Get You Back Home

This is 1-2-3-4, published by Out To Lunch on the Leeds SWP Roneo in 1980 and which retailed at 50p ...


the jeans wore out that we walk in:
before it didn't happen because of
polish bop, inscrutable sausage eloquence.
the slick shits in their denim jackets
and sensitive polaroids. dumb HM
superfans, licking the arse of a system
that shits on them. Retreat from pop
ulism (massed denim sincerity as the
Led Zeppelin hordes converge on Earls
Court) retreat :into jazz, homebrow,
hatred, jam tomorrow, lol coxhill, the
doors and one good friend who
hated Pink Floyd, red bulbs and
"druggies" too. Sleeping sickness for
the energy that failed Joplin, Hendrix,

Morrison: fading into the boredoms of
strawberry incense, yellowing Rolling
Stone cuttings, necklaces and occult debris.
(debutantes slice the oozing brie)
the blanket of organized cultural
fronts muffling SEX
SEX in new american
isms and borrowed terms. Rubbish.
John Lydon walking down Kings Road
wearing a torn Pink Floyd T-shirt,
I HATE scrawled above in offensive
"If it is ever going to be possible to

resolve political and aesthetic responses
to music, it is only going to be by
actively proposing a certain kind of
music. It is impossible to explain why
Pink Floyd, ELP and YES are the rubbish
they are without refering to their
complacent reliance upon reactionary
classical standards, their alienation from
black music and their disastrous
bourgeoisification of the musical taste
of England's youth."
many keyholes thru the same door.
a trou key in the breech.
anger at rejection.
cryin' home in bed.

they're all fuckin' bastards, Frank.
"All them hippies at the Hammersmith
Odeon, despising me, because I was
young and I didn't have long hair, maaan."
embarrassment of (giggle explosions)
and (intense denunciations of the Grateful
Dead) and (sourness) while (smoking dope).
(now the pressure's more intense,
lefty moralists tell me you aren't
where it's at, but Fuck that, if they
WANT to be boring... )
They'll use your own heartthrob
to say selfsacrifice and humility are
the key. Aztec priest holds aloft a

juddering muscles, pumping still
down the steps, a path of blood,
littered corpses, the unacknowledged
wake of selfsacrifice, Service, God,
Queen and Country. God Save Her.
this is Religion.
this is the age of reality.
the meek shall inherit nothing.
swapping tones of voice buggers state
ment. well I'll be buggered. I got a
lust for life, LUST FOR LIFE. McLaren's
"Let It Rock", ominous doorway to an hermet
ic cellophane culture, rows of drapes and

brothelcreepers in the heavy gloom.
Red Indian or Aztec window dressing to
intimidate racist Teds, clicking below
the tongue clucks of Auntie Beeb:
strange hybrid forms to ward off those
who want security, a hospital, a prison.
then Malcolm loses his interest in Teds,
which was only a literal reading of the
S.I.'s armchair enthusiasm for the first
Rock 'n Roll rebels, and decides
his market is perversion, the
rubber/leather fancies of the businessman.
So to attract the youth who say "why not?".
"SEX" letters huge above the shop,
wrapped in pink plastic, bound in rope:

the simple mechanical nastiness of used
condoms and marital aids. The joke
being that pink as fashion colour came
from the pink of surgical sex plastic,
I got a girl with a little rubber
head: Ms Pinky. The mutual degradations
of flesh and machines, the compelling
garbage mix of false teeth and braces,
Poly Styrene's mouth (damn braces, bless
relaxes: the wounded breast of arching
syntax, no tits on Poly) and lavish
dentures, all the swirl of neon DUREX
displays and cockextenders protruding
teats, all this collision of mind and
matter rises now, burnished to a

chrome delight in sheer superficial
fashion chic, the nimble legs of the
model in Woman's Own encased in tight
straight cords are pink inside & out.
Inside, a riot: white noise, my nose.
Buttercup shite? my arse.
Flap her buns on me, the record
executives brownnosing as their sup
eriors waltz past the execution trap
door. Pound for a Brown at the Odeon.
come in the bus, huh? Steve Jones
reminisces about the clothes in Sex,
he tried on a rubber suit to find
it was covered in come; you mean he
got his jollies just once and didn't

