blac blocs are fucking dead manifesto

Made entirely from words cut from blac blocs’ lyrics page and words cut from the lyric sheet of blac blocs’ 2010 CD ‘mandala’
With apologies and love to allan, tonja, ray, dion & trevor

This is a performance piece.

In 4/4 time. * represents a quarter-note (crotchet) rest

| manifesto
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i went
i went
i went
to see the shit |

comin
Previous
pulsating dingbat | this page is updated frequently this page |
is updated frequently pulsating dingbat | oh
and i need to fix the enjambment | the enjambment
will not be sacrificed * |

just another perfect concrete day | Expect
another sentence * * |

we bow down *

we bow down * |

we will never be free * * |

won’t be driven
must not be written |
cannot be painted
will not be listened to | got a massive machine to make a racket
if I can find | how to unpack it Built and maintained |
Built and maintained
Built * |

and maintained *

you never * |

you never *

listen * |

i’m gonna get some petrol * |

there are roads head underground head underground the brave rise |
up head underground the brave rise up |
sand head sand head |
under the
tear * * |

manifesto
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interview
lyrics |

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MEDIA RELEASE |
i went to see
the mean perth shit |
wasted stoned drunk fucking |
dicks pissin little sister |
little sister Bang Bang Bangin |
fuckin weekend face * |

little sister the other we could fuck |
collapse
eat
lie
rise |
wasted
empty
stoned
drunk |
fucking
pissin
hey lil sister |
don’t stop fucking * * |

children
apathy
could not
wasted |
can you feel it pop * * |

children
apathy
could not
wasted |
can you feel it pop pop pop | * *

pop police | witness a problem
just like the other one |
mission mr smokin in the street |
pissin in the sand
coins
brand |
pissin
dead
just like the other one |
just like the other one
mission mr |
wasted
empty
stoned
drunk |
fuckin
pissin
hey lil sister |
i’m gonna see you
comatose |
mistook yr intention stop go |
every time Bang Bang Bangin |
weekend face
rocks sacrificed |
people dead
it’s just a voter |
get pisseder chair boy |
it’s just a voter
get pisseder |
boy * * * |

i had to
she fucked
shit
we used |
i tried smoking in the studio no new songs |
smoking in the studio no new songs | no pamphlets no backroom no action
no action |
no action
no action
to be recorded * |

Expect another sentence
instead you were hangin |

hey little sister
we could fuck |
collapse
eat
lie
rise |
we drank all yr beer
we smoked a lot of weed |
we had a nice time
you shoulda been there |
key performance Didya see my
dick |
head underground the brave rise
up |
head underground the brave rise
up |
sand head sand head |
under the
tear * * |

manifesto
video
interview
lyrics |

reviews
download
contact
gigs |

photos
myspace
MEDIA RELEASE |
manifesto *
manifesto * |

i am the dance
i mean it
its necessary |
its not the escalator now * |

if we down the methods
we will never be free |
this is not culture
no time
to sing |
no time
to sing * * |

got a massive machine to make a racket
if i can find | how to unpack it Built and maintained |
Built and maintained
Built * |

and maintained *

pulsating dingbat | this page is updated frequently Didya see my |
dick * * * |

And it was Good Good Good this is not recorded |
Good Good Good this is not recorded |
sit down shutup sit down shutup |
face the tv get real in the letter |
face the tv get real in the letter |
another perfect pocketful of fantasy |
you never *

you never * |

listen *

i’m gonna get some | petrol *

there are roads * |

get in drive break the line |
manifesto * * * |

i am the dance
i mean it
its necessary |
if we down the methods
we will never be free |
this is not culture
no time
to sing |
no time
to sing
no time
to sing |

nail

It’s the staleshit smell hanging under the perfume in the white-tiled shopping-mall toilet
It’s the bony old cat in the house of the chubby-faced students
It’s the streak of smog above the blue and white beachfront
It’s the distant siren
It’s the one string that won’t stay in tune
It’s whoever grew old, then young, then died
It’s the black edge around the heart we repeatedly draw
It’s my one purple nail
It’s my arms not reaching
It’s going back out there

(First published in Cottonmouth)

The space

There’s a live radio version from 2008 (before I had vocal lessons) here.

It’s midnight in Dream city again,
with its dark derelict house-rows,
dubious kitchens, tables for two,
corner bars. Where are the friends I seek?

Not in that bar — that’s all folk music.
I drop off my mother there. You’ll like this, I say.
I drop her off and walk alone
past people who no longer scare me
now that I’ve dropped her off.

I walk a couple of blocks of my dream-streets
to another bar. Setanta Sports, Guinness,
small, low, grotty.
My friends are there. They say hello.
They sit and stand around the room.
They are leaving a space for someone
who should be there, but has been lost.

I get a beer, sit by the wall. I’m next to the space.
I listen to their talk.
A senior man storytells, standing up,
projecting his voice over the heads of the gathering.
I hear him but his words don’t touch me.
I sit with my beer, quietly breathing, next to the space.

In walks an old colleague of mine, someone from reality.
He used to have curly red hair and a big horsey mouth.
Now his hair is wispy grey and his face has shrivelled.
But I can say his name. He stands in front of me
and tries to guess who I am.
But he doesn’t know me without my mother.

I don’t tell him. He keeps asking.
I hear him but his words don’t touch me.
I hear him but his words don’t touch me.
I sit with my beer, quietly breathing, next to the space.