Well, sorta.
In the Third Ward, Zane Alcorn,* Thomas Cameron and Laura Ealing are appealing to workers to Vote 1 Socialist Alliance; the Australia First candidates are Nathan Clarke (‘nafe’ on the the world’s #1 white supremacist website Stormfront), Ian McBryde and Jim Smith. They come from an alternate, Whites-only universe, and are standing in a separate Ward.
- *In a previous battle, the rappin’ skillz, phat beats with tight cuts and incisive lyrics of Zane Alcorn, aka MC Doc Fruit, failed to set the electorate of Wills on its head. Zane got 624 votes in the 2007 Federal election, or 0.7% of the total, a reduction of 0.4% from 2004 for SA. On the bright side, Zane still managed to soundly defeat the CEC candidate, which is something, and the move north may well ripen Fruit’s appeal.
Elsewhere in NSW, SA is standing other losing candidates. Thus in Blacktown City Council Third Ward, Rachel Evans, Soubhi Iskander and Hassan Abaid are battling for power, while in Marrickville Council North Ward, Pip Hinman, Jill Hickson and Howard Byrnes are keeping the spirit of the (murderous) Che Guevara alive.
And in very late-breaking news, in the WA state election on September 6, SA member Julie Grey is running as an Independent in the North Metropolitan Region (for a seat in the Legislative Council). Julie is the only SA member running in WA, and is facing an uphill battle not to come last of the 33 candidates all vying for a seat in Parliament.
Can Julie beat Ben McKinnon of the Daylight Saving Party? Will Paul Augustson and Ron J McLean demonstrate that Lyndon LaRouche really is a genius, or at least more popular among the good citizens of North Metropolitan Perth than a devotee of Marx and Engels? Who is the mysterious Douglas Greypower, and can his magic overcome the allure of Socialism? Stay tuned!
If reporters want to know about my “rampant — and occasionally genuinely hysterical — bigotry”, they can call me on 0431 739 260 or email me @ [email protected]
Want to know more?
Oops, wrong thread.
Wrong planet.
hahaha, “Fear of a Black Planet” does Darrin really want a call from the Mongrel Mob?
I for one welcome our new overlords.
“In the worlds before Monkey, primal chaos reigned. Heaven sought order, but the phoenix can fly only when it’s feathers are grown. The four worlds formed again and yet again, as endless aeons wheeled and passed. Time and the pure essences of Heaven, the moistures of the Earth, and the powers of the Sun and the Moon all worked upon a certain rock – old as creation, and it magically became fertile… Elemental forces caused the egg to hatch. From it then came a stone monkey… The nature of Monkey was irrepressible!”
HAIL GREAT SAGE EQUAL OF HEAVEN!
Hi All
Andy is the implication of this that liberalism and post-social democratic ‘third way’ ideologies are actually vastly popular and good on them? And will you be comparing sales from anarchist book shops with sales from freaky new-age ones?
rebel love
Dave
Sorry to bother you,
Citizen taxman!
No thanks…
Don’t worry…
I’d rather stand.
I’ve come to see you
on a delicate matter;
The place
of the poet
in a worker’s land.
Along with
storekeepers
and land users
I’m taxable too,
and am bound by the law.
Your demand
for the half-year
is 500 roubles,
And for not filling forms – 25 more.
My labour’s
no different
from any other labour.
Examine these figures
of loss and gain,
The production
costs
I have been facing,
The raw material
I had to obtain.
With the notion of “rhyme”
you’re acquainted, of course?
When a line of ours
ends with a word
like “plum”
In the next line but one
we repeat
the syllable
With some other word
that goes
“tiddle-ti-tum”.
A rhyme
is an IOU,
as you’d put it.
“Pay two lines later”
is the regulation.
So you seek
the small charge of inflexion, suffix
In the depleted till
of declensions,
conjugations.
You shove
a word
into a line of poetry
But it just won’t go –
you push it and it snaps.
Upon my honour,
Citizen taxman,
Words
cost poets a pretty penny in cash.
As we poets see it,
a barrel
the rhyme is,
A barrel of dynamite,
the fuse is
each line.