buy the thing? Dissolve to pennyarcade
slot machines, stuttering sex visions,
girls removing drawers & corsets - the
ground littered with used paper tissues,
so much lust and tenderness turned to
refuse by the hum of the moneyspinning
fantasy machines; disco love tonote.
McLaren is Puck, Hermes, Loki: the con
man, the trickster - who uses commerce to
prise apart the boring walls and
common blocks, put a spanner in the
works, sell sexclothes in Kings Road
instead of Soho. Branson, bearded hippie
entrepreneur, secure in m/c knowingness,
is Wotan: he's got his company, his

chainstores and power: money talks
in English courts, power slips from
Malcolm's grasp. McLaren operates from
the places you don't want to go, spiv
contacts and business deals: King Mob,
or, get out there and do it. McLaren deals
in where flesh meets product, manufact
uring articles to live your dreams he's
the Man, who intervenes and juggles
at the juncture of decision & orgasm,
the ringmaster without domination.
McLaren is the cool catalyst, objective
sneer and opener of spaces where
ideology baulks and muffles not. Anything
that comes into your head, you can

do, and we'll survive by using
the Spectacle to finance our fun.
Not like Presley who lost the fun to
finance the Spectacle, line the pockets
of Col. Parker and the RCA shareholders;
not like Jagger, who's finally too dim
to see hisself an attitude which is
known, seen and forgotten by his audience
'n even those'll never fade away. In fact
unlike anyone except perhaps Iggy,
stencilled on his P.A. &) sings as near
the bone as ever. Get the yobs together,
make 'em play Iggy, the Monkees, Faces'
hits, establish the name SEX

PISTOLS, even if it's in lipstick on
the nude torso of a prepubescent
young lovely, and finally "blast out
Babylon" at some crummy worthless
gathering like Andrew Loog Oldham's
praty or whatever: FUCK THE SPECTACLE
& make sure the gossipcolumnists get
their copy. MaLaren shits himself at
the rumpus caused by the swearing on
Bill Grundy's show; EMI will drop them.
Then learns to use it, ride the grimy
OUTRAGE headlines in the Mirror: aesthetic
praxis. ESPECIALLY inscribed with lipstick
on the naked body of a girl, 12 years old.
In the bog at Cosmo's, the young Stooges-

look-alike has written JIMMY OSTERBERG
IS GOD in large black felt tip capitals; &
he misses the point because the true
excellence of the IG is POP not divinity,
that essence rare, combing yr. vaselined
hair - slap yr. shiny torso, erect yr.
nipples. Blueprint for the style establish
ed by Burroughs, THE WILD BOYS, Rocky Horr
or Show excess, w/c sneer to balance "deca
dence" of glitter. Drink. Outings to pub, flicks.
Living; being where it's at so you know it
and the whole bleeding lot of them can
follow you. Magic ritual of the source,
enacted & Known. The rest of it is for
specialists, popstars, Trotskyists & genitalia.

[It's not easy putting this situ-fried stuff up here,
you know. It's a lot of fucking trouble, actually.
OTL 9-ix-2002]

initial suspicion of the spectacular blitz
dissolves into laughable mouthings of
"it's the only way to be" and throwing
beer and ripping shirts at parties. why
not? before the uniformed descent and
style and snobberies of information and
punky "commitment". Why centre this on
the Pistols then? Because they're me, I'm
out to lunch, I only stick around
for my friends, I'm not here (you're not here
either), they're here, not anywhere.
underlying and organic connections
between Francis Vincent and Malcolm
via Eric Dolphy, rubber shirts, penis
modulation and teenage vacancy.

