PROPAGANDHI: How to clean everything
Roman Izmailov
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..\PROPAGANDHI SITE/quake.htm..\PROPAGANDHI SITE/quake.htm
How to Clean Everything
ANTI-MANIFESTO
Dance and laugh and play. Ignore the message we convey. It seems we're only
here to entertain. A rebellion cut-to-fit. Well I refuse to be the soundtrack
to it. While we entertain we're still knee-deep in shit. There's something
wrong inside. We've played it safe, enjoyed the ride. You won't like this but I
have something to confide. We strive for something more than a faded sticker on
a skateboard. Now we've rained on your parade and we're out the door. And I
don't even care any fucking more. Witness this pair in accomplice. Witness a
pair; lethargic, unconscious. No brows furrowed in question, complacent,
completing their tasks (no questions asked). Consider this critic a cretin.
Just resting on laurels (completely invented). Word acrobatics performed with
both harness and net. I am so full of shit. But I will remain until this
self-awareness fades. Until I defeat the the purpose served by this soapbox
that you made. That you made.
HEAD, CHEST OR FOOT?
Three choices. One bullet. One trigger. Guess who gets to pull it? One leader.
One thousand slaves. For every throne there's one thousand graves (give or take
a grave). You're all the same. Just part of their machine. Perpetuate their
dream. They subsidize their nightclubs and they subsidize your malls. They herd
and brand the masses within painted prison walls. Until 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 a pat of your
fucking machine. I'll jeopardize their dream. I'd rather be imprisoned in a
George-Orwellian world, than this pacified society of happy boyz + gurlz. I'd
rather know my enemies and let you know the same. Whose windows to smash +
whose tires to slash + where to point the fucking blame. One future. Two
choices: oppose them or let them destroy us.
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 by I
realized we don't need rule(s) 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.
SHOWDOWN (G.E./P.)
We spoke our minds too clearly. We assumed fundamental rights were inherent not
as pawns but humynz. I do not require a gauge for freedoms 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 coloured 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 the songs I sing inside me ring. Final
words are boring never touch I know you whispered something in my ear. I
couldn't hear you. Gyrls with the greenest eyes. First time you have kissed.
Our quiet softest sighs. A song for all of those who shot and missed. Welcome
to this world impuded identity. Born, tagged, tattoed, 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 ear 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. Their ambitions realized. Tear the whole fucking
thing down.
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. Rudy, a message to you Rudy... Fuck you Rudy!
MIDDLE FINGER RESPONSE
Bowl of cherries in Waskasoo creek. A sylvan way of life for those who seek
none beyond a parkland mall. This landscape oasis now feigns City Hall. And
they call this peace. That's 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 a 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-aran,
a) cunt/cock/ass/mother/father/finger/butt/blood/booger
b)sucking/fucking/shitting/farting/picking/flicking/dicking...
...dream!!! 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 humynz I haven't
irritated. I've got a lot of work to do. 3 billion people. That's 3 billion
snotty fuck you's.
STICK THE FUCKING FLAG UP YOUR GODDAMN ASS, YOU SONOFABITCH (Not to be
gender-specific, of course!)
My father told me "Son it's futile to resist. You can topple the 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 fucking dumb enough to believe them. Because
if this country is so goddamned free, then I can burn your fucking flag
wherever I damn well please. I carried their anthem convinced it was mine.
Rhymeless, unreasoned conjecture kept me in line. But then I stood back and
wondered what the fuck they had done to me. Made accomplice to all that I
promised I would never be. You carry their anthem, convinced that it's yours.
Invitation to honour. Invitation to war. Bette Midler now assumes sainthood.
Romanticize murder for morale. Tie a yellow ribbon 'round the old oak tree my
friend and "Gee, Wally. That's swell!" Fuck the troops (Insert corny but
relevant/ poignant catch phrase here).
HAILLIE SELLASSE, UP YOR ASS
You speak of Rastafari, but how can you justify belief in a God that's left you
behind. You simply fill 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 fucking 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.
FUCK MACHINE
c It's something physical. It's a conditioned reaction. It's something
physical. It's a conditioned attraction. But, have I finally escaped? Will my
eyes no longer rape the innocent womyn, chyldren, humyn beings? Seeing the pain
that it brings. Shallow, superficial decision(s). Real beauty obscured by my
tunnel/ tele-vision. But this just in! Bikini film at 10:00 pm! The female
anchor just smiles and ahrugs it off, "Boys will be boys!". But do you really
want to be our fucking toys? And in again, just condone it with a grin. Sit
back, idly chat, smile, prove you're just a fuck machine. Is that what you
realy want to fucking be? Conditioned reaction. Conditioned attraction.