The line starts smoking,
exploding the line is,
And the stanza
blows
a city
sky-high.
Where to find rhymes,
in what tariff list,
That hit the bull’s eye
with never a failure?
Maybe
a handful of them
still exist
Faraway somewhere
in Venezuela.
I have to scour
freezing
and tropical climes.
I flounder in debt,
I get advance payments.
My travel expenses
bear in mind.
Poetry –
all poetry –
is an exploration.
Poetry
is just like mining radium.
To gain just a gram
you must labour a year.
Tons of lexicon ore
excavating
All for the sake of one precious word,
But
how searing
the heat of this word is
Alongside
the smouldering
heap of waste.
There are the words
that go rousing, stirring
Millions of hearts
from age to age.
Of course,
there are different brands of poet.
Famed for sleight of hand
are quite a few.
Verses they pull,
like a conjuror,
boldly
Out of their own mouths –
and others’ too.
What can one say
of the poetry eunuchs?
They write
stolen lines in –
not turning a hair.
Thieving
like that
is nothing unusual
In a country
where thieves are enough and to spare.
These
contemporary
odes and verses
Which with rapt ovations
audiences greet
Will go down
in history
as overhead charges.
For the achievements
of a few of us –
two or three.
It takes
quite a time,
to get to know people,
Smoke many a packet of cigarettes
Till you raise
that wonderful word
you’re needing
From the deep artesian
folk wells.
Straightaway
the rate of tax
grows less.
Knock
that wheel-zero
off the total due.
I pay one rouble 90
for a hundred cigarettes
And one rouble 60
for the salt I consume.
I see your form
there’s a host of questions:
“travelled abroad?
Or spent all the time here?”
What if
I’ve run down
a dozen Pegasuses
In the course of
these
fifteen years?!
You want to know
how many servants
I’m keeping,
What houses?
My special case please observe:
Where
do I stand
if I lead people
And simultaneously
the people serve?
The class
speaks
with the words we utter
And we
proletarians
push the pen.
The soul-machine
wears out,
begins to splutter.
They tell us:
“Your place
now
is on the shelf.”
There’s ever less love,
less bold innovation,
Time
strikes my forehead
a running blow.
There comes
the most terrifying depreciation,
The depreciation
of heart and soul,
When
one day this sun
shall like a fattened hog in
A land rid of beggars
and cripples
rise,
Dead by the fence
I’ll
have long
been rotting
Along with
ten or so
colleagues of mine.
Draw up
my posthumous balance-sheet!
I tell you –
upon this I’m ready to bet –
Unlike
all the dealers and climbers
you see
I’ll be
a unique case –
hopelessly in debt.
Our duty is
to roar
like brass-throated sirens
In philistine fog
and in stormy weather.
Paying
fines in cash
and high interest
on sorrow,
The poet
is always
the Universe’s debtor.
And I
owe a debt
to the lights of Broadway,
A debt to you also,
Bagadady skies,
To the Red Army
and to Japan’s cherry blossom –
To all
about which
I had no time to write.
Why
did I undertake
this burden?
With rhyme to shoot,
with metre anger to spark?
Your resurrection
the poet’s word is,
Your immortality,
Citizen clerk.
Read any line
a hundred years after
And it brings back the past,
as fast as a wink,
All will come back –
this day
with the taxman
With a glint of magic
and the reek of ink.
Come, you smug dweller in the present era,
Buy your rail ticket
to Eternity
here.
Calculate
the impact of verse
and distribute
All that I earn
over three hundred years!
Not only in this
lies the power of a poet,
That it’s you
future generations
will think about.
Oh no!
Today too
are the rhymes of a poet
A caress,
a slogan,
a bayonet,
a knout.
Five –
not five hundred –
roubles I’ll pay
You, citizen taxman!
Delete every nought!
As of right
I’m
demanding a place
With workers
and peasants
of the poorest sort.
But if
you think
all I do is just press
Words other people use
into my service
Comrades,
come here,
let me give you my pen
And you
can yourselves
write your own verses!