the source, the crack is always genuine,
even if the lava that pours fourth or
fifth successive imitations cools to
merely replicate the old hills -
Again they'll buckle, the saddle strap
will slip on Dylan's midstream horse &
you can See: tho canvas of his cave is
too soft - unbuckle, unwind her, wrap
like a mummy be a MOTHERFUCKER; be
in the situation, don't record it. Records
are round, Round Things Are Boring, PORNO
graphy whirls in lax unconcerned evocation,
whiff of melancholic remembrance; the
hopeless nostalgia of old playboys. I
want a Nargument, FZ never wozza

hippie anyway. Ceaseless sexual
materialism, tell men of their mothers:
death to the wise old men, take the whizz
out of wisdom. Translate the huge empty
wretch of artistic denial into action &
faction & nude luncheonettes; make the
*anger* commercial, cash from chaos,
blurt at the bluff, go jabbering off. He
drew out a memorandum book and
pencilled a note: "Gentlemen: lunch.
Ladies: outing." ... After an enormous
dinner we removed to a drawing room
where we all stood in readiness for the
projected executions. Garbed as Roman
matrons and making up switches, the

two sexagenarians were awaiting orders,
St. Fond, impressed by Clairwil's magnif-
icent ass, wished to reader it homage
before doing anything else. Resting upon
a sofa, one size fitting all, the hussy
presented it to him in the most art-
istic manner, watching where that
wee-wee goes; and while I sucked her
clit, the Martinet of Moralism hurled
abuse and darted six inches or more of
tongue into her entrails - whether or not
Clairwil remains to be seen: big dilemmas
drop their load before this easy parallel,
rumble off in turnip abandon. Go
jabbering in or jabbering back, keep

the loping breast of heaving sentence,
death to the nimble young poets and
their wry scraggy sages: henlike cubes
to box yer doggie, drop your steeple,
fill the basket, violet nights
which I hate
let us remove from lust all the sentimental
veils that disfigure it - yet arguments
into the night whether Rotten could ever
croon like Iggy or Morrison; Joyce is
there, Zappa is there, Zappa & Joyce,
but they have little time for a nervous
person like me, people like Joyce ... &

Zappa. Unasked to argue out this
weird and unfashionable conjunction:
you're probably wondering why I'm here
and so am I, so am I, for I love me more
than you do, you Cowboy faggots roasting
in the Texan sun that rests deliberately
on the edge of the sierra, a hoop of real
fire, like a kleenex wrapped around a
coathang wire: SADIE BLOOD holds bog
rolls aloft and denounces the budget
to the rank and file delegates, who
dance in depraved abandon to the
Chelsea Right To Work single, which, as
inoffensive as pleasing, is, in the
bourgeois sense, a nonsense, a wretched

pious wish. But behind the right to
work stands power over capital, behind
power over capital the appropriation
of the means of production, their subjection
to the associated working class, that is,
the abolition of wage labour, capital and
their mutual relationship; it's going to
be difficult to push your ooziasms thru
marx, y'know, 'cause lumpen imargination
hangs an the fringes of their laborious
movement, living here & now is leftist,
right? but you already know all my origin
al songs, so what? society under capital
ism at this time says you can't do all
that shit, I do it all the time, ain't

this boogie a mess, but it doesn't
follow that your pronouncements have to
be weedy, a nonsense, a wretched pious
wish (pull your finger out, Andy) or
that the straddle can't ignite both loins
and crotch and ear and laser beam.
what do you run on, Rookette Morton?
Keep it under your hat, Ben. When
language becomes apologetic it is always
corrupt: the mists of ideology pumping out
a million ex-hippie arseholes as they
use consciousness and drugs and
Allen Ginsberg and general HORSESHIT
to justify and the bland aëry allusions
of Structuralism or whatever break a

thousand concrete acts, aw, LUST FOR LIFE,
LUST FOR LIFE!! Sheer ugliness. Did it
have teeth7 Wire lost in the empty
spaces of the Hammersmith Odeon; Patrik
Fitzgerald producing pap an he slots to
"pop poet"; the Clash sounding like label
mate Bob Dylan; mass Texan incomprehension
at the Long Horn Ballroom for the Sex
Pistols, 10-1-78 - "more bizarre than Alice
Cooper, more destructive than Kiss ..." the
whole idea disintegrates at the moment
of its entry into corporate capitalism:
built-in obsolescence of punk from the point
of view of mass marketing causes EMI shares
to plummet. Me? Well, I like Essential

