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Scorched earth policy, year zero, the big lie.

The prefects in the common room still control the rekkid playa & they ain't takin Pink fuckin Floyd off just yet. Cultural commentators intellectualising social phenomenon - guardians of the network posing as harbingers of taste - kool is tomorrows' cold. We carnt tell the difference between brands anymore, we need a brand director.

Blow these fuckers away, the time has come - fuck the Pentagon, fuck Poptones & most of all, fuck Bobby Gillespe & shatter that primal skreem. Get pissed, destroy the all new status quo. Firebomb Kings Reach Towers, burn journalists who pretend to be your friends. Something is happening & you don't know what it is, do you Mr Jones?

Break those cocaine damaged noses, smash them to a pulp - shove their awards up their bloated arseholes & shoot them in the back. Disrupt their instore promotional acoustic sets, rip down the poster campaigns while they're still wet. Busk outside their shopping malls, ram it down their throats.

Confirmation of complete conformity, control freaks convention. Career opportunities, TV spin off's, celebrity endorsements & style enforcements. Think - don't think - think - don't think. Sharp sheep flock towards the banner headline of success to graze the grass of a greener field, unaware that the broom is sticking out of their arse. Pigs suckle, hammer & sickle, cull the bourgeoisie. Bring me the head of Damion Albran & stick some Bill Hicks on the stereo.

Jean Aramis Encoule Oct 2001


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