Crass at the Roxy. He fails articulation on the skinned dog
art by gee, words by penny, the international anthem, number 1
(original layouts appear at the top of each page...text reprinted in its entirety)

Pages 3 and 4

And then I altered the infection, the trees beyond the window are somehow bleached. Was that a memory? Silver-fish caught in the sun's contemptuous rays? He stands there clasping the torn body of a mutilated woman.


"Where are the womem? Why this masculine battlfield? Always seen before. Tormented. Rachel .Anne. Bronwen. Carole. Sister where are you?"

He speaks to me through the glass, I can hear nothing, I see only the gasping wretchedness of his actions. He has broken her, limb by limb. He lifts his voice, louder, louder, above the shiny blanket of the window-pane. "Your mother," he cries, "your mother." He tosses the corpse into the sighing arms of the mallow and the tansy, the angelica and the rose.

"Where the women?"

Ah rose, what flesh gripped now in your sharpened claw? She is so dead, Ah rose, what death shared now in your oh so red petal? So dead. What perfume this? The perfume of her corpse, rich in the idle light of dawn.

Across my black uniform a flash of light marks an uneasy journey. The dull matt black cotton is punctuated with safety-pins, dog-chains and chrome ephemera. Punk plaything. A death of surface. She is gone. No light exists upon this drab exterior, only the hopping body of the cat-flea adds movement to this moment of rest. Deathly rest.

Debate? What debate? There is no debate. I have rested several days, questioning again my own stance, doubting all the parts of myself that drive me onto this early destruction. Why be destroyed by self passion? Why tumble bruised and beaten in self-desire? No debate? Nothing. The only available vision in a blind reality. Nothing but the immediate answer in an unquestioning world. I know. I know. There the perfume descrbes a distant past that is not mine.

"Come on you fuckers. I know we're shit, but I know that you're shit as well. Why can't we be shit together?" I plead wifh the numb-heads. They peer back at me, they know I'm not mad. They know I'm very stoned. Juiced out, A lush, wino, bum, alchy for this temptress night. I expose myself fo them, I stand exhilerated, not antagonistic, not shamed. What is the shame? The shame is the corpse in the herb-patch. It lays there like bluing patch-work, I have'nt had the heart to move it.


5th columnist. Resistance-fighter. Counter-culturist. Self-confrontationist. Because I am me; I; may be first out of bed; me; last; sperm cracks upon my leg; yawning; limbs taught tricky tightness. I. Jerks across the beer soaked floor, sliding across the black edge of self-containment. Breaking down, down, down. Breaking up insidious social controls that have veiled my savage perception too long,(see Christ's Reality Asylum. 1977). My instant intuition, Buddhas erection, limp plaything. Rock and Roll is revolution, it ain't no musak. Presley greased his shaft, but thae don't mean it slid up my arse. Rock and Roll is revolution, it ain't no entertainment. It's a job, a battle, a kickback at the history book, a jam against the archaic structures that would have us believe that our life is a death. Whory cross, what pains you like to carry. Of course. Of course. They died. Of course. Deathly dead the dead ones.


For the first few months of 1977 the Roxy club, black hole in the wet London streets, drain sucker for the painted sewer rats, played host to a phenomenon. Out from the hippy coffin of Haight Asbury, out from the rural corpses where anarchy was has hidden its face these last years, out again to the streets. The voice of hope. The cry of futures that were burried in the narcotic fuck-up of the sixties. Punk came out to air its dirty wings, pheonixing from a stagnant mire that is the Beach Boy's sperm at Malibu, the Beatles death-pickings in Central Park. High street hi-jinks. The Pistols, The Damned, Clash,The Stranglers, The Jam. New sounds, new vocablulary. The dirty little Roxy bounced to the new energy and Wall Street and the City pricked their dollar ringing ears. Within six months the new anarchy was bought up,the capitalists counter-revolutionaries had killed with cash. Punk shot from being a movement for change to become the biggest media bonanza since "hippy". In six months it became a burnt out memory of how it might have been. Bought up, cleaned up, souped up. Stereo jerk-off, just another cheap product for the middle class consumer.


Suck, suck, he hangs his dick. Suck, suck, its a media trick.


Waves of alcoholic nausea press through my skull, the black-box speakers pulse dischordant guitar through every nerve. I feel myself falling into the abyss. I rise again, supported by my own desire, crutched by my desolation.
"One. Two. Three. Four"
Steve Ignorant, vocalist, mumbles, fucks up. His usually angry words flop out like so much tinned vegetable soup. Minestrone. Campbells. Heinz (The variety is in the imagination.)

continued on the next page (page 5)

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