from In Memoriam: Lou Reed

John Kinsella & Drew Milne

   in blue, Titianesque in your 
scuddy kit, scuds as launchers 
   over Gaza tuned playgrounds, 
   a nightingale giving it large 
into the mouth of the Mersey 
   before the offshore franchise 
   does the modal, the auxiliary 
the love me do, does, doesn't 
   the ads, here are the louche 
   demise public service outcasts 
preying on the youth of the city 
   now warp, prosthetics can't 
   breathe life into spandex eyes: 
Bight to bit crusher, Bight to bits 
   in bully zones, to clash 
   relapse four chord military 
school discipline of an angular 
   sort, a birdman in fighter 
   apparel, afterburner capital 
before 6am after 6pm, totalled 
   on apron spread equipments, 
   roadies loading lush air-to-airs, 
flash-in-pan surplus-value legend 
   of magnitude, where treading 
   on a loaf of bread is demise, 
the missing shoe, bloody eternity, 
   rock ‘n’ roll Marconi test- 
   ament, no limits, no simply 
Experimenta in corpore vili 
   declared to hungry donors 
   working to manufacture 
more essences or essentials 
   that's no deposit, no return 
   no to pretty much anything 
that's not nailed to flying organs, 
   principles without capitals, 
   rhythms without digressions 
songs without no, back boys 
   it’s the attack of the sub-pop 
   rhizomes in tin fall off edge 
do but a shook sun asunder 
   mon amour, thunder dunciads 
   will be dawn before chemical 
yawning brings on the market 
   traders in suits, you know the 
   artiste & repertoire splice 
team, that's teamsters to you 
   and could you sign over the 
   invisible ink of dead labour: 
we have designs on your station 
   on all the flaying of Marsyas 
   odes in the oblique slash vein 
say, but, do you do any ballads? 
   not holidays in cambodia or 
   I love my baby cos she does 
good sculptures, yeah, not the 
   wretched neo-gestapo doom 
   revivalist thing that the dupe 
army made do dissident frisson 
   before getting the franchise 
   on hopes otherwise dusted 
done for the love of long hair: 


to taste regional emphasis as if 
   packages of noni, margoze, 
   carambole and pimpin rock 
the souvenir, bootleg aspirants, 
   suck sadness from maloya 
   and decorate Big Whites’ 
mansions with pastiche under 
   Vichy-era submarine nets 
   to stop cliff-collapse rolling 
over EU investment fatalities, 
   statistics and drummed stats 
   then bested is vibe got sega 
tasting, sample happy in d.n.a. 
   hoovering the groove trope 
   that glocalisation can pump 
before calling in the tin foil 
   you get it drone baby scar 
   across the solidarity threads 
over to Tropicália: ou Panis et 
   Circensis this is manifesto 
   time and party slew drifters 
well the maximalist montage 
   of pop pap and trifle done 
   up in Nancarrow techno for 
the phaser and comb filters 
   off a Rhodes chrome dawn 
   each bell town beau jangles 
as the roulé does communism 
   beat bloods and Kayamb 
   show me your ideophone 
show me your dubbed track 
   star in bossa nova hi life 
   ripped into the authenticity 
of heritage gold star realism, 
   our greatest hits own the 
   stem cell technology on 
which even the Blubul and 
   Stonechat cannot so erase 
   song but in threnody of the 
Sacred Ibis there be solidarity 
   in the shuffle, stomp in the 
   barricade trash bills, recoup 
on the main drag, now get 
   the love art of it off of 
   those deluxe Yurt ethno- 
trappistes, all the ready-mades 
   in sable cannot last up and 
   write off the summer songs: 
fiesta, Refavela, surrender is 
   faster, the trust funds are 
   not master and nor is the 
disastrous call of the albatross 
   over the seas, but not so far, 
   not so far away as Napster 
scandals come to ancient lore 
   in the deadness of property: 
   here is the file, now share it:
 

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