Conditioned suggestion. Conditioned rejection. And yet again, subjecting women.
The female anchors' fist finally clenched, "I'm not your fucking toy!". And
though I long to embrace, I will not replace my priorities: humour, opinion, a
sense of compassion, creativity and a distaste for fashion.
THIS MIGHT BE SATIRE
I wanna chew my bubble gum with you. And I want to walk you home from school.
And I want to carry your books to every class. And I want to fuck you up the
ass (not). Oh girl, you know it's true how much I love you. I want to sing it
across the land. 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 ae my priorities? Left in the hands
of the authorities. Yeah, baby!
WHO WILL HELP ME BAKE THIS BREAD?
I speak my mind, I question theirs. It seems to me like noone really cares.
Peripherally blind, intellectually numb. Ignorance by choice, or just plain
fucking dumb? You boycott your brain. You answer with fists. But my questions
still persist (you fucking asshole). 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 (As you can
see, I really mean business. Poot!).
How to Clean a Couple o' Things
PIGS WILL PAY
Thought, word and deed once sloganeered: a reaction undefined. The battle-hymn,
the mantra of a once unfocused mind. But as logic tempered anger, (still
inspired, but now informed), the "pigs" we'd turned to caricature became far
worse that we'd warned. Morality enforcement based on the interest of a state.
Coerced into concordance and threatened into place. It's not just isolated
incidents of cop-jocks kicking ass. It's a fucking war machine protecting the
wealth of the employing class.
Less Talk, More Rock
APPARENTLY, I'M A "P.C. FASCIST" (BECAUSE I CARE ABOUT BOTH HUMAN AND NON-HUMAN
ANIMALS)
Some of my otherwise brilliant and productive friends (like scoundrels and
their flags) take final refuge in character assainations; they ignore the issue
and deny the relation between our consumption and brutality. So you can go
ahead and roll your eyes and marginalize me/socially penalize me: play on my
insecurities. And you can feign ignorance, but you're not stupid, you're just
selfish. And you're a slave to your impulse. And I kinda thought we all shared
common threads in that we gravitated here to challenge the conventions we've
been fed by a culture that treats (living, breathing, feeling) creatures like
(biological) machines. And if you buy that shit then how long 'till it's me who
serves as your commodity? Through (for example), institutionalized violence and
opression of workers and women raped by sexism (and how about native
americans?). Do you still insist on feigning indignance (aka: indignation) to
reason? To collective self-interest? Tell you what- I'll call you on your shit,
PLEASE CALL ME ON MINE. Then we can grow together and make this shit-hole
planet better in time. So why not consider someone else: STOP CONSUMING
ANIMALS.
NAILING DESCARTES TO THE WALL/(LIQUID) MEAT IS STILL MURDER
I speak outside what is recognized as the border between "reason" and
"insanity". But I consider it a measure of my humanity to be written off by the
living graves of a billion murdered lives. And I'm not ashamed of my recurring
dreams about me and a gun and a different species (hint: starts with "h" and
rhymes with "Neuman's") of carnage strewn about the stockyards, the factories
and farms. Still I know as well as anyone that it does less good than harm to
be this honest with a conscience eased by lies. But you cannot deny that meat
is still murder. Dairy is still rape. And I'm still as stupid as anyone, but I
know my mistakes. I have recognized one form of oppression, now I recognize the
rest. And life's too short to make another's shorter-(animal liberation now!).
LESS TALK, MORE ROCK
I'd like to actively encourage the toughest man to dance as hard as he can to
this, my song. And bring your stupidest friends along. We wrote this song
because it's fucking boring to keep spelling out the words that you keep
ignoring. And your mscho shit won't phase me now. It just makes us laugh, we
got your cash, court-jester take a bow. Because did you know that when I was
nine, I tried to fuck a friend of mine? HE was 8, then I turned 10. 14 years
later it happened again (with another friend). This time me on the receiving
end. And all the fists in the world can't save you now. Cuz if you dance to
this, then you drink to me and my sexuality. With your hands down my pants by
transitive property.
ANCHORLESS
They called here to tell me that you're finally dying, through a veil of
childish cries. Southern Manitoba prarire's pulling at the pant-leg of your bad
disguise. So why were you so anchorless? A boat abandoned in some backyard.
Anchorless in the small town that you lived and died in. I've got an armchair
from your family home. Got your P.G. Wodehouse novels and your telephone. I've
got your plates and stainless steel. Got that way of never saying what you
really feel. I don't want to live and die here where we're anchorless.