Logic, the Angelic Upstarts and Latin
American music: watch out where those
assholes go and don't you eat their
yellow humbug, bumbling into questions
and answers as the pinnacle of bourgeois
elevation comes and the star is asked to
`probounce' - bugger that fake arched
eyebrow gaze at the so-called horizons,
I'd rather be horizontal myself. Harry
Zone & the Bourgeois Pretensions.
but more than that: in McLaren a
surpassing cynicism about music as
quality, which allowed him time & space
to assault the media in fall, but his
attitude was also perfect for perfect

Pistols thrash, though with Biggs he
lost the teenage thrill, the real drive,
and lost one half the point he made. An
abstract demonstration of commerce
from a position of strength provokes
consumption not chaos; an old respect for
the aesthetic click of Warhol reasserts
itself, and rock'n'roll power's lost
to other hands. Success is still a zoo,
even if the monkeys mimic you: Virgin's
ad dept. worked it out for XTC, shiny
cleverness for a new wave Yes. Terminal
boredoms of profitable fineart ironies
when we all wanted to dance. And take off
your boots before that bunion grows

monstrous. Pity the poor immigrant but
SMASH THE NAZIS TOO. John Peel plays mostly
rubbish at the moment. What will happen
to McGeown's police murderers, will
they really be lot off? It's getting nasty
this, y'know, I'm quaking in the picketline.
Things hotting up all over: factory sales:
UP ( ). I wanna be dead instead/I wanna die/
I'll survive/Why?/Because I'm a survivor;
strangelded in a deliberate and sexless
torse of stupidity, macho killed below
the level morals understand. The Achieve
ment is destruction shared: a pop
ular end to mythologies & miseries
of heroism and worship, at length

a bullshit out off, and a thrust to
immediacy, deflation. Incorporate,
deflate. Mindless morons troop in
thousands to suck on Dylan's saccharine,
lone last out post of furry warmth
and "humanity", heartfelt & deadly, re
sponding: 200 yrs have gone kaput, but
you wouldn't know it here, he claims to
feel the lot & suffer for us, keeps his
dignity: no matter what what y'say or do,
they'll cheat 'n rob you, so what, YOU've
enough BD, and that sublime acceptance &
semireligious acquiescence, is what you
exact, you must serve someone like an
Auschwitz legend, ersatz ethnicities &

borrowed poeticisms jostle in Dylan's
strained pastiche, Marie Antoinette
Poodle of Phoney Value; they jostle too,
everywhere, but some don't slick it
over & pretend: dragged on a table in a
factory, illegitimate place to be,
screaming fucking bloody mess. Bodies,
BODIES; discorporation/flowerpower SUCKS.
deflation, degradation, yeugh to where
we are.


We already know all their original sins, but
so what? butter slides to moisten elbows
and conjoin opposites, the slime oozin'
out from your penthouse pet, wetness
hovers round the articulate knucklebones,
faint breathy windowpanes on which
strange hieroglyphs appear and vanish.
Of course, if you're really set on this
gibber, then carry on, make a mess of it,
but salvage some kind of thread for the
wary. Hopscotch crackdowns peter out in
the clear ominous dullness of authority
at large, the long arm of the law. What
do Irishmen wear up their sleevies?
Armies. What do lollystick copywriters wear

up their sleeves? Irishmen. The sleeves
wear out we elbow on. Cartoon finesse
slaps ungently to the ground, where
darkness veers and harpers buzz with
notional charm, eccentric fuck and sleepy
jaws. Read, learn and inwardly disgust:
chewing the cud, spewing the mud on
predigested pap: all I can see now is
simpler, brighter, more pointed there's
sudden boredom at the shop window: get drun
k, fizzy Newcastle Brown sharp & direct
from the bottle, let the vicious burger lie
and warp in the shaft of airless sunlight
filtered through grime, the twin spots of

nasal breathmarks, the dabbling of
fingers, the fudging of illustration and
whitewash. Where do we go from here? I
couldn't bear to go to jail. Obviously
Nightingale's been swapping stories inside,
he's turning it into an issue. Isle Turnon
Twit 2. Fried onion with the vicious bum
job sizzles in yr memory without decent
jungfrau appetite, irregular or smart.
Toulouse, Toulouse. Butter the bum and
slide it in, keep it greasy so it'll go
down easy: ANAL RAPE being the silent sex
of imperialist domination: if people got
it on more there'd be less need for all
this butchery and war and murder and

