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All Saints
Fans Have Been Purged From Punk Rock
When the thrills of the father
become those of the son, when rebellion is just a youthful phase,
when innovation and creativity are drowned amongst the baying of
conformity--you're done.
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Train-Hopping
Parasites
Hiding behind art, behind self
expression, behind poverty. Disguised as liberalism.
Disguised as radicalism. Now get on your bikes and ride.
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40 Oz. of
Social Skills
When you're stoned and I am
drunk, when we make love it feels a little desolate. It's
hard sometimes not to think what's the point when I'm having to
hold this fire down. Because every recollection is fettered
in the chains of addiction. Let's just forget about
it. Bend your reason. Ignore the past: fumbling
intimacies, unmerited altercations, money in the trash, and words
we can never take back.
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We Don't Care
What People Say
From the beach front mansions
of Pass Christian, to the endless sands of Biloxi, in and out the
countless punk houses of Baton Rouge, culminating in reckless
filth and invincible stamina, despite crooked politicians and
dirty cops--we rule this ancient city. In defense of
decadence, street lights, people. Gulf Coast. Fuck
you.
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No Gods, No
Myspace
A new design for
relationships. Relationships of distance.
Relationships that don't require meeting. Relationships that
never require meeting. Evermore will we be engulfed in the
electronic. Starved of light, fresh air, fresh food,
spontaneous movement, friendly face-to-face human company, human
warmth, human touch, human smell--animals no more.
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Tulane
University
You had a hundred billion
chances and ways to have avoided today. But you decided to
spill my blood. You forced me into a corner and gave me only
one option. Now you have blood on your hands that will never
wash off. You had everything you wanted. Your mercedes
wasn't enough. Golden necklaces weren't enough. Your
trust funds weren't enough. Vodka and cognac wasn't
enough. All your debaucheries weren't enough to fill your
hedonistic needs.
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Crescent
City Morons
(Really they're all) just nu metal
jocks--heybrahs. Hey, brah,
you couldn't join the cops, so now what? Sneak and drop kick fourteen year
old girls instead of black people. I guess they grew up around can't dance
people. A bunch of can't dance kids, living in a can't dance house, out in
a can't dance car, with a doofy can't dance dad, getting drunk in can't dance
bars. You can't dance. Homeboy, will you please get off the
floor? You morons.
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Death to Irony
Now let's all cash
in on the next big New Orleans trend. Let's play pretend. Now
shake your ass like you saw on
the tv. Just how many black friends do you have? And just how cool
does that make you feel? Congratulations, you're not racist. You are
just disillusioned, out of touch, and completely ignorant. Defend New
Orleans. Defend its culture. Offend the tourists.
Offend the usurpers. We're gonna cut this shit out right.
We're kicking Batemon out the house tonight. We're gonna cut
this shit out right. We're kicking Ballzack out the house
tonight. We're gonna cut this shit out right. We'll
kick The Saint out the house tonight. We're gonna cut this
shit out right. We're kicking hipsters out the house
tonight.
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My Shitty
Metairie Metal Band
How long can we vacillate
between substance-less posturing and the embodiment of all that's
loathsome? In our hands violence is no longer a means of
social, emotional, or intellectual deconstruction. Jocks go
out at night and pick fights from Friar Tucks to TJ
Quills. Open the parish. Bomb the suburbs. Cops
go out at night and pick fights from Bourbon Street to
Esplanade.
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