An underclass sonic (auto)theology












[a phenomenology of piles of spare tires]

[a taxonomy of bumper cigarettes]

[a genus of old oak bottle bongs]

[a phalanx of insulin syringes on top of a fridge]


[& disrupted speech, of laughing & fucking, of broken utterence, of disfluency & violence 2 English:
of a yeahnahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy ]









read in any order/play video or sound in any order

(or start at the beginning and put your ear to the ground)


Beneath concrete walls of sprawling, florescent graphite signatures - dirt-bike & car-arias trailing out of council-house backyards...




(& data symphonies woven from human hands, hair & DNA)






III TO HAVE PRESENCE
you will fill with resentment in their presence;
clenching sharp pains in your left palm



it drives by on A Current Affair – a white, combi van, with chipped and speckled paint – the driver not-to-be-seen. cabin and chairs overflowing with newspapers, clothes, and casino slots in torn divorce-bags 

(slamming and screaming flycreen-metals)


the bus flushes and relieves itsself of gassy weights – xylophone bottles bounce around tha place (he was met by his friend in a moon boot w/ an old staffy)

  that man w/ serial-killer-hair – a circular saw in one hand and a case of Toohey’s new in the other - at the end of a sinewy plastic frame (w/ mouth wide opened) 


(hahahahais it the s(t)oothless spectre at the end of the bed in the nightmares of middle-class intellectuals (& TN-wearing hipsters) in gentrified apartment blocks)


it is the neighbour from fucking hell..
.






but it is also the discussion of moons and stars and spiritis - and conspiracies of earnest - of myspace poetry and selfhelp memes – of poltergeists and fishbowls - of a ‘school of life’ that is its own thing – of early-2000s songs on old red and blue cd players.

 wondering if we are really Centrelink pagans at the end of day????













IV TO HAVE FAITH
Faith is the assurance of things hoped for &
the conviction of things felt



(towards the haptic, haptic void)










V To Confess
When I kept silent,
my bones wasted away







it is the stunted reverberation of my father’s guitar jingle-jangling-rusting on that second-hand guitar in a small room – his arched, and jail tattooed hands curving around a bread-tie – and those rubbery, machinic spectral plunges of extractive labour and the spectre of cancer



of life in Parramatta and Queensland – of recovery and hitch-hiking – of sleeping in a park – and of later 3-am commutes




of meditational walks – watching him dissolve w/ a small AM radio – listening to the crunchy Parra Eels - into the purple middle distance




his punctuated breathing as he makes his way around the loungeroom - practicing his own version of Tai Kwon Do after 9am porridge..














repeat:


We know the void/we know the precipice/

strolling around’ you want enough of this?/

the heaviness is weighting/

our hearts and tongues elating/

he had been swimming that day, dad said…/

& the cops got him round the neck/

& the cops got him round the neck/

& for those who aren’t in heaven/

we cry & cry amen



& for those who aren’t in heaven/

we cry & cry amen



(for the uncle I never got a chance to meet)