exploitation. Mind you, the bastards seem
to do OK; baseball, horseback riding and
different broads every day is the punishment
we bestowed on the men of the Watergate.
The muddle of the insight turned to
acquiescence is the middle of the riddle
right now. How so? kowtow in greenish
drops, phlegmatic scorn and darkened
browns wretch lovingly on the Hokusai
woodcut. Now Rhinoceros do one good
song: THE SAME GOES FOR ME; assert yr
sympathy, don't expect it from others. That's
probably a crappy notion, if you stopped
to examine it, I haven't time, and, at
least, you understood it. If we really

want to confront you with the oggle
stroggle, never mind the buttersauce, we'd
better invoke some rules of correspondence,
which way to vote, oh Fuck That: but
the mere conception of the Pogen choice
spectrum in too much. Artifice blows as
flabbergasted porters stumble from the
wreck, and none of your bloody running
out of the smoke, thank you very much,
the smog is general, there's no haven
for the scheming ratfaced dons and the
silent propagators of purified butter. The
more enterprizing seek some kind of
commercial penetration in the form of
peeudoncientific treatises on UFOs, Forbid

den Sex Practices, the Lost Civilization of
Atlantis, Giant Spidere, Even Dwarves Start
ed Small, Uri Geller, Atom Brainstorm Carn
ival Rotas, Somnabulant Piggywigs, Stagnant
Pools in the Waning Moon, the Lost Con
tinent, the Lost Species, the Lost Pannywhi
stle - but all to no avail, the great
unforeseen changes have swallowed
you up, there is no hope, no silence, NO
CHAIRS. And there's no appeal to the health
ful vulgarities of margarine either: this is
the crunch, the blithering gutbucket run
down, the octopus has sung its swansong.
Or not, you'll stumble along somehow,
retreat into yet more mediocre eggheads,

sponsored by spurious Maoists and
agents of general confusion. The fibre
glass technology has risen to the occasion
providing vitreous jellies, reinforced slimes
and protuberant, tacky substances, that
no longer need to do anything so crude as
to threaten the Vatican, since they absorbe
it from underneath, become the very structure
they once confronted with such towering
might and pith. Yet however general and
buttery the malaise, it can only stop the gaps
and plug the line: the fault itself creaks
and jolts; the bumping is obscured, but the
effects are felt, translocated into racial
strife, oil crises, juvenile delinquency,

terrorists and other extravagant hokum.
of course, butter isn't used in anal rape:
now that pill supersedes pillage as the
image of the age, vaseline & hallucination
instead. The cheap unfocus of comic power
gets glossed by Kiss in poison lipstick:
sheer immoveability of mass entertainment,
the least direct & most high tech titillat
ion made mythic, eternal. LOVE GUN in grani
te, as against Sex Pistols in ill
assorted types cut from magarines.
The Mothers' attitude was basically unsale
able so it was obscured behind peace, love
(bollocks!) and transcendental meditation:
the Pistols can't be sold, so it's

petered out to youthfulness, sincerity &
pop (jam). The global rock market wilts, a
submarine decay; the global pop market
booms in disco and explicit exploitation.
No more lectures on Simon & Garfunkel,
Dylan & the Beatles; sweaty gigs instead.
Sweat dissolves butter; its drops make acid
burns in the sheen of the raucous gelid
protoplasm, the whole thing vibrates with
hostility and ignorance. If you don't want
this then that is what you want? What
d'you want to make records for if you
don't want money? What d'you want to
be unfaithful for if you're impotent? Oh
but things and acts are lovely in them

selves, otherwise it's back to the cushions
and pillows and the horrible gloom, the self
enjoyings of self denial, oh, very likely.
Minute spikes of flaccid jel squeeze past
the windeareen, hogging the paintsurface
with illconcealed glee; the few desultory
slaps the passengers are able to summon
are hardly the correct retaliatory proced
ure. "We watch in coy amazement" pronounce
the legendary residues of witty spite: I
unpack the car, blow up the engine.
Why bother7 Success looms sick in the
leaden sky: the ceremony is about to begin.


