were going to eat it elsewhere: while canoeing in the themes. It was a rather awkward proposition; neither of them were being canoe men, and they kept sinking and getting the food wet, though both of them agreed that it was well worth the money and the effort; Jamie blamed the construction of the canoe, but it was their canoeing technique that was that was the shepherd of their repeated—though not fatal—drowning. His gay friend agreed that the steaks were exceptional, though he did not approve of eating meat, and he still thought that cows were very cute, and did not deserve to be eaten. Perhaps he was only against beef eating, or beefeaters; was he a revolutionary, or just a gay? Whatever he was, he and Jamie soon ended up back on dry land, and it turned out that we were in England too, on holiday, because as they loaded their canoe (that damned canoe; Jamie thought) into their expensive car amongst all the vintage ones parked nearby, we were on our way to visit the ******** and his family. The ******** lived in a small run down house in the Irish suburbs; it was very white, but with the paint peeling inside, and the walls cracked; there was a second storey, but each room was small and cramped, and the ceiling was low; the light dull. The pride of the house was an illuminated wooden cross, still polished and modern looking, that was hung on the wall beneath the front window in pride of place; a centrepiece like a mantelpiece or fireplace, but the ******** and his two brothers (the ones that were home at least) did not seem too pleased by it, and took us into the lounge room instead; “buy it,” their parents had said. I had to tell ***** and **** and ******* that they couldn’t let the brothers know about SBR; the ******** wanted them to remain ignorant, and I whispered this to them, but ***** almost repeated what I said out loud; loud enough for his brothers to hear! The ******** wanted to do a performance with one of his brothers, but to do that he had to first make a pita bread pizza; the performance relied on it, whatever it was, that the performance was, not what the pita bread pizza was, though the toppings were a mystery and I only hoped that it did not contain onion; though I had a feeling it would contain salsa and corn chips: both which contain onion in chemical flavouring form; patches of garlic sourced from culinary porn. The brother that we were talking to told us that he was a carpenter, but would have to join the army in the modern economic climate; we were sympathetic; it was a little brighter in the lounge room, but the quality of the light was more diode than LED. CRT, rather than LCD. The ******** returned with the pita bread; it did have onion on it: my worst fears had been confirmed. And capsicum, and tomato; red, green, and garlic. It was well presented, and realised, though did not have much in the way of cheese, and smelt rather cheaply made; nevertheless, it was not only for eating, but for performing too...and what a performance it was.

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Another gritty album of Ghola remixes. This time with 300% more artists and artistry! Praise be to Ghola.

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released December 21, 2012

Verbese; Other Mothers; Slave Beaver Revolt

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Super Happy Soapland Melbourne, Australia

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