Today's Em

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
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
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 termin
Nch. 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
Ces.

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 o
E 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 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.

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 you
Se. 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 speed
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
Aradise. 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 emerge
H 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.

This song was inspired by the real-life story of bella gahlos. we met her in 1997 at an east timor alert network benefit in winnipeg. we are humbled to have crossed paths with her. this is her s

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 fainte
Reat 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 billboard
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
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 bo
Ursting 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
In the earth as an emblem of
The dissolution and internment of their publick liberty. someday, somewhere, today's empires are tomorrow's ashes.

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 t
Ath 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. tu
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-l
Rip-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
Ction 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 reek

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 tha
D 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 re
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 d
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 aff
E 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 inde
Nce, usa while 8000 miles from here (ba
Ck in the cradle of democracy) it's another banner year for a cottage industry

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
Er 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
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
D 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
. i can't find the meaning in the great achievement. when you commit heart and soul to earning your place, opportunity kills common sense