Anti-Manifesto

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Head? Chest? or Foot? 

Three choices. One bullet. One trigger. Guess who gets to pull it. 
One leader. A thousand slaves. 
For every throne there's a thousand graves. 
You're all the same. Just part of their machine. 
Perpetuate their dream. 
They subsidize your nightclubs and they subsidize your malls. 
They herd and brand the masses within painted prison walls. 
'Til 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 part of your fucking machine. 
I'll jeopardize their dream. 
I'd rather be imprisoned in a George Orwell-ian world 
Than your pacified society of happy boys and girls. 
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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Hate, Myth, Muscle, Etiquette 

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. 
Mark my point of failing. It began where I gave in. 
Comfort. Convenience. Placating. 
Construed to suck me in, to their trap. 
I need a good kick in the ass. 
As time passed I realized we don't need rules to survive. 
Just common sense and means to subsist. 
So from here on in I will resist. 
I've finally realized. I've found my way at last. 
It's finally evident. 
We all need a kick in the ass. 
The basis of change: educate! Derived from discussion, 
not hate, not myth, not muscle, not etiquette. 
Intellect, not "re-elect!". 
Status symbols yield to respect between sex, species, environment. 

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Showdown 

We spoke our minds too clearly. 
We assumed fundamental rights were inherent 
not as pawns but humyns. 
I do not require a gauge for freedom of speech 
cuz I never asked to be a citizen. 
I never have and never will pledge allegiance. 
Waking up each morning with confusion in my eyes. 
The wind is biting through to wave "hello". 
Seeing my reflection, an exterior of lies. 
I hope this shaky feeling doesn't show. 
As if I had to tell you there was little left to say. 
Stilted conversations colored blue. 
You were sitting down and you got up to walk away. 
I tried to stay but I was right behind you. 
Tension in the stair, I cannot bear so close to helpless 
as this song I sing. Inside me ring. 
Final words are boring, never touch, 
I know you whispered something in my ear. 
I couldn't hear you. 
Girls with the greenest eyes. The first time you have kissed. 
Our quiet softest sighs. 
A song for all of those who shot and missed. 
Welcomed to this world, imputed identity. 
Born, tagged, tattooed, pacified. 
Generously bestowed my rights and privileges replete. 
Arbitrary values ascribed. 
There's nothing I can tell you. There's nothing I can say. 
Stunted conversation, censored thought. 
I'm completely free, at liberty, guaranteed 
Unless of course you decide I'm not. 
But I'll not be resigned to, fall in line behind you. 
Tension in the air I cannot bear 
So what the fuck am I accomplishing? Absolutely nothing. 
All these words are boring, it's time for action. 
But you've taught me to be a pawn. 
It won't last for long. 
Those who see through the lies are quickly gagged and bound. 
Ambition realized, tear the whole fucking thing down. 

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Ska Sucks 

Ska sucks. Ska revival isn't cool you stupid fuck. 
The bands are only in it for the bucks. 
And if you don't believe me you're a schmuck. 
But the trend will die out with any luck. 
Yo Ho. Yo Ho. 
Rudy, a message to you Rudy, a message to you Rudy. 
Fuck you Rudy! 

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Middle Finger Response 

Bowl of cherries in Waskasoo Creek. 
A sylvan way of life for those who seek none beyond a parkland mall. 
This land scape oasis now feigns city hall. 
And they call this peace. 
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 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, mother fucking, cock sucking dream. 
Oh yeah! 
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 humyns I haven't irritated. 
I've got a lot of work to do. 3 billion people. 
That's 3 billion snotty Fuck you's 
Fuck you, fuck all of you. 

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Stick the Fucking Flag up your Goddam Ass, you Son of a Bitch 

My father told me "son, it's futile to resist, 
You can topple ideology but not the armies they enlist." 
I questioned the intentions of the boy scouts chanting war. 
"Well that's the sound of freedom, son" he said. 
(Free to say no more.) 
But wait a minute dad, did you actually say freedom? 
Well, if you're dumb enough to vote, 
You're fuckin dumb enough to believe him. 
Cuz if this country is so goddam free, 
Then I can burn your fucking flag wherever I damn well please. 
I carried their anthem, convinces it was mine. 
Rhymeless, unreasoned conjecture kept me in line. 
But then I stood back and wondered what the fuck had they done to me. 
Made accomplice to all that I'd promised I would never fucking be. 
Never be. 
You carry their anthem convinces that it's yours. 
Invitation to honor. Invitation to war. 
Bette Midler now assumes sainthood. 
Romanticize murder for moral. 
Tie a yellow ribbon round the oak tree my friend, 
And "Gee Wally, that's swell!" 
Fuck the troops to hell! 

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Haillie Sellasse, up your ass 

You speak of Rastafari, but how can you justify belief 
In a god that's left you behind? 
You've simply filled 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 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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Fuck Machine 

It's something physical, conditioned reaction. 
It's something physical, conditioned attraction. 
But have I finally escaped? 
Will my eyes no longer rape the innocent womyn, children, humyn beings? 
Seeing the pain that it brings. 
Shallow, superficial decision. 
Real beauty obscured by my television. 
But this just in! Bikini film at ten. 
The female anchor smiles and shrugs it off, 
"Boys will be boys!" 
Do you really wanna be our fucking toys? 
And in again, condone it with a grin. 
Sit back, idly chat, smile, prove you're just a fuck machine. 
Is that what you really wanna fucking be?? 
Conditioned reaction. Conditioned attraction. 
Conditioned suggestion. Conditioned rejection. 
And yet again, subjecting womyn. 
The female anchor's fists finally clinched, 
"I'm not your fucking toy!" 
And though I long to embrace, I will not misplace my priorities: 
Humor, opinion, a sense of compassion, creativity, 
And a distaste for fashion. 

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This Might Be Satire 

I wanna chew my bubble gum with you. 
And I wanna walk you home from school. 
And I wanna carry your books to every class. 
And I wanna fuck you up the ass. 
Girl, don't you know it's true, how much I love you. 
I wanna sing it 'cross the land, oh won't you hold my hand? 
She tells me that she loves me, 
Now I'm gonna tell her that I love her. 
She tells me that she loves me, 
Now I'm gonna try and fuck her.
But where the hell are my priorities? 
Left in the hands of the authorities. 

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Who Will Help Me Make This Bread? 

I speak my mind. I question theirs. 
It seems to me like no one really cares. 
Peripherally blind. Intellectually numb. 
Ignorance by choice? Or just plain fucking dumb? 
You're threatened by my mind. You want everything the same. 
But my questions still remain. 
You boycott your brain. You answer with fists. 
But my questions still persist. 
You can rearrange my face but you can't rearrange my mind. 
You can beat this shell about me, but you can't touch what's inside. 
So now who will help me bake this bread? 
Who will be the first to speak and leave complacency for dead? 
I've done all that I can on my own. 
But stagnant minds persist to squeeze blood from this stone. 
But I won't bleed for you. I have no need for you. 
Death will be the day I concede to you. 

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I Want you to Want 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. 
I'd buy brand new shed 
And put on brand new shoes 
I would do anything if you say that you love me. 
Didn't I didn't I didn't I see ya crying? 
Didn't I didn't I didn't I see ya crying? 
Sittin all alone I know you felt like dying. 
And I want you now! 
Megan. 
She don't eat bacon. 
She'd never kill a sweet little innocent piggy to get bacon. 
She's one of them vegans. 
She's so sweet loving sweet talking loverboy vegan. 
And that's alright. 

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