RIO DE SAN ATLANTA, MANITOBA
Our cities seem to function quite the same: sweeping ghettos undeer one big rug
makes them easier to contain, so the upper-middle class can sleep (or shop in
peace) and convince themselves that "trickle-down" will solve this poverty.
Yes, murderers walk our streets and their weapons are their pens, desks,
policies and P.R. campaigns (fed by the spoils of war) against the "lazy,
shiftless" populations of the poor. This system cannot be reformed...(so how
about we try something different?)
A PUBLIC DIS-SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT FROM SHELL
("Clear Thinking in Troubled Times": Winnipeg Free Press, Nov 21st, 1995
"People have the right to the truth. Unvarnished. Even uncomfortable. But never
subjugated to a cause, however noble or well-meaning. They have the right to
clear thinking. Slogans, boycotts and protests don't offer answers... (I)t has
been suggested that Shell should pull out of developing nations altogether. The
oil would certainly continue flowing. The business would continue operating.
The vast majority of the employees would remain in place. But the sound and
ethical business practices synonymous with Shell, the environmental investment,
and the tens of millions of dollars spent on community programs would all be
lost. Again, it's the people of developing nations that you would hurt. It's
easy enough to sit in your comfortable homes in the West, calling for sanctions
and boycotts against a developing country. But you have to be sure that
knee-jerk reactions won't do more harm than good. Some campaigning groups say
that we should intervene in the political process in developing nations. But
even if we could, we must never do so. Politics is the business of governments
and politicians. The world where companies use their economic influence to prop
up or bring down governments would be a frightening and bleak one indeed." (ha.
ha.)
...AND WE THOUGHT THAT NATION-STATES WERE A BAD IDEA
"Publicly subsidized! Privately profitable!" That's the anthem of the
upper-tier (the puppeteer untouchable). We focus a moment, nod in approval and
bury our head back in the bar-codes of these neo-colonials while our former
nemesis (ah, the romance!): the nation-state, now plays fund-raiser for a new
brand of power-concentrate. Try again, but now we're confused- what is
"class-war"? Is this class war? Yes, this is class war. And I'm just a kid- I
can't believe that I gotta worry about this kind of shit! What a stupid world!
Yeah, this is just beautiful... absolutely no regard for principle. What a
stupid world. (We're): 1) born 2) hired 3) disposed! Where that job lands,
everybody knows and you can tell by the smile on the CEO's that the
environmental restraints are about to go. You can bet that laws will be set to
ensure the benefit of unrestricted labor-laws (all kept in place by displaced
government death squads). They own us. They produce us. They consume us. Can
you fucking believe this? What a stupid world. Fuck this bullshit display of
class-loyalties. The media and "our" leaders wrap it all up in a flag- their
fucking shit-rag. hooray!
I WAS A PRE-TEEN McCARTHYIST
At Harold Edward's Elementary you pay respect to Our God, Our Flag, Our
Military. In grade 3 I had a written composition about the global threat of
communism. And I was the luckiest 8-year old McCarthyist of 1979: I spent
spring break on the flight line of a base in the Carolinas- the U.S. version of
my dad had signed us in. And 12 years later, the Gatling I'd touched that was
strapped to the nose of a U.S. A-10, separated flesh from bone and honed its'
skills on "lesser humans". And thus confirmed the suspicions earned in the 7
years preceding about the lies I was told and if the truth be known, I'm
probably better off believing (well, they said I'm better off believing...
somehowbetter off believing). But how could they do this to me? Born head first
and brought up ankle deep. And maybe you're a lot like me- identified for 14
years without a choice. Terrified the morning you woke up and realized that if
and when you jump ship, you either swim for shore or drown. Don't let the
fuckers drag you down.
RESISTING TYRANNICAL GOVERNMENT (It's a dirty job- but somebody's gotta do it)
Why don't we all strap bombs to our chests and ride our bikes to the next G-7
picnic? It seems easier with every clock tick. But whose will would that
represent? Mine? Yours? The rank-and-file's? Or better yet: the Government's?
But I don't want to catalyze or synthesize the second Final Solution. I don't
want to be the Steve Smith of the Revolution. Do you see the analogy? We're the
Oilers. The World Bank- the Flames! And just 2 minutes remain in the 7th game
of the best of 7 series! Yeah, Jesus saves! Gretzky scores! The workers slave.
The rich get more. One wrong move and we risk the cup. So play The Man, not the
puck. Why don't we plant a mechanic virus and erase the memory of the machines
that maintain this capitalist dynasty? And yes, I recognize the irony that the
very system I oppose affords me the luxury of biting the hand that feeds. But
that's exactly why priviledged fucks like me should feel obliged to whine and
kick and scream- until everyone has everything they need.
