Part 1.  ‘Utterly, But Naked.'
Well the bankers had taken over the asylum

and I was still waiting for our ship to hit the fan,

for the shit to hit the shore and leave the sure behind,

unsure of just what the shore is for
As we walk through the streets of debris,

the valley of banality –

the cultural desert were the only thing that grows

are the plastic plants of distraction;

TV's the size of guilt complexes,

& opiated computer games so hip

that you don't even need to play them anymore,

just drop your pay-cheque off at your local store

& take their word for it,

while you get back too earning money more, more, more,

which it seemed to me was our state religion.
So I got this job ringing people and hassling them

about the job they were doing ringing people & hassling them

into buying some consumer durable drug or exotic drink

so that they could forget about much how they hated their job

ringing people & hassling them

into buying some consumer durable drug or exotic drink,

so that their bosses could ring & hassle my bosses

into hassling my supervisor

into hassling me into hassling you

about the level of harassment you been receiving of late

from the makers of fine consumer durable drugs & exotic harassment,
and round and round and round it goes

like the boiling fur in my toilet bowl,

because I couldn't give a damn if a toilets clean when I'm blue
& in the end it's just a choice between being scared or being bored;

bound up and bored as a battery hen,

or single and shit scared

as a feral stray cat in a McTuckey Fried Pie factory –
Utterly, but naked.

Utterly butt naked in the beautiful eyes of the world,

Utterly butt naked in the sad taxi cabs of existence,

Utterly butt naked on the 422 to Tempe Tip & Temporal reality,

via Newtown North & Newtonian Physical myths,

Utterly butt naked in the ocean of amore,

Riding the waves out to sea

& leaving the sure behind.
 
Part II.  ‘Pub'
So anyway, we gave up on sobriety

and dived into the peculiar sea of our local piss hole

where the patrons garbled and yarbled in the pidgin English of Pub;

the soapy beer washing their brains into the guttering around the bar

as steroid raddled dogs ran rabidly after a rubber rabbit on a radio in the air around us
just like the debt of gambling addicts

abusing the invisible bitch of Lady Luck

that they've failed to pick up again

but still putting another lobster on Race 6 at Dapto today anyway where
‘My Embittered Liver hugs the rail against Sweet Escapism'
as they hug the rail in vein around the TAB betting desk

between the bar and the junky blue lit loos
as we sit surrounded by the salty ugh sounds

of the homoerotic violence of rugby

emitted by the pay TV in the corner,

until it's turned down of an evening only to be replaced

by the post-midnight mumbling stumbles and stupid attempts on

any females unfortunate enough to be in the visual perimeter of The Pub
‘Where anything can happen, and probably won't'

says the cynical amphetamine fuelled freak next to me, buying me drinks,

and wishing he could roll a number,

or a number of numbers, of Lebanese Blonde,

but he can't,

even though you can purchase a bag of sad cones

from the yob drinking himself to death with the off-duty cops in the corner

who only stop to oil the reams and reams of pokie machines

lined up against the wall like loaded fits

as the patrons garble and yarble in the pidgin English of Pub –
the soapy beer oiling their libidos

like the legs of ex-lovers lulling in laughter in the back of their brains

and driving them to drinking games,

till they're drunk enough to act as stupid and insane

as the school boys they become again.
Until something goes wrong

and the humidity puts humility on heat

and some drunken punter gives somebody else their fist to eat,
‘‘cause they were talking like a horse's hoof, with aspirations Mate!'
and we begin to think that we might be mixing our drinks

a little too untactfully to keeps ourselves intact around here
as my companion hits the pavement like a packet of beer nuts

& begins to scat ‘Taxi, Taxi, Taxi'

like an old snare drum

and I'm thinkin' that maybe what I need is the Wagon.
 
Part III.      ‘What For Reality?'
So anyway, the next day,

like you do, I crawled out of the doona

gathered up a shadow of my former selves,

bounced a Berocca off the bottom of a glass

& prepared to 'take on' once more my intimidating existence.

And then it occurred to me,

what for reality?
What for this rat race of running around

like a mixed metaphor with it's head cut off?

Or worse still, waiting around frustrated on hold

for something, who knows what, to happen?
‘your call may be placed in a queue,

and you may be slowly tortured by classical muzak

till you learn your lesson and stop ringing us.

Your life may be placed in a meaningless void,

and your calls for help may be unmonitored.

If you don't wish this to happen, tough.

Your sense of self esteem may be placed in a precarious position

above a vat of boiling innuendo,

if you wish upon a star, press on.

Your sense of place in the universe may be placed in a vice,

& dropped slowly into a bucket of warm nuns

were it will be tortured by Catholic and Capitalist Guilt.

Due to current demands on our operators

you may have to wait as long as six incarnations

for anything bordering upon a sense of enlightenment.

Reality doesn't so much apologise for this inconvenience

as lay in the corner of the room having a quiet chuckle to itself.'
What for all this eat, shit, sleep, eat again?
‘give in to temptation: a quarter pound of fresh lard in every

Mc Pig-Fat shake and bake – good on ya Mum, offal's the one.

Tar and feather me Colonel with Kentucky battery farm strange fruit McUnidentified Pie

and the Grand Dragon of the Klu Klux Klan's 11 secret herbs and steroids.'
What for paid employment?
Make money to buy food to have energy to go to work so you can

Make money to buy food to have energy to go to work so you can

Make money to buy food to have energy to go to work so you can

drink and shop till you drop, no time for art or beatific visions, because you must

Make money to buy food to have energy to go to work so you can

Make money to buy food to have energy to go to work so you can…
What for money?
It takes money to make money

money makes the world go money

shut up and do what your money told you

I can't get by without my money

money knows best

money put aside for money will money into money

Money, just killed a man;

put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger now he's…
and on Money Street today, Money's up five points against Money

so I suggest you money your money on super money till you retire at 60

then money that money straight into a super-duper money

until you're bed-bound and have a lack of bladder control

then e-money that money into trust no fun money

until you are blind, deaf, senile and coughing up blood.

Then take your money out of money

and let your money realise your money's dreams

as you of course will be busy dying

which is one thing you can put money on.
So what for wake up in the morning

when your dreams are bound to be better

than the day time TV that reality tends to be?

Because life's a pitch,

and then you buy it

and everyone in Sydney's an actor anyway

and all sincerity is these days is something else you've got to learn to fake

as you sit there suffering one another's small talk

then swing back the symphony of sycophancy to

Me, Me, Me!

Before diving once more into the

beer and bullshit laden seas of socialising,

metaphorically pulling people off for fear of getting passed up for promotion
or perhaps netwanking with other stressed out wannabes

in conversations about as captivating as watching

the Weather Channel, or MTV

just so they can help justify your drab existence by

making your film or fucking you,

staging your play and publishing your poise-on-us poetry

till you cum all over the public's face in a vile volcano of kudos
or am I just being cynical?
Playing the game just as much as the rest of them

licking their bits with my B-Grade wit,

so I can feel superior to the suburban saps that I grew up with

wasting away on the factory floor as we speak.
Well the answer of course is yes;

I'm just oiling the wheels of wank with my whining,

and wasting more minutes of your precious existence,

and therein lies the irony, sleeping liking an ethnic stereotype
So I'll just shut up now,

be cause I'm sure you've got some very important shit to get on with.