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Other Mothers - Harry Kewell Could Fill a Glory Hole

from Anghola Vol. 2 by Verbese Presents

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That's racist.

lyrics

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.

credits

from Anghola Vol. 2, track released December 21, 2012
Other Mothers; John and Verbese.

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Super Happy Soapland Melbourne, Australia

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