the SPG insist on the vetting and vivisection
of more claimant air as the unleashed
millions moil around the moral basis of
the state. the simple props of exemplary
activity list themselves in transparent
efficiency on the sunday morning. the
purity of the room she tidies, the logic of
opening the toilet window after a
shit, the satisfaction of getting things
done; doesn't compare with the sheer
drunken joy of new lips, a hand on the
knee, the recognition of lettuce, they
can't stop us now, a carrot is as close
as a rabbit gets to a diamond. Shimmy
in the desert, the pied piper looks around

and instead of children there are just
rats, turmoiling in predictable and seamy
hordes. Brouhaha at the end of the day
by the brown wainscoating, brown ale
supped by Yorkshiremen in velvet waistcoats,
waiting scouts with sprouts and
nerve ends. I don't mind I don't mind.
snubbed by Marx the bohemian gawps in
hurt amazement, suppressing the reaction
she knows will be just that - oh where
can we be loose? ah bondage. for he's not
fit to lick their liggers; hang loose & keep
your spade clean. when she's finished
reading Dickens she'll start again &
read them all in chronological order.

cosiness of planned market strategy as
the void is humanized after the aleatoric
hiccough in the fuzzy sax solo: she
can't bear to stop playing, the thing is
to keep turning out the shit, mouth
on the teat and bum in the dishpan.
I DON'T WANT TO STOP, the most
harrowing scream of them all. And who
is harrowed besides those with ample
topsoil for the plough's blade? what I
was trying to got at with the hand-on-
knee/carrot rigmarole: what we LIKE
as opposed to what we plan to do,
plans merely span and spread
the spot, salvation-ointment useless

ness: not that this necessarily
pans out into the breadth of stereo -:
there's also a bread/carrot/bread
totemic insistence, cross sections of
indifference, the durchschnittliche
Mensch, undsoweiter donnerwetter, the
facile Brussels-broth/Glasgow-
haggis equation pissing on the simple
yearning for nonillusory substance,
localism, Poly Styrene's pose more Plastic
than Bertrand's. up shit creek with
out a paddle murmurs of the flying
inkspots remind hapless heroines of
their unusual petty inclinations &
febrile zones: not that these

necessarily pan out in the comfy
fires of cooling systems and rubber
ised insanity. I am calling for a
more vicious pleasure in what we
do, not a halt for feedback and
that kind of droll enterprise -
passion fades in denim nicknacks,
colossal fashion extras leap passim,
genuine articles puke at the very thought
of the seamy uses they'll be put to -
at least he has the guts to put this down
on paper, mate - but the cookscomb
indulgence we allow the rotten jester
may yet have us on our knees,
begging a last sock; a lust sock

condom, condemn in roundabout views
and ways of slicey newts: withered
stripes from the canvas awning, dew
drops on the picnic leavings, however
much it doesn't even want to tell
the truth, this crabwise sidling via
puns is hardly the substance that'll
make the Stalinist faceache mend his
ways: nuts to him, this is the mincing
drivel in his head, not the central scrut
inizer, remember whose biscuit you suck
before you get hot under the collar, Fran.
or toe the line in toe cramps of
intense and peculiarly irresistible
pain. or toe critique has got me

goin', selfabuse wins the day as the
contents of the word TESTICLE drip
savagely down the leg of alma meta.
here I
assert the particular poss
ibilities of the
original writing
now as no "literary" technique could
possibly do: amateur traipse outboards
your motor anyday, like a successful pun
gone stale and hideous. Shove it aside
and learn golf, Alice Cooper finds a
companion In Bob Hope and you discover
Cooper really WAS nasty, not like old
singleminded Sid Vicious. Those who

don't read music papers or talk to
popstars take product by its name; those
who read the music papers, talk to popstars
undo the name, forget to prod: or they suss
it out: lilo, thermos, hoover, swashbuckle
their privvies, pretending to know we'll
come round to it ourselves and if we don't
it's probably because we don't want to,
sing for your supper while the notion
spreads, is eaten to shreds by the
Kalamazoo system and envelope twang - if the
audience you're meant to be at "one" with
disowns you, piss to them 'n double it,
sobriety rejecting the facile jolliness of

