Thursday, April 2, 2009


There is no colonisation.
Our asses are free.
Our lands belong to us.
We are masters of our own destiny.

We control everything that happens.
From refugees to golf courses,
from resorts on beaches to Highland Towers,
to former political aides.
And astronauts.

All these things are ours.
Nobody else owns them.
We are rich beyond our wildest dreams.
And not ten thousand virgins would deny.

I am your master.
As you are my master.
And I am your slave.
As you are my slave.

We are married to ourselves.
Together our colours are ours alone,
from 1948 to 1957 to 1963 to 1969
to 2008/9. We are bona fide.

We are real. We are bona fide.
Finally we have a name.
Neither master nor slave.
But both. One and the same.

So move unto me, my love.

I can taste the curry on your lips.

It's the ecstasy I feel
when you’re tied up in my bed.
It’s the pleasure you feel
when I’m burning in your head.