ON ABJECT MUSIC
Capitalist anschluss shits through my anus ear
Detritus of emotion
Remnant of sense
If only you could hear it
Hear embraceable alienation
The glory of the deforming inhuman
Neolithic cyborg hordes all
Crawling tribesmen reduced to slither traces
Bankers basking in percentage point annihilation
Revolutionaries in summit talks
Musicians re-nationalising themselves
If only you could hear it
The reconstituted cess seeking the natural
The bone and brain of historical us in a sump pool
Can we collect it
Recollect it as us
Shit on it
Shit on an invaluable fern token
Shit on the tank the person has become
Shit on mammas stool gift
Shit on Daddas suicided authority
If only you could hear it
How far I’ve come from my self
How far from the lakes and glades of formal subsumption
How far from uselessness
How near to the nothing of overformed ideolect
It’s a formality now to be alienated
A matter of form
A matter of factory spun mini toys as subjects
A hall of mirrors to be worn
A rocket adorned with sponsored glyphs
If only you could hear it
The demise of music
The demise of pleasure
The arising of sado-masochistic release
Victim and liberator in one
alienated
chump
contracted to be ritualistic
inauthentic
to act the antic human
to restitch the blocked brick of language and drive
Howard Slater
1/9/08
Capitalist anschluss shits through my anus ear
Detritus of emotion
Remnant of sense
If only you could hear it
Hear embraceable alienation
The glory of the deforming inhuman
Neolithic cyborg hordes all
Crawling tribesmen reduced to slither traces
Bankers basking in percentage point annihilation
Revolutionaries in summit talks
Musicians re-nationalising themselves
If only you could hear it
The reconstituted cess seeking the natural
The bone and brain of historical us in a sump pool
Can we collect it
Recollect it as us
Shit on it
Shit on an invaluable fern token
Shit on the tank the person has become
Shit on mammas stool gift
Shit on Daddas suicided authority
If only you could hear it
How far I’ve come from my self
How far from the lakes and glades of formal subsumption
How far from uselessness
How near to the nothing of overformed ideolect
It’s a formality now to be alienated
A matter of form
A matter of factory spun mini toys as subjects
A hall of mirrors to be worn
A rocket adorned with sponsored glyphs
If only you could hear it
The demise of music
The demise of pleasure
The arising of sado-masochistic release
Victim and liberator in one
alienated
chump
contracted to be ritualistic
inauthentic
to act the antic human
to restitch the blocked brick of language and drive
Howard Slater
1/9/08