drink (the Wake), all waters down & seethes
in easy cream and boring stealth. Baby snakes
criticized from "above" roll over on their
tummies at the merest hint of an
ultraviolet suntan; these can be left
behind for the children to crush beneath
their spanking new leather clonkers. On
the other hand there are those whose line
of antispectacular hatred preserves; but if
you're right, how come anything that's fun
doesn't revolve round you? Ferris wheels and
rusting banisters of locker room distaste
coagulate slightly past my left ear and
F1558 is the serial number of the
particular eezi-peace they used

on me (before I learned to evade that gaze)
past her left ear goes through crumbling
walls and cobbled streets to the tiresome
plaint of why it doesn't happen here for
me: what? me worry? I can sidle out
through puns on crabbe or slabs of dogmeat,
slice on slice it leaves my hams and
bollocks out of the particular exchange
and smart/smile/come/fan binge: the way
I like it, Bing. like slinger IIII, this
is to carry out the load instead of
baring on the one or going into no
fun bomb of nastiness, the pest of
unwholesome smudgy wank upon
the newly washed entrails of the latest

cunning stunt; or else the fatal spoonerism
jerks all weedy in the muddy and
forgotten outwash - the engravure asks
so little, just a little tit 'n bum & a
little safe giving - we've taken too long said
the snake in concrete as it lapsed to Marx.
What of the possibilities of sexual
materialism, taking too long for serpentine
delight, I've never desired to kiss hot
& breathy on yr neck below the ear in
cuddlesome commitment, no. No, and I'm not
asking you to hold your erection, volume
4 allows a little shabby logic,
structure in: the final cornerstone of
the completed family round your neck,

the independent record label blossoms to
a new virgin and the old patterns
surface: this history/nightmare schtick
is clinging, hard to awake/break, lake it
or not, loch ness musters its monotonous
suspicions. Four is the stable nuclear
nonsense, the square we're calculating to
circle, running spirals round this vicious
boredom, let the boulder rock and roll all
the way down the hill, when you're on
your own and gather no mush, avalunch
with me, luv. But given we're limp and
it's gone and we're carefully taking
PiL four times a day, now's time to
take stock, what else to fill the blankets

with but plastic popper beads and
sleepy children? Perhaps it went like
1. planning with kleenex
2. wiping their noses for them
3. but their process IS NOT NATURAL
4. nor is this protest, granted -
5. eg this coffee isn't real
6. PURE PLEASURE contradictions
7. after you've spanked me soundly
9. crabtree soviet distaste
10. periphrastic, this, etc
11. no, it didn't go like this
either, the sepia nostalgia of tasteful

regret turns to the shoddy khaki of simple
exploitation and knowing trash on the
back of the great rock'n'roll swindle: I would
not touch it with a barge pole but I
managed to borrow a copy this morning.
this merely trundles out the goods in
tricky lessons, almost a representation
instead of enactment which undermines the
whole point at a level less likely than the
sophistications catch. if the erection fails
to hold, write about limpness for god's
sake, the night of the iron sausage is the
stuff of sorcerors, hearsay and men's
magazines: the stuff can perpetrate a
certain hold, it hooks in veils of female

thread, but the internal discipline to BELIEVE
that crap is quite impossible. Not worth
the bother of the retinue, the company,
the record executives crowding round
the drinks table. Pissed again. Let it
all wash by, remember only what we're
rid of, the edifice is always there again,
the monster. Either you're against it or
you're for it. All in four-four or something
Else? The sidewise method deployed here
questions conclusion: you shone without
a clue before, so what d'you want now? The
zone approaches, only loading or unloading
allowed now. We emerge from the sweaty
club into clear white light, tired and

morbidly dredging our minds for
memories of the times we had. The head
leaps off from the bowed shoulders and
reels off down the gutter. Don't bother
with the products of abstract glee: go for
the honest wallop, the bite on the leg.
technology on pancake flatulence, not
simering. so many empty ways of
saying the same thing showed the old
content/form split: so, to react to the
swindle? back to jazz - or crass - or
purple pants and sympathetic sighs.
I don't like tartan. Be articulate
and don't be played. You'll pay, anyway.
Slam it shut.

by OTL
July thru September 1979




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