GIFTS
Wake up, coughing, tired, with my face in my hands, staring at the window as
the sunlight demands action. All the energy it takes to close these bedroom
blinds. Wrote this selfish sadness on a bathroom wall, spent half the span of
some lost culture's rise and fall, but I'm as clueless as a drooling four year
old. Still hoping I might find the capacity to let you know I know you're
lonely. So here's the last call for regrets, a final slow dance through the
days that we all hold on to. Here's the promises I've made, tied too tight to
undo. An unwrapped gift from me to you. All the slightly insane on the 18 North
Main, reaching for a small-town downtown, night rain, nothing I could say could
be worth saying anyway today. Like "Hey, whatever happened to what's that guys'
name?", we get a little older and it looks the same: askance. Excuse my failing
sense of humour. Here's the promises I've made; a razor blade and this broken
piece of chain. A history left to rust out in the rain.
THE ONLY GOOD FASCIST IS A VERY DEAD FASCIST
Swastikas and Klan-robes. Sexist, racist, homophobes. Aryan-Nations and
Hammerskins: you can wear my nuts on your nazi chins! God, I love a man in
uniform! (But, uh, before we get too intimate here, big fella): what exactly
are the great historical accomplishments of "your" race that make you proud to
be white? Capitalism? Slavery? Genocide? Sitcoms? Guns? War? Pollution?
Addiction? NAFTA? Thigh-Master? This is your fucking white-history, my
"friend". So why don't we start making a history worth being proud of and stat
fighting the real fucking enemy: the white male capitalist supemacist.
Swastikas and Klan-robes. Sexist, racist, homophobes. This one's for the
"Master Race": my brown-power ass in your white-power face! Kill them all and
let a Norse God sort 'em out!
A PEOPLE'S HISTORY OF THE WORLD
At some turning point in history, some fuckface recognized that knowledge tends
to democratize cultures and societies so the only thing to do was monopolize
and confine it to priests, clerics and elites (the rest resigned to serve), cuz
if the rabble heard the truth they'd organize against the power, privilege and
wealth hoarded by the few- for no one else. And did it occur to you that it's
almost exactly the same today? And so if our schools won't teach us, we'll have
to teach ourselves to analyze and understand the systems of thought-control.
And share it with each other, never sayed by brass rings or the threat of
penalty. I'll promise you- you promise me- not to sell each other out to
murderers, to thieves... who've manufactured our delusion that you and me
participate meaningfully in the process of running our own lives. Yeah, you can
vote however the fuck you want, but power still calls all the shots. And
believe it or not, even if (real) democracy broke loose, power could/would just
"make the economy scream" until we vote responsibly.
THE STATE-LOTTERY
Does it seem strange to you? The confetti. The balloons. The mile-wide grins
and the victory dance to welcome in the heir to a state of (utter and complete)
disrepair? Because it sure seems strange to me: they're acting like they won
the fucking lottery! I mean, shouldn't they feel terror at the task that lies
ahead: to feed and house the people that this system's left for dead. And could
I have hit the nail much harder on the head? It's profits before lives. They
are motivated by greed. First they taught us to depend on their nation-states
to mend our tired minds, our broken bones, our bleeding limbs. But now they've
sold off all the splints and contracted out the tourniquets and if we jump
through hoops then we might just survive. Is this what we deserve? To scrub the
palace floors? To fight amongst ourselves? As we scramble for the crumbs they
spit out, frothing at the mouth about the scapegoats that they've chosen for
us. With every racist pointed finger I can hear the goose-steps getting closer.
They no longer represent us so is it not our obligation to confront this
tyranny?
REFUSING TO BE A MAN
I'm not going to try to tell you that I'm different from all the rest. I've
been subject to the same de-structure of desire and I've felt the same effects;
I'm a hetero-sexist tragedy. And potential rapists all are we. But don't tell
me this is natural. This is nurturing. And there's a difference between sexism
and sexuality. I had different desires prior to my role-remodelling. And at six
years of age you don't challenge their claims. You become the same. (Or
withdraw from the game and hang your head in shame). I think that's exactly
what I did. I tried to sever the connections between me and them. I fought
against their further attempts to convince a kid that birthright can bestow the
power to yield the subordination of women and do you know what patricentricity
means? I found out just a couple of days/months/years/minutes ago. It means
male values uber alles and hey! Whaddaya know... sex has been distorted and
vilified. I'm scared of my attraction to body types. If everything desired is
objectified then maybe eroticism needs to be redefined. And I refuse to be a
"